My Love Eternal

by Liz Strange

  I reached out my hand, gently brushing my fingertips over the boy’s cheek. “Are you lost? Why are you out all alone in the woods in the dark?” My voice was a gentle whisper, as I didn’t want to frighten him. I waited patiently, but he had no obvious reaction and he did not answer my questions.

  We both stood silently, each eyeing the other. Then the boy took a step forward, still displaying no discernable expression. I opened my arms hesitantly, and somewhat nervous and unsure of what was expected of me. He moved into my embrace, melting into my body as though he was always meant to be there. He wrapped his frail arms around my body, and I could feel his ribs through the thin fabric of his shirt. His body was warm, and I felt a completion to something I was not aware was missing. It was a perfect symbiosis, stirring a powerful reaction in myself. It was a feeling so pure and perfect, derived without lust, fear or anger. It was acceptance of comfort and an exchange of affection without ulterior motivation. I smiled in the darkness.

  After a few minutes, the tension drained from his body, and the front of my shirt became damp with the boy’s silent tears. These were not tears of fear or even sadness. It was a release from deep inside him, which in turned triggered a reaction from myself I was not prepared for. I felt a need to give of myself purely, to see to another’s needs without motivation or expectation of anything in return. His tiny hands found their way into the long waves of my hair, and I felt a sharp twinge of emotion, like nothing I had felt since the first time I held my newborn niece in my arms. I rested my chin on the top of his head and sighed. Unbelievably I began to relax and I returned his affection with a gentle squeeze.

  Dimly I was aware that this was a country that had seen much recent upheaval and destruction. Political and cultural turmoil had split the nation, turning neighbour against neighbour. In the aftermath of the internal conflicts, harsh and dangerous living conditions remained for many— hunger, unemployment, sickness, anger and hostility. From those conditions grew substance abuse, violence, criminality and desperation, conditions that allowed many terrible things to happen without recourse or retribution.

  From this uncertain and potentially perilous environment came a memory a young woman with a small child in tow. It was night and the two moved along the edge of a road that had seen better days, the road I had just come from. Their pace was painfully slow, exposing their exhaustion. The woman held the child’s hand tightly, her dark eyes darting furtively about the shadowy landscape. At that moment, things were quiet and seemingly safe. Both bore the signs of a hard life— unhealthy thinness, worn clothing and the air of defeat. If not for the child, I gained the impression that the woman would have simply given up long before that night. At her side the child stumbled, and she did not have the strength to help him along any farther.

  She looked off to the side of the road, obviously trying to discern a suitable place for them to rest for few hours. She carried a worn military-style bag over one shoulder, which she removed for the boy to use as a makeshift pillow. He was asleep as soon as his head touched the bag. Though tired herself, she stayed awake, her body fitting snugly alongside her child. After an indeterminate amount of time she closed her eyes.

  Two rough, belligerent men, brought to the same road on the same night by hard times of their own appeared out of the night. Unlike the mother and child, the men had been warped by the harshness of their life and had given in to the defeat, allowing it to twist them into things without conscience. They saw the mother and child, and viewed them as simply a means to an end. One of them men roughly shook the woman awake, and demanded money and food. She immediately flooded with terror. She insisted that she did not have either, but the men were long past the ability to care or empathise with others in a similar situation to their own.

  The man with his hands still clamped on the woman’s upper arm turned a sneering look in the direction of his companion. “This little bitch here says she don’t have any money, or any food. What are we gonna do about that?”

  The woman was crying by then. Hot, desperate tears spilled out of eyes wide with fear and anticipation. She pleaded pathetically with them to leave her and her son alone, but the men were too angry and too intoxicated to be swayed by her words. I felt the painful dread, much as she must have also felt, as the events about to unfold became clear. Her words simply spurred the men on, pushing them over the edge into behaviour that, under any other circumstances would never have happened. Roughly, the woman was yanked to her feet. She kicked out at the boy still slumbering on the ground, and his eyes opened, wide with shock. He registered his understanding of the danger they were in.

  Like a shot in the dark the memory continued, escaping from his young mind to burrow into mine. The images were horrible and so vivid, they cut a swath through my brain like razor blades. I clenched my teeth from the ferocity of their impact. The boy trembled then went slack in my arms. He had not fainted, but was having an obvious physical reaction from reliving the awful events now playing out in my brain. I was no longer a witness. The experience had become my own. My body was tight was fear, my brain churning with terror.

  As the second man leant down to grab a hold of my arm, I jumped up and hid behind my mother. Her body was hot and she smelled bad. She shook her arm at me, and started yelling at me to run. I was so scared, I didn’t want to leave her, but I was so small there was nothing I could do.

  “Now! Get as far away as you can!” she screamed. I’d never heard her sound like that before. It scared me.

  I turned away, crying like a baby. My heart was pounding so hard in my chest it hurt. My tummy felt weird, like when it’s hard to go to the bathroom. It felt like fireworks were going off inside me, and I couldn’t think straight. The tears burnt on my cheeks, running into my mouth and making the top of my shirt wet. As I ran into the forest, I heard the men laughing behind me, but it sounded mean. I thought I might pee my pants.

  I ran and ran as fast as I could. The trees kept snapping against me and catching on my clothes. One scratched my eye and made everything blurry. My skin was stinging and bleeding, but I was too scared to slow down. What was happening to my mother?

  I tripped on a large root and fell down really hard. My head banged against something, a rock maybe, and it made me feel like I was going to throw up. When I stood again I was dizzy and my brain hurt. I took off again, running so fast until I couldn’t breathe anymore. Something was pounding in my ears.

  Unable to move anymore, I fell down. It was so dark I couldn’t see anything. I was crying so hard I was choking on my snot. My chest felt like it would explode. Everything hurt and I didn’t know what to do.

  I had to calm down, or the men might hear me. I bit my lip, which I do sometimes when I’m upset, and I tasted blood. It hurt, but it helped me to stop crying. When I could breathe all right again I stood. Sweat was pouring down my sides, and my shirt was stuck to me. It was cold. I didn’t want to go back, but I had to.

  It was so quiet and dark. I turned around and started walking back, trying to be careful so I wouldn’t hurt myself anymore, but I wasn’t sure I was going in the right direction. Then I heard my mother screaming.

  I ran toward the sound, and slowed down just at the edge of the trees.

  I dropped onto my knees, which were sore and bleeding. The men and my mother were so close I could smell them. They had that funny smell adults have when they drink wine.

  My mother was on the ground, and she was naked. The smaller of the two men was on top of her, moving around and making noises like a pig. The other man was holding my mother’s arms above her head, and she was crying and begging them to stop.

  The man on top of my mother keep telling her to shut up, and yelled all kinds of terrible things at her, but she didn’t stop crying. Please stop, Mom, please. His dark coat was shaking as he wiggled around on top of her. Then he started hitting her, over and over again. The sound of him hitting her scared me, and I wanted to help. I wanted to kill the men for hurting her. My tummy hurt and my
throat was burning. I thought I might throw up.

  The man in the black coat stood, spitting onto the ground beside my mother. I heard the sound of a zipper as he did his pants back up. His friend was laughing like a madman. I started shaking and I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t.

  My mother coughed, and she made a horrible gurgling sound as she turned herself onto her stomach. She was trying to crawl away from the men. I’d never seen a woman naked before, and I hope I don’t again. Her back and legs were so white. She looked like a ghost, except for the blood and dirt all over her.

  “Where th’ hell she think she’d going?” the one man said and made a gross snorting sound. He reached down and grabbed my mother by the hair. He pulled her head backward, twisting her around. The other man pulled a knife from his pocket, and cut her in the throat.

  She fell to the ground, and a big pool of blood poured out. The men looked through her clothes and our bags. When they realised there was nothing to steal, they kicked at my mother’s body a few times then walked away.

  My ears started to whine, and I was shaking so hard my teeth were chattering. I wanted my mother so bad, but I was afraid to go out onto the road in case the men came back. My brain was shrinking and I couldn’t feel my body anymore. I looked out at my mother again. She wasn’t moving. She must have been so cold without her clothes on. She needed a doctor.

  I vomited and I fell on the muddy ground. Blackness.

  I slammed back into my own consciousness with such force that I stumbled, and had to grab a nearby branch so as not to land on my ass. The boy was still against me, but had slipped, and his arms were now clutched about my legs. I pulled him back to standing. I was shaking with fury. Those were the type of people that deserved to cross my path. The rest of the boy’s experiences stumbled out of his mind in a series of disjointed images and a muddle of disassociated emotion. It was impossible to gauge the amount of time that had passed.

  In the daylight the woman’s body lay at the side of the road, eyes clouded in death. The boy gathered up the remains of his mother’s clothes and did his best to cover her nakedness. He sat there until the night came again. Nights of scavenging for food and shaking in the cold followed. Days passed hidden in the forest.

  I hadn’t seen a body, and I certainly would have smelled the scent of decaying flesh, so I could only assume she’d been discovered and removed. If that had brought him relief or further damage, I couldn’t tell.

  Sickness and anger rocked me as I stood there, holding him in my arms. I’d seen death many times, been the cause of much myself, but I had never been affected in the way his mother’s murder caused me to feel. I pressed my lips to the top of his head, the hair coarse and gritty.

  I considered my options: leave him there to fend for himself, take him to a nearby hospital or church, or take him with me. It was not much of a consideration. My anger with Giovanni seemed a pale concern compared to what that boy had been through. I took his hand and led him back through the forest toward the road. As we stepped out from the trees I had a sudden thought. “What about your father?”

  He made the tiniest movement of his head, but still did not speak. From his mind I received only blankness, as if no memory of any father existed. Perhaps he never knew the man, or had been separated from him too long to remember his face. He did not smile, frown or show any indication of resistance to my touch.

  It was as if time had been divided into before I met the boy and after. The encounter with Giovanni’s maker falling clearly into before, therefore became less important. As I stood holding the boy’s hand, I closed my eyes and tried to find my connection with Giovanni. I felt a brief flicker, a response to my own openness. “Rachel,” the voice I loved whispered in my head. “Come back… he has gone. I have things to explain.”

  When I opened my eyes, the boy was watching me solemnly. He moved back into my arms, and further into my heart. We stood in that embrace for a long time, the vampire and orphan, enjoying the other in ways completely unnatural to both. I was a surrogate mother and a saviour from a cruel world. I had found a way to use my heart purely, and be close to a human without having to kill, trick or deceive. It was a powerful moment for both of us.

  Nothing could ever be the same for either of us. Together we had been thrust down a new and uncharted path. The future was a blank canvas, full of possibilities, both good and bad. We would each play a part in the way things would turn out.

  Chapter 14

  Carrying the boy without effort in my arms, I returned to the car. I slowed on the road leading up to the main gate, driving with care through the open gates. I was full of apprehension, and all my senses were on high alert as I made my way cautiously to the front door. The quiet made me uneasy, the young boys’ delicate heartbeat the only sound I was aware of.

  The boy kept silent the entire trip, pressed tightly to my side. As I carried him from the car to the front door, his warm mouth was pressed into the flesh at the base of my neck, and it felt strange and wonderful. His hand in mine felt so natural, it was as though we had done it a thousand times. His mind played the scene of his last night with his mother, and her subsequent death over and over again. The horrible images ran as though on some kind of cognitive loop, interspersed with brief snapshots of happier times, and an odd blank nothingness that was almost more terrible than his mother’s murder.

  As soon as I opened the front door, the gentle creaking unnaturally loud to my ears, I knew Giovanni was not there. The door I had knocked from its frame earlier had been hastily repaired, but the house was empty. I stepped in, hesitating, my new companion trailing behind me. Our footsteps shuffled softly across the cold stone floor. I immediately looked into the sitting room, where just a few hours earlier Giovanni and I had experienced our tumultuous encounter with the spectre of his past. The room was in shambles— chairs overturned and the beautiful wooden table had been smashed to pieces. The boy and I both took in the obvious signs of violence with silent apprehension. Where had he gone?

  “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up and find you somewhere to sleep.” My voice sounded confident, and the boy seemed too oblivious to the discomfort behind those words.

  We returned to the hallway, and I led us in the direction of the grandiose staircase at the farthest end of the house. The boy’s enormous yet solemn eyes took in everything, but his face did not respond in anyway to what he saw. Even his mind stayed curiously blank, and his demeanour was outwardly even. The fact that he was that calm, and seemingly compliant to my lead, indicated to me just how traumatised he really was. He was burying his pain somewhere deep inside his immature and unprepared mind. Those were the events in life that could utterly destroy a person’s capacity to love and trust, bringing darkness to every experience to follow. They could turn people into monsters all too willing to inflict the same type of torment on others, or they could ignite the pursuit of all that was good in humanity.

  We turned right at the top of the stairs, down a short and little-used hallway. I opened the second door onto a beautiful bedroom suite with an adjoining bathroom. Going directly to the tub, I turned on the faucet to fill it with clean, warm water. I found shampoo, soap and towels, placing them all within easy reach of the tub’s edge. The boy followed me into the room, stopping short of entering the bathroom.

  I smiled at him, standing so still in the doorway. “It’s all right. Come in, you don’t need to be afraid.”

  He continued to stand there, that blank expression on his face. I approached him, taking him gently by the arm, and led him to the tub. “I’m going to go and find you some clean clothes. I want you to get in, and clean yourself up, okay? Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

  He turned his face toward mine, nodding once quickly. I smiled. It was progress. I closed the door behind me to allow him some privacy. Speeding to my room, I searched for anything that would fit his slight frame. I grabbed a t-shirt of my own, a pair of running shorts and some socks. I would have to go into town
the next evening and get him some proper clothing, but that would do to sleep in. I returned to the room and placed the clothing on the large four-poster bed. Pausing outside the bathroom door, I was pleased to hear the sounds of the boy bathing. The next thing I needed to worry about was food.

  Down in the kitchen that was never cooked in, I pulled open the doors on the massive restaurant-style refrigerator. We kept a certain amount of food on the premises, mostly to maintain appearances for our cleaning staff, and for the few visitors we received. It had been so long since I thought about consuming food myself, and it felt unnatural to be pulling together a meal for someone else. I found some fresh bread, cheese and fruit, which I piled on a serving tray, then added a bottle of water and some milk. I would have to make sure the kitchen was better stocked in the future, because I hoped the boy would be staying for a while.

  As I was putting together the last touches on the tray, I heard a door open upstairs. Light, quick footsteps moved across the floor from the bathroom. I carried the tray up with me, pausing outside the seven-foot door, feeling a surprising tingle of anticipation. It was unnerving how much I wanted to please the child and to give him comfort. I tapped lightly on the wood, waiting a minute before I pushed the door inward.

  I smelled clean skin and soap as I entered the space. He had dressed in the clothing I had left, the shorts and shirt a bit too big, but a definite improvement on the rags I’d found him in. His damp, shaggy hair left a circle of wetness about the shirt’s shoulders and back. With the dirt scrubbed clean from his face I could see more clearly the series of scratches about his face and arms, and the bruise-like bags under his ever-watchful eyes. His legs were terribly thin and coltishly long where they protruded from the borrowed shorts. He was so pitiful and angelic my heart swelled.

  I brought the food to the bed, where he obligingly hopped up, but waited for me to give him permission to eat. When I did, he ate with unashamed determination, not leaving a single crumb, or drop of milk behind. Almost instantly his eyes began to droop, and I imagined he had not slept well in a very long time. I pulled back the expensive and heavy duvet, and moved it aside to allow the boy to settle into a comfortable position. His eyes were closed as soon as his head touched the pillow. I pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, drinking in the aroma of the shampoo. He twitched slightly then was still. I waited a few minutes until he fell into a deep sleep then slipped noiselessly from the room.