Starting the story with “It was a cold night…” would have been a dramatic way to put it.
But this was California during summer. There was no way this could be a cold night. I was born and raised here all of my life, so I was used to this kind of weather. Therefore, I could recall this was a fresh night, something that in most of the rest of the USA would have been “a hell of a night, I couldn’t sleep, it was so hot, oh my god”. It was fresh to me. But I was cold. I was always cold. So I did not find it weird to be dressed in black tight jeans, a shirt, and a jacket. I did not sweat. I could not sweat.
The shore was always peaceful at nights. Well, I had always heard creepy stories of murders by the shore. But like the rest of the world, I always heard stories of crimes in every imaginable place, and I had never witnessed none. None besides mine, if I had to make it clear. Or maybe I had never really witnessed one of those creepy scenes people and newspapers talked about because I was busy in the murder scene when it happened, and I simply had no idea those stories were that and not outside stuff. Maybe I had been the protagonist to urban legends and newspapers’ headlines and had no idea. Despite being an animal, I was pretty dumb, distracted…quite innocent, if that word can be possible in a creature like me.
I walked alone down the road careless if someone saw me or not. It was not like many people decided to take a look of the dark streets at two in two in the morning, and if there were some guys or girls outside or awake, there was always half a chance they were drunk enough not to care or to forget. And even if not, people would just think I was a man who lost a bit of sanity and is walking alone at that hour of the night…or maybe a properly dressed tramp man, unable to fall asleep out of hunger or stress…or maybe just drunk. Maybe I was just walking home to them. Maybe, to them, I just lost my car keys or I had a fight with my girlfriend, and had to go home alone at two in the morning, with the hands in the pockets of my jacket, and the head slightly down with the head either too full of thoughts or too hollow from them.
I looked at both sides and found nothing but buildings and benches. The sea behind me caressed the sand of the shore with caution, like a first-time lover passing their hand upon their darling’s back and neck. The sound of the oh so tiny but constant waves worked as a lullaby for those that lived nearby, and their respirations went along the sounds of the water; soft, unconscious, lost, like they were floating. I could hear a couple of people snoring in their houses and departments; some were loud like a dead-asleep bear, and some barely made a sound an average person could notice. Somewhere, a couple spent the night not sleeping; I could hear the muffled sounds of them trying to be quiet not to wake the cousin sleeping in the couch, the almost unnoticeable squeak of the mattress, the heavy but forced-to-silence breathings…but the cousin heard nothing.
A mosquito passed by somewhere near somebody’s ear and caused them to groan and roll on their beds. A cat landed silently in the alleyway some steps behind me and made its way somewhere else. I could smell a lot of sweat…the salt of the ocean attacked my ear and left its flavor in my tongue, undesirable, yucky. There was the smell of someone cooking a midnight-dinner or something. There was the smell of popcorns in one of the houses, where hours ago, the family spent the while after-dinner and before bedtime watching movies or comedy TV programs. I contained the breath for the rest of the walk. California had always been my home, but the extreme weather, the great number of people in there (there were tourists the whole time, even during fucking winter), the absurdly huge number of sweat drops that came from each person every fucking night, and everything had me in a very, very difficult time and a huge struggle for me to live comfortable, or live at all. Had not always been like that.
But I simply could not leave this place…not quite yet.
I hurried a bit more on my way. Stopped for a second and looked at both sides to make sure no one was looking, or around. I looked at some windows to make sure there were no eyes on me, and paid attention to my nose and ear. Knowing for sure there was no troubles, I speeded up as fast as I could, and I reached my destination in a matter of a blink. I stopped in front of the house I had been looking for, and the same house I stopped at every single night ever since I disappeared. I looked up at the same window I looked at every time I visited, and I stayed there, frozen. I blinked once and kept my eyes glued in that rectangular shape. I opened my nostrils, and the desired essence made its way shyly through them. I awaited some moments and sighed like I would have done months ago.
After staying there a bit more of a while, I looked around to make sure there was no one there. Once I was sure, I looked up at the window of the second floor, and I jumped towards its direction with a few steps as my impulse. Taking a grip of the head of the window and resting my feet on the wall, I took a look of the inside. The window, after some days, had been closed every night, and there was a small fan inside to keep the room fresh. I held the head of the window with a hand, kept a knee on the windowsill, and pressed my back to the wall, with my other hand against it as well for an extra grip. I let out a sigh again and closed my eyes. I licked my lips for a moment and focused on not losing control. Once I felt prepared, I got closer again and, as silently as a cat lands on its paws, I opened the window with my longish and bony fingers. As I did, the smell attacked me like it had jumped straight onto my face.
My eyelids fluttered in ecstasy and my body shivered with pleasure. It was incredibly delicious to my nose. I could almost feel it in my lips, running down my throat, slipping down my chin from the animalistic way of taking it all at once. I tried to control myself again and had to take some moments before calming down and opening my eyes again. I blinked to stay still, and once I was sure I had kept it static, I moved. Very quickly and with movements as soft as a feather, as agile as a ninja, and with the grace of a feline, I made my way inside, landing on my toes and hands in a puma-like pose, like the animal I was. My eyes, seeing through the darkness that did not exist for my pupils, travelled around the place more out of protocol than really looking for something else than what I went there for. I was like an animal in the middle of hunting, hiding in the grass while the gazelle sleeps.
I slowly made my way up properly on my feet, changing from the feline-like attacker to just a standing twenty year old man in the middle of someone else’s bedroom at two in the morning. I stayed there just doing nothing. A clock somewhere in the kitchen made a clichéd “Tick-tock” second by second. Not really paying attention to counting the seconds and just hearing the go by, I stayed still. That was when I decided to look slightly to my left. And there I found it. My reason of the midnight walking and early visits to the same house every night. The reason I had not done something stupid to end with the suffering. The person that had been keeping me alive during my death. The person I once loved, and the person I still loved.
The person who used to love me.
And probably did not love me anymore.
Maybe he now hated me. For everything. Maybe he hated me for dumb and past fights every couple goes by during a relationship. Maybe he hated me for disappearing. Or hated me for appearing at his house when I appeared in the world again. Or hated me for the mystery and weird things after I arrived. Or hated me for not explaining.
Maybe he just hated me for disappearing again.
I stood there just watching him. His rebellious brown hair (that stayed half-blonde from the last time he dyed it), always soft looking, no matter whether he had taken a shower or not before going to bed. His strong, naked arms…his strong longs, resting like a pair of unanimated logs. His nude toes and feet…his nude knees. His red shorts. His…his…his naked torso. His nude, slightly and moderately built up torso. The slightly noticeable pack of abs. The…slightly, slightly and unnoticeable for the human eye sweat that covered his chest. His strong shoulders. The steady movement of…and the way his skin…and…oh god, his torso was so greatly done. Maybe Michael Angelo came from the dead to trace the lines of his body.
And the pretty face that suffered of dark times and anger and worry. And sadness. Deep sadness. Sadness like he had probably never faced before. Sadness that did not really fit his pretty features, and his high cheekbones, or the slightly parted lips which trembled with every breath he took in. And his pretty eyes…why, my dear, would you keep them close when I had come every night to see their ocean-like texture and color? Why could I not admire them again for more than mere seconds in which he rolled onto his side, or half-awoke for a second? Why could not they look at me and be able to smile through a glance, instead of fearing and shutting tight again, like not seeing the demon would send him away or make him unreal?
As I watched him, minutes passed by and I lost my notion of time to really recall how much time passed. Like the thing I was, I spent considerable minutes standing there, lost in my head but never losing one single nanosecond of my night admiration. I had memorized every single bit of him, from head to feet. I had memorized where the few birthmarks were. I had memorized every single line, every wrinkle, everything. With the hours I spent during all the days I spent of all the weeks I had spent watching him until the sun came up, I had memorized the number of pores of his skin, and how many body hairs he had, one by one, even the ones that were unseen by the human naked eyed. I had memorized his average of breaths per night. I had memorized his manias while sleeping, every turn he gave, the hour which was the heaviest for his sleep, how much it lasted.
After a while of watching him, which I could not recall on seconds or minutes but have learned from experience could have as well been two hours, I blinked since my arrival. And since I made my way inside, I allowed myself to breathe again. And when I did, I closed my eyes and the shiver of ecstasy travelled down my spine again. I hissed very quietly and involuntarily at the smell, and felt my saliva overpopulating my mouth. Like the animal I was, I could not control it when a small trial of saliva escaped me and rolled from my lower lip down my chin, and my respiration became heavier. My whole body tickled of anxiety and necessity, and my soul screamed of desire as the smell filled my nostrils and the inside of my body and mind. Without even caring on the saliva on my chin, I opened my eyes again and looked at him.
I licked my sharp, long and white fangs like that would push them away into my gums.
My breathing became heavy and shaky, but quiet enough not to bother his sleep. Not much. I took in another breath of his essence and adored of it, drooled for the smell of his skin, of his being, of his blood. I could hear every drop that ran through his veins, see every pump on his neck and wrists, hear his calm heartbeat. I, as the masochist I had grown into with my nocturnal visits, allowed myself to taking in more breaths just to smell him. It was not the smell of any sweat, of any skin, of any kind of blood. It all belonged to him. And that made all his smells as desirable as the man himself was.
After some moments, I started taking some steps closer. His mother, sleeping in a room on the first floor, could not have heard. My precious boy, however, rolled and groaned, prepared to wake up. It had not been in my intentions being quiet, but I did not intend to wake him on purpose either. I simply walked, like I would have done in all days to cross the room and get to him. As his eyelids fluttered a bit, ready to wake up, I heard as his heart skipped a beat for a second, only to speed up like a bullet or a scared bunny inside his chest. At the same time, a small moan sounded in his throat as he moved in his dozed state, and his cheeks turned slightly red in the darkness. I apologized mentally but kept walking until I was at his side, standing nearby the bed, watching him.
It was not my intention that my mere presence forced him naturally into the doze state. It was…a natural reaction from…a human.
Unable to wake up unless I either went away or shook him awake, my gorgeous young man stayed still on the bed, like one that carries nightmares in the head. I stayed there, watching him. Only then, I raised a hand upon him, without blinking or taking away my stare on his beautiful face. I moved my hand down again, close to him, and stopped eventually and slowly until I was at a few inches from the skin of his forehead. I trembled like a pathetic human kid, and I lowered my hand a bit more until my fingertips barely ghosted his face. Once there and as my breathing went heavier, like his, I started moving my hand onto all of him; it slowly, oh so very slowly and in complete terror of god-knows-what, it caressed his forehead and cheeks. It enjoyed especially of the cheeks for a while, before moving down to caress his jaw, find the chin, and go back up to find his mouth. I caressed it softly, and traveled through the lips with my fingertips.
I closed my eyes and the touch of his mouth on my fingers brought memories and fantasies back into my head like flashes. I could remember that same mouth falling onto mine; I could recall which millimeter of his lips touched me and carried my essence with them. I could feel, and literally feel with only the memories, as those pair of lips travelled down my neck; how they left trails of kisses all over my face; I could still feel reminiscences of kissed-away tears; I could recall every occasion they touched me, or my ears, or my nose, or my mouth, or whatever. I put my hand away and opened my eyes not to keep calling into my head those hurtful images, and stared at him. He was still forced naturally into an uncomfortable sleep. And I, selfish, took advantage to keep touching him.
As my hand traveled down his body and skipped the neck not to feel the temptation of the jugular, more and more thoughts created a tornado inside my head. I was not sure what to use my time for; thinking of him, thinking of the past us, thinking of the present us, of my regrets, on fantasies of what could he be thinking…it was too much for one single animal like me to really cope with, and still, I stayed calm as I caressed his chest with my fingertips, lovingly, agonizingly in love. As I stared at him, my eyes filled of water and could not help but feel incredibly hopeless. And incredibly angry at myself and the world. Maybe if I had never known him, he would not have been suffering as much. And, therefore, so would not I.
Maybe he did hate me for that first hello. Maybe he wanted to yell at me that, if I had to say goodbye that way, I should have never said hello in the first place. I was not sure of his feelings and thoughts, but it crossed my mind to think he was regretting deeply all of our story. And I could not blame him; the more one loves, the more one tends to suffer with this kind of unexpected situation. How could we have known? How could we have known three long years of romance, love, laughter, sex, cuddling, rock, booze, fun, and bonds would have ended up like that, in a non-fulfilled tragedy?
He had been my boyfriend all those years, I recalled mentally as if not to forget what one simply could not let go, not even in a hundred years. Had been the best human being to exist in my existence. Had saved me metaphorically and literally of many things. Had taught me a hundred of things. Had been my clichéd romance of any other average teenage boy…or young adult, or whatever you are between seventeen and twenty. And I had loved him like I had never done, and like I would never do again. I loved him more than yesterday, and a little less than tomorrow, I thought every single day of my life since I knew for sure it was him. We had done so many things together, had lived so many experiences together, had been so together our lives felt empty if we did not have the other. There was no Me without Him, and there was not Him without Me. Physically, we could be apart…and still, he carried with himself a part of me, and I carried part of him. We had grown into the perfect romance; the one that is correctly balanced. That did not love in excess, and did not lack of love; that was jealous enough, but never possessive. That could be physically apart, and still love like we were cuddled up together.
And they had unfairly taken him away of me in one fucking night.
After thinking of what we had been, I climbed onto his bed, straddling his hips and sitting on them, staring down at him with the innocence that was taken from me weeks ago, when they took him and Us away. I stared at his pretty face, still suffering from doze and nightmares or whatnot. But I did not get off him. I stayed there, sat on him, and my fingers caressed his chest and collar bones again. There, in that same place, where and how I was sat, I had been countless times. Of course there were the sexual times where we could go like this…it was his second favorite. I smiled with a bigger sadness than the still present joy memories caused in me. I had no idea how wrong it was to think that kind of stuff in that moment. One thinks what one thinks, and once thought, that’s okay. It’s not like that was sin or inhuman, or like it was the only thing I liked of him during our relationship and lives.
But there were as well the times I had been like that only to tickle him. He was the most ticklish man on earth. And I had been there to attack him to death with a pillow, even though I was always thrown away magically and ended up with him on top, sat on my ass, and tickling my soles while I could not really move from under him. Once, the oh so gross dude licked my sole with the mere purpose of grossing me out and tickle me to death. I let out a little chuckle thinking of that. He was a complete disaster. And I loved him like that. Also, I had been there, sat like that, to provoke him, whether it was in a sexual or seductive or a playful way, it did not matter. I had also been sat there when, only once, we got in this huge, tremendous, and still dark for my memories, fight. I was so angry I managed to tackle him down, straddle him like that, and give him one, two punches on the face, and as I was preparing the third, I noticed my pain of hurting him was bigger than the pain whatever we fought about was, and I could just mutter curses, tell him I hated him, and cry on him, cry in a way that was enough for him to know I was lying out of being blinded by anger, and that I was in pain and needed of him.
I cleaned a bit of my tears in the present, and I kept looking at him. Maybe I should have never entered his life. If I had not, disappearing would have had no effect on him. He would have had a pretty girl or a cute guy lying at his side in what used to be our apartment, oblivious to this kind of crimes and this kind of monsters. Would have had been happy. Much more. I moved my hand up to him and caressed the wrinkles of his forehead. He did not have them before. He would not have gotten them if it had not been for me.
Once night, I disappeared. We had not had any fight, we had not gone anywhere. I simply went out to leave a thing to a friend she had lent me. Had a nice conversation, a bit of dessert, then went out. It was not even freaking midnight or something creepy. It was eight p.m. Eight. I was on my way home, as I had not taken the car and had been too idiot and forgot money for public transport, when out of fucking nowhere, there was this strange and odd pale dude staring at me. He greeted me, and I carried on my way, only greeting with my eyebrows. He gave no good vibe, and I had no intentions to deal with robbers or whatever. Before I could tell, he had somehow gripped me from the arm and, in less to what I could blink, I was somewhere entirely different, deep in a forgotten alleyway, and he had crushed me against the wall. Now that it was but a memory, it was all so deeply cliché I started thinking this was a stupid novel or movie very badly written.
Had had a senseless fight with that thing way stronger than me, and who I had no chances against. Ended up badly hurt, covered in my own blood, and forcefully swallowing somebody else’s blood during my agony. And then I died. And then I did not really die. It was a pathetic and badly written TV program for teenage fan-girls. When I woke up, the first thing I did, once I got recovered enough and conscious, I started walking with shock and many struggles. Thank God I was nearby my house, because I had forgotten I was entirely covered of blood, and people were looking at me as I walked with the grace of a drunken man. I called for my apartment’s number, and I pathetically whimpered for Mike to come open the gate for me.
Like it was okay to go with him, covered in liters of my own blood, pale, with fangs, getting literally burnt by the sun, after two weeks being disappeared.
I had been a total idiot. Maybe if I had thought first, I would have been smart enough to know it would shock or traumatize him. He was more sensible than a three year old girls seeing her bunny pet dying. And after two weeks of me leaving no sign of going anywhere, of course he had to have had been so sensible that just seeing me with a purple eye would have caused a huge shock in him. And I arrived like that. I could have had gone to my mother’s house, discretely enter through the back door, take a shower, change my clothes, do something not to look…like that. But no, all I did was to arrive traumatized, scared, almost shitting in my own pants, whimpering for Mike to come open the fucking gate. Like he needed a bigger shock. Like he needed such image that would haunt him to his death day.
As I thought of that, I caressed the bags under his eyes. I sniffled a bit, and I went down towards him. Lying down at his side, I cuddled up to him, and caused shivers in him at my icy contact, and Goosebumps. I rested my head on his shoulder and breathed against his neck, with one of my hands resting on top of his heart. I nuzzled at him like a needy kitty, and I closed the eyes, pretending I could sleep, pretending I was back in our apartment, sleeping at his side. I did not need this kind of life. It sucked. I could not eat food, could not drink water or booze or soda, I could not go out in the day, I could not even fucking sleep. It was a total nightmare. I needed my old life. I needed and wanted to spend my days bored watching TV. I wanted to laugh at fucking comedies and cheesy stuff. I wanted to cuddle with him just like this.
And I tried to carry on with my life just like that. After coming back home, once cleaned, helped out through the emotional shock, visited by family and friends, and settled back to normality, I tried to carry on like it had been a bad experience of crime. I knew in my head I had been attacked, badly hurt, and dropped there in the alleyway. I was still almost sure I had been forced to swallow somebody else’s blood; then again, that could have had been one of those weird fetishes of criminals and psychos. Thing is, how could I not wake up in two weeks? Perhaps some drug? Maybe it had not been blood, that thing I was forced to swallow during my state of dying, but some kind of drug that left me dead in appearance during those days. I had no idea. Whatever. All I had present was that I had been victim of a crime, and that was it.
Until days passed by and I realized, only after days, that I had not eaten since the day. And I had no single desire of touching a single bit of food. It all grossed me out. I had not drank anything, either. And I had no intentions of getting a glass of water. And I had not been able to sleep. And I did not feel bad or sick at all. I just felt thirsty. But when I tried to drink water, I spat it back. It was horrible, terrible in my mouth. Mike had gone through hell, back and forth, and kept suffering firstly due to what had happened to me, and secondly, because he noticed my new habits of leaving my habits. He tried for me to eat and drink, but no matter how much I tried, I kept spitting it back. It was like…like what I thought could have had been trying to eat poo. It did not feel right or natural or correct. And of course, it tasted like shit. No pun intended.
How was I to know I had been turned into this? It was a fairytale and a urban legend, of course I did not believe in this kind of stuff. Therefore, it did not even remotely cross my mind to think I was that. Not even with the fangs, not even with the way I got literally burnt if the sunlight touched me, not even with the paleness. Nothing really made it clear, of course it would never cross my mind. I was a twenty-twenty first century man…maybe I would have thought so if I had been alive during the seventeen century, but for God’s sake, it was a kid’s tale to me. I had no idea. Nobody could really blame me for not knowing, nobody could blame me for not really knowing there were new instincts in me to control.
How was I to know they were to blind me?
It had not been my fault to not know that what I really needed to eat was…well, that. It was not my fault not knowing I was thirsty of blood. There was no way one could blame me for not knowing. Maybe if the stranger had waited for me to wake up and then fucking explain I had died and I worked different now, maybe it would have been fucking easier. But, oh no, I could cope fine with it, I would wake up aware that in plain twenty first century I was a monster that drank blood. Oh, yes. Very obvious. It had not been my fault suffering of thirst; I tried to drink water, after all. I actually tried to do something. How was I to know that I needed that alternative?
How was I to know I would lose control when I visited my sister and she accidentally cut her finger with a paper sheet?
I had been visiting her as well. She only spent a few days in the hospital, recovering from the blood loss and the shock, and now continued with her life. Except she lived with the eternal idea that her little brother attacked her. Gripped her throat with inhuman strength, licked the blood of her injury, and ended up biting her wrist to get more of what I had tasted. I did not even remember shit of that day, I just knew it happened. It was obvious to know when I was hit out of my hypnotized state when one of my brothers hit me in the head with a pan, and distracted me enough to see I was hurting my sister and I had been drinking her blood. They got away of me and tried to scare me away like I was a monster. Like I was not the baby brother they all saw in the crib, and learning to walk, and learning to speak. I put my hands up, and they kept trying to scare me away. I was terrified. I had blood in my mouth and down my chin, but I was way much more horrified than they looked and were. I could smell my own terror, easily ten times bigger than theirs.
Not able to do a single sound and trembling, I merely tried to escape. I broke the door in the way. Broke part of a wall. Stupidly and tremblingly asked them not to tell mom, like we were kids again and I had accidentally broken an expensive jar or something. Ran away. Went home, fell into Mike’s arms. Told him I was scared. Scared him with the blood on my lips and face. Flinched when he hugged me. Got away when I realized I was still hungry, and that his blood was particularly attractive to my new senses. Tried to get away of him, and had him getting closer saying it was okay, that it could be a consequences of the shock, that it was all psychological. Saw his jugular pumping. Screamed for him to get away. Him trying to shush me and calm me down, totally ignorant to the truth of my fear. Had him thinking I was mad in the head after the “bad experience” I went through.
Had him trying to help me. Had him ignoring me when I said I did not want to hurt him. Had him taking my face carefully. And then, I had him pinned against the wall, with his throat in my hand, and his feet some inches above the floor. With one of my new, stupidly grown fingernails, I cut his throat, and I laughed quietly and like a demon as I got closer and pressed my mouth to the injury. Whispered a few, dark things to him and kept drinking. Had him whispering my name. Got sent back to reality. Dropped him. Helped him clean the injury, taking care of it…luckily, it was not big enough for him to die out of bleeding, so he only needed to keep something pressed to it. I stayed there with him, helped him. Had him asking me what the hell I was.
That night, he tucked himself in bed, fearful on not knowing if he wanted or not that I joined him soon. I spent a while in the living room, just thinking on what I had done to the people I loved. And I realized, like in any other clichéd vampire story, that I was a danger to them. So I, both in imitation to those clichéd movies and books and in a real choice, ran away. I disappeared once again, leaving no sign. This time, it lasted more than just two weeks.
Mike suffered another shock out of it. He left to his mother’s house again, needing help, and had lived there for these weeks. Thought he probably had paid more attention to me, should have taken greater care of me, and so I would have had been alright. And if I had been alright, I would not have had escaped. And then maybe everything would be alright.
I caressed his strong chest and sighed, still lying at his side. Poor innocent soul…not knowing that there was no answer for our situation but the goodbye. Thinking it was all a psychological effect in me that was turning me into a murderer psycho as well. Unable to see that the fairytales are true, blind to my canines, blind to what I had turned into.
After spending a while like that, I nuzzled closer again, and I sighed. Vampire or not, monster or not, a blind animal that hurts family and friends for the sake of eating or not, I was hopelessly in love. I hugged him, and got closer to his ear. After a while, it was always easy to ignore his blood; I was still very human inside, and got carried away by my thoughts and my affection for him to really care on how good it smelled. It seemed like the more you desired someone, the tastier their blood smells to your nose. As if you wanted, liked and loved so much, you desired them entirely, until desiring their lives. And desiring their lives could as well be translated to literally taking it from them. Horrific. I loved him too much, enough to know that could happen easily. And I loved him enough, enough to get away of him before that would happen.
I cried a bit, in complete silence, and pressed my lips close to his ear.
“I love you”, I whispered to him quietly and with all my affection drawn into that shy whisper. I placed my hand on his cheek and sniffled. “I love you too much to leave…and enough to do it” my shaky voice told him, not really knowing whether it would get to him as a dream, as a reality, or would simply disappear before getting into his ear. “I…will leave. I just don’t know when…”
I hugged him tighter and spent some more moments just crying. After some moments, I moved up to get a look of his face, and I caressed it softly with one of my icy eyes.
“…this is unfair” I whispered, not knowing if I talked to him or to myself. “…I’ve come every night for the past eight weeks just to watch you…and you wake up shocked in fear, or screaming. I give you nightmares only by standing close to you…I don’t let you fully rest, but I don’t let you wake up either. And I know it all…and…a-and I still don’t care…”
I sniffled and caressed his face a bit more, removing some of his brown hair from his forehead, and watching him with the eyes that I hoped still kept some of humanity in me.
“…I still come and do all of that to you…only because I want to look at you” I whimpered. “Because I want to admire you…like I did not do when alive. When I did not think I could lose you, because we had all our lives ahead” I chuckled and rolled my wet eyes as I said that. “…they took me from you” I whispered. “…and you’re suffering thinking something really bad happened to me out there, thinking you’ve lost me forever, and I…” I groaned. “How can I let you know I’m here for you, but cannot be close to you? What am I supposed to do now? Follow the script of those stupid movies and be your distant guard, or just fucking go away and stop causing troubles, or fucking stand in the sun until I die while already dead?”
I groaned in anger and dropped more and more tears like a little child. And like a kid, I cleaned them away with the sleeve of my jacket, which fitted me a bit too big since I had lost weight since that alleyway thing.
This was fucking stupid, I had never liked drama.
I frowned and slapped him hard enough for a human.
“Mike” I called while still frowning and slapped him again. His eyelids fluttered a bit, and he groaned as I slapped him again. He blinked a couple of times and woke up. He was lost the first seconds as he tried to know what was happening, and muttered a couple of senseless questions as he came back to a woken up state. I looked him like a kid in tantrum; face slightly red from crying, tears in my eyes, and still frowning like a lion cub trying to look scary. “Fucking wake up, you, loser”
“Wha-“ he recalled and blinked and then opened his eyes wide open like dishes. He gasped. “Bil-!” but before he could scream anything, I put my hands on his mouth to shut him. He looked down at my hands, with the eyes still wide open, then back at me, my hands, and then back at me. He looked so much in shock he turned as white as me, but I did not care and just let myself go.
“This is fucking bullshit” I told him. “You fucking know what I did to my sister, you fucking lived the same. You see these fangs, you see them?” I asked him and then I showed him my teeth, licking one of my canines, and then the other. “And I just came into your room through the window, I jumped here from the outside; proof enough? Is it enough? What am I? A fucking fairytale vampire” I explained in a matter of a few seconds, still frowning. “That settled down and understood, let’s go onto the rest; I ran away because I was scared of myself, I thought that if I disappeared, then none of the ones I love would be in danger” I told him quickly, and he raised his eyebrows. I rolled my eyes. “Yes, I’ve watched too many fucking movies”
I shook my head and blinked back some tears, like crying made me less of a man.
“But, you know what? This is fucking bullshit” I continued. “If you love something, you don’t let it go like a fucking plastic bag in a tornado. You let it go if it wants to go, but if it’s because ‘there’s no other answer’, then you’re a fucking pathetic excuse of a failed romance; if something’s broken, you go and fucking fix it, you don’t drop it there and run away thinking that if you stay you will only break it more” I growled. “I mean, of course, you may hurt it away accidentally, but it’s not your intention, and you’re not dumb enough to break it; so you go and fix it properly this time and-”
He took a grip of my wrists, making me shut up in the middle of my rambling. Even though I was a heck lot stronger than the stronger human on earth, I still let him take my hands away of his mouth. He put them away softly and slowly, never taking his eyes off mine. I stared down in shame and embarrassment. How could I appear like that after weeks of tragically disappearing? If this was one of those movies, I would suck as the protagonist. I did not add drama to anything, and now that I had done, I ruined it getting angry and waking him up. I had no regrets, though. I hated going dramatic, and for me, there was always an answer, so this had to have one too.
I felt as he cupped my face in his hands, and I forced myself to look up at him again.
“…I’m sorry” I whispered to him, and he just stared at me like I was an angel or God himself. He tried to say something but his lips barely really moved. And back to comparing my life to a corny movie, I guessed this was the moment when an emotional piano or string quartet theme started playing. Maybe it was called the “Mike and Billie theme”. Or something cheesy like “Night love”, or “Nocturnal Encounter”. Or whatever. Maybe one day I could compose that. Back on my present, he looked at me for moments and moments. Eventually and slowly, as the sun started appearing somewhere in the horizon, a tiny smile fearfully appeared on his face, unsure on whether he was awake or just another of his terrible “nightmares” in which I appeared only for him to wake up and find himself alone.
I dropped another tears that fell directly on his thumb, as he was still holding my cold face. I sniffled as he looked at me like I was a life savior or something. He caressed my cheeks, and his smile was much more evident now, along a new sparkle of joy in his eyes.
“…Billie” he whispered so lowly no one else but me could have heard him. I tried to smile, but it hurt in my entrails to have heard him once again calling my name, and looking again at those wonderful blue eyes, when I had been at nothing of leaving him far, far away and never look for him again. God, I had to really be psycho to want to get away of him. And hearing him hurt for a moment. I curled slightly as a reaction to my stomach shrugging, and I bit down on my lower lip not to break out crying again.
Noticing I was on the edge of a breakdown, he sat up properly and, careless of everything, he simply threw his arms around of me and pressed me to him with such a strength even I, with my own strength, groaned a bit. In his arms, once again safe in his arms, I felt much safer than I could have ever felt; I needed no super speed or super strength, or incredible sight and ear and nose, I needed no ability to jump and run and hurt…that was stupid. That could offer protection, but what really made me feel in home and as protected as if I was in the safest bunker of the moon rounded by all of the world’s armies, was to be in his arms. I returned the hug and buried my face in his shoulder like a kid in need of his mom, and I started crying.
I gripped his clothes and cried to him, trembling in his arms. I had expected for things to go the other way around; that he would be the one breaking down and needy of my arms. Turned out that, just like when I was human, I was the needy one that cried while he was satisfied enough with just knowing I was alive and there, with him, hugged to him. We spent moments like that, and I just pressed him closer to me.
“…don’t ever let me go again, you idiot” I whimpered to him. “…I’m…kinda dumb sometimes…”
“You’re dumb all the time…” he replied and hugged me tighter as well. I could almost see his smile and the few tears he dropped as well. He laughed quietly in a sigh, and I just kept crying in his arms. “…don’t ever run away like that, my BeeJ…”
“I was scared…” I sobbed to him, and he nuzzled at the side of my head with his.
“No matter how scared you get…” he whispered to me. “No matter how you and your body work now…don’t run away, you idiot, because I still love you” he finished. At his words, I merely stayed quiet. I felt like a teenager who just tried to escape home but came back running knowing it had been a stupid idea and was not being spoiled. “We’ll work things out…maybe not the way we want, but you don’t have to disappear, you heard me?” and after a few seconds, he forced to break the hug, only so that we could stare at each other again, with him cupping my face once more. He smiled in among his quiet tears. “…listen, BeeJ, baby…I know this is going to be the cheesiest thing ever, maybe I’ve watched too many movies too, but…” he widened his smile and the warmth behind it. “…from you leaving forever to keep me safe, or staying and ‘putting me in great danger’...I’d rather take the risk”
I smiled at him, but he only got more and more tears to drown my gaze until I could not see him from behind them. I sniffled and sobbed more, and he just cleaned my cheeks.
“If being happy was easy, everyone would be, don’t you think?” he asked me, and I just chuckled as I cried.
“…you’re the best idiot I know” I whispered to him, and I looked up at him. “…thank you”
“Come here, Mr. Vampire” he whispered tenderly, and I had to admit I was surprised from how calm and happy he was. I smiled and cleaned my tears before resting my forearms on his shoulders. I got closer to him, and we both closed our eyes as our noses and foreheads met. We stayed like that some moments, and he sighed. “…I missed you”
Getting closer and being guided by his hand which held carefully my chin, I leaned in closer and I let my lips melt into his, both of us being careful of my teeth.
I was an idiot if I wanted to leave him. Despite what I was turned into, his kiss brought life to me, and a beat to my heart. Being dead, I felt alive when I had his arms around me, his eyes on me, and his presence linked to mine. I was not dead.
Dead I would have been if I had lived the rest of my existence without him. That was, as I had considered, the worst way of dying.