Nocturnal

by Ilia Bera

  Brittany took a deep breath, and wiped away the last of her tears. She reached down into her purse and pulled out her eye shadow. She started to reapply it to her face.

  “You’re fine. You don’t even know him,” Brittany told herself. “It’s not the end of the world.”

  Knock! Knock! Knock!

  “What?” Brittany yelled aggressively.

  “Hey Brittany—It’s Andrew. You okay?” Andrew called back from behind the closed door.

  “Yeah—I’m okay,” Brittany called out in a nicer tone.

  Brittany stuffed her makeup back into her purse and walked towards the door. She stood up straight and took another deep breath. She unlocked the door and opened it.

  Andrew smiled at her. “Everything alright?” he asked.

  “Yeah—I think I got it all out. How do they look?” Brittany asked, motioning to her legs.

  “Clear as day to me,” Andrew said with a smile. Connor had to take off. I suppose it’s getting pretty late.”

  “It’s not even one yet.”

  “That’s pretty late for the Winter’s Den,” Andrew laughed.

  The two walked back to their table.

  “Do you work tomorrow?” Brittany asked.

  “Me? No—not tomorrow.”

  “What do you do? I mean, besides sail around the world.”

  Andrew thought about it for a moment. “I don’t know really. I guess I’m still figuring it out.”

  “What about the family business? You said your dad was a sailing instructor, right?” Brittany asked.

  “Yeah—Just privately. He ran a real estate investing firm as his business.”

  “There’s no sailing instructing jobs?”

  “In this weather? Nah.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” Brittany said.

  “Besides, I did the sailing thing. Now I think I’m looking for the next thing.”

  “You seem so passionate about it—like you wanted to spend your life doing it.”

  Andrew smiled gracefully. “I guess things change.” Andrew said as he looked down at his lap. “What about you? What do you do?”

  Brittany smiled. “I guess I’m still figuring it all out like you.”

  Brittany stopped in front of her chair and attempted to climb on. She stumbled half-drunkenly and nearly fell over as she attempted to sit down.

  “You okay?” Andrew asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “We should probably get you home. Where do you live?”

  “I’m fine—really.”

  Brittany wasn’t actually fine. The alcohol was making her head spin and her vision blur.

  “Do you have a brother I can call to come get you? Boyfriend?” Andrew asked.

  Brittany winced at the word “boyfriend”. She looked down at her drink. “No,” she said. “I’ll be okay.”

  Suddenly, the music in the bar came to a swift end, and all of the dim lights shut off, leaving the small bar totally in the dark. There was an audible sigh in the room as the conversations stopped.

  Behind the bar, Eric went to the electrical box and began to flip breakers. Nothing happened.

  “Power’s out—Probably the snow,” Eric announced.

  “Do the taps still work?” a drunk bar patron called out.

  “I can’t legally serve anyone while the power’s out.”

  The emergency lights came on, lighting up the bar.

  “That’s it for tonight, everyone—time to go home!” Eric called out.

  Someone in the bar booed over a series of loud sighs.

  “You can finish your drinks, but then you’ve got to get out. They’ll shut us down if we stay open with no power.”

  Brittany picked her drink up from the table and pounded it back. Andrew watched.

  “Whoa—slow down. Have you had any water tonight?”

  “I’m fine. I handle my liquor well,” Brittany said.

  Brittany stumbled, but caught herself on one of the bar chairs.

  “Let me walk you home. I’m going to walk you home.”

  “That’s fine—I can get home myself.”

  “Look—Brittany, I heard what happened with Connor. He was an idiot to turn you down.”

  Brittany looked over at Andrew. “He didn’t turn me down. It was a misunderstanding,” Brittany said sharply.

  “I—I didn’t mean that. I meant, if that’s what he thought, he was an idiot to—”

  “I know what you meant,” Brittany snapped, interrupting Andrew.

  Brittany went to walk, but ended up stumbling again. Andrew caught her. “Brittany, I’m going to walk you home—okay?”

  “I’m not ready to go home.”

  “The bar’s closed. You don’t have too many options.”

  Brittany walked over to the bar. Andrew followed closely behind, concerned about his drunken new friend.

  “Hey!” Brittany called out to the bartender.

  Eric walked up. “Hey,” he replied.

  “Can I get another?” Brittany asked.

  “Sorry—We’re closed. I can’t legally serve you.”

  “Oh, c’mon, babe—Just one more.”

  “Get her a water,” Andrew said.

  “I don’t want a water.”

  Eric could tell that Brittany was way over her limit. He looked at Andrew. “How’s about vodka water?”

  “Perfect,” Brittany said. “Make it a double.”

  Eric turned around and started to make a drink on the counter, with his back turned to Brittany.

  “Finish this drink, and then let me walk you home—please?” Andrew said.

  “Fine,” Brittany said.

  “You’re a sweet girl, Brittany. You’re going to be alright,” Andrew said.

  Eric returned with a drink. He placed it in front of Brittany. “Vodka water, on the house.”

  “Thanks, babe.” Brittany picked the drink up and took a sip. She smiled flirtatiously at the bartender.

  Andrew walked down the bar, away from Brittany. He motioned for Eric to follow him.

  “Is she okay?” Eric asked.

  “She’ll be fine. She just needs to get home.”

  “There was no vodka in that drink—I used Arkay—Non-

  alcoholic vodka flavouring. We keep a bottle handy for this reason.”

  “Thanks for that,” Andrew said.

  Andrew looked over at Brittany. An older college student with a chin-strap and a fedora had his arm around her shoulder. He was whispering something into her ear.

  “Better watch out for this guy,” Eric said. “He’s in here almost every night, picking up different girls.”

  Andrew walked over and tapped on Brittany’s shoulder. Her drink was already empty.

  “Hey—We should get going,” Andrew said, interrupting the stranger’s intimate whispers.

  “Who’s this guy?” the stranger asked in a thick Cockney accent. “Your brother or something?”

  “He’s just a friend,” Brittany said.

  “A little space, mate?”

  “Sorry—but she needs to go home.”

  “Mate—please,” the man said.

  Brittany turned to Andrew. “Thomas is going to take me home,” Brittany said.

  Brittany turned back to Thomas, who had his hand slithering up Brittany’s thigh.

  “Brittany—C’mon. You’re doing something you’re going to regret.”

  “Bugger off, mate!” Thomas snapped.

  Eric walked up. “Hey man, go home. Leave her alone,” he said to the aggressive British man. “We’re closed.”

  “C’mon babe. Want to see my pad?” Thomas asked Brittany.

  “Hey man, she’s way younger than you, and she’s drunk. You can’t just take advantage of her like this.”

  “‘Scuse me? I don’t remember asking you.”

  “You’re a real asshole,” Andrew said.

  “You wanna bang her, maybe next time you’ll stop being such a bloody pussy and make the first move,” Thom
as said.

  Brittany looked down at the bar as began to sink in though her inebriation. This wasn’t romance, love or even real attention—this was just desperate and pathetic.

  Andrew couldn’t hold back any longer. He lunged forward and grabbed onto the womanizing Brit’s collar. Thomas pushed Andrew back with a swift shove to the chest.

  “Hey!” Andrew’s brother called out.

  Brittany stood up and threw her arm between the two men, breaking up the fight. Andrew backed off, staring the British man in the eyes.

  “Hey mate, you can always pay for sex,” Thomas told Andrew.

  Andrew wanted to spring again.

  “Let it go, Andrew,” Andrew’s brother said. He turned to the British man. “You—Get out of here.”

  Thomas turned to Brittany. “You coming, babe?”

  The reality of the situation stung Brittany deep. Not only did Connor reject her, but also now she was being treated like a piece of reusable meat. The only man who would talk to her just wanted to get her into his bed.

  Was this all she was worth?

  Brittany looked up at Thomas, who had a cocky look in his Cockney eyes. His smile was scuzzy. His chin-strap was nauseating. As her beer-goggles began to fade, she was quickly realizing that she hated Thomas more than anything.

  TEN

  THE BRIT

  Brittany looked back at Andrew. “I want to go home with Thomas,” she said.

  Andrew looked disappointed, but he knew that it wasn’t his place to comment—his place to judge. He had only just met Brittany. It wasn’t his job to tell her right from wrong.

  “If that’s what you want… Just be careful, okay?” Andrew said.

  “Okay,” Brittany said. “I will.” She smiled at Andrew, and then got up.

  “Let’s go,” Thomas said, wrapping his arm around the young girl.

  Andrew watched with a sad look in his eye as Brittany left the bar with the British stranger.

  “You like her?” Andrew’s brother asked.

  “I’m just worried about her.”

  “She’ll be okay. That guy is in here all the time—he’s a slime ball, but the girls he leaves with never go missing or anything like that.”

  “It’s the regret that I worry about.”

  “I hate to say it, but I think your friend is used to it.”

  Andrew sighed. “I just don’t know about that.”

  Thomas walked into his apartment. Brittany stood out in the hallway.

  “Are you coming in?” Thomas asked.

  “May I?” Brittany replied.

  “Yeah—Of course—Why wouldn’t you be able to?”

  Brittany walked into Thomas’ apartment.

  “This is my pad,” Thomas whispered.

  There were posters of half-naked women and sports cars unevenly hung throughout the small dingy apartment. The floor looked like it hadn’t seen a broom in months, and every single dish in the little corner kitchenette was dirty, stacked next to the sink. There was only one window in the apartment, and it was tiny and high up near the roof, as the apartment was technically in the basement of the resident building.

  “We need to be quiet. My roommate gets mad grumpy when you wake him up.”

  “Where’s your bedroom?” Brittany asked.

  “It’s a studio—there are no bedrooms.”

  “So where’s your roommate?”

  Thomas pointed to a dark corner of the room, where a snoring lump of blankets sat on top of a couch.

  “He’s a heavy sleeper. He slept through the last fire alarm. But when he does wake up, he’s explosive.”

  “Oh—Okay,” Brittany said.

  Thomas turned to Brittany in the doorway of the dark, cheap deodorant smelling apartment. He placed his hand on the side of Brittany’s face. The dim moonlight was hitting Thomas’ face is the most unflattering possible way, casting dark shadows against his sunken eyes and boney cheeks.

  He leaned forward and kissed Brittany on the lips. Brittany’s body went tense as the British player worked away at her mouth. Brittany didn’t kiss back—she couldn’t.

  Thomas leaned back.

  “What’s wrong?” Thomas asked.

  “What? Nothing,” Brittany said.

  “Put some life into it.”

  “What?”

  “Why did you come if you’re just going to stand there like a board?”

  “Sorry—I’m just—I’m just drunk,” Brittany said—Lying as the liquor had already worked its way through her system, and she’d sobered up.

  Thomas smiled. He leaned forward and began to suck on Brittany’s neck. His hands began to slither up Brittany’s top, onto the bust of her bra.

  Brittany took a deep breath, reconsidering her actions. She didn’t know if she could go through with it. Her heart sank into her stomach and she began to feel sick. Thomas began to sink lower and lower, pushing the sweater off of her shoulders. She closed her eyes.

  She could feel the blood beginning to flow through her veins, becoming hotter and hotter.

  Thomas’ fingers crept around Brittany’s back and began to fiddle with her bra-hook. Brittany pushed Thomas’ arms off of her. Thomas looked up at Brittany, frustrated and confused.

  Brittany snuck her hands under Thomas’ arms and pulled him back up to her eye level. Brittany smiled at Thomas as she stood with her sweater hanging around her elbows.

  “What’s up?” Thomas asked.

  Brittany’s mind was made up—she was going through with it.

  She leaned forward and pulled Thomas in close. She gently ran the tip of her tongue around Thomas’ earlobe, and began to work her way down.

  “Oh, that feels bloody brilliant.”

  Brittany made her way to Thomas’ neck.

  “Oh, bloody hell, Thomas said, sinking deeper into his state of pleasure.

  Brittany’s canine teeth began to push out from her gums, lengthening down over her bottom lip. She could smell Thomas’ blood pumping through his veins. It smelled clean, and pure. Her irises began to turn red and her body began to feel light. The thirst that she’d been repressing for so long began to surface, overpowering every single one of her inhibitions.

  She took a breath. Thomas’ hands were moving back up towards Brittany’s bra-clip. As his slender British fingers began to pull the strap together, Brittany bit down.

  Thomas’ eyes lit up and every muscle in his body became painfully tense. He took one swift breath in and then froze in his place.

  The taste of Thomas’ sweet blood began to fill Brittany’s mouth as her sharp teeth punctured his carotid artery.

  His fingers grasped tightly into the skin on Brittany’s back. His legs began to tremble and shake, and he became faint. Within moments, he was cold—he was dead.

  Brittany lowered him down to the ground, not removing her teeth from Thomas’ neck. As more and more of Thomas’ mortal blood filled Brittany’s body, she became energized—powerful. In that moment, nothing in the world mattered. She’d gotten all of her tension and frustrations out on the horny British college student.

  Brittany stood up to her feet, feeling the warm blood enlivening her body. As she exhaled, reality returned to her. She’d just killed a man—a boy—somebody’s son.

  Brittany wiped Thomas’ dripping blood off of her chin.

  “Thomas?” a voice said from the corner of the room. It was Thomas’ roommate.

  Brittany began to panic. She stared into the dark corner as the lump of blankets rose from the couch.

  “Thomas—Is that you?”

  Brittany carefully reached down and picked up her sweater. She grabbed her jacket, and turned to the door.

  “Who is that? Who’s there?” the roommate called out.

  Brittany started to run.

  ELEVEN

  MICHAEL FENNER

  Once the sun rose the next day, the snow finally began to let up, but the brisk air was still as frigid as the darkest night.

  There was an eerie loomin
g silence throughout the small town—everyone could feel a strange, indescribable depressing aura in their hearts. Deep inside, people knew that someone else had been killed, but the news hadn’t gotten out yet. Lots of the town’s people took the day off of work, and lots of students took the day off of school.

  But despite the harsh cold and the gloomy atmosphere, one man did not take a break. One man’s motivation overpowered the bleak mood that lingered in that stagnant cold air.

  Michael Fenner, the son of Wade Fenner, stood outside in his family’s backyard, shooting pucks into a red hockey net. He was tall and muscular—close to six and a half feet tall, and weighing in at two hundred and thirty pounds of pure muscle.

  Michael was young—only twenty-one years old—but he had a full face of stubble and his hair was starting to thin out in the front. He was one of those guys who had never had his ID checked in his lifetime.

  He lined each puck up carefully. Gently, he pulled each one back, nestling it comfortably in the concave blade of his stick. Then, with all of his raw, two hundred and thirty pounds of unbridled power, he launched the puck towards the net. His technique was far from graceful, and his release was anything but elegant. Still, the puck reached a speed of nearly ninety miles an hour—accurately striking the back corner of the net.

  His shoulder was sore. He reached his arm up and stretched out his tight muscles. Every shoulder rotation was accompanied by a number of loud clicks and cracks.

  The sun was beginning to set over the distant colossal mountain range, and the cold air was quickly becoming unbearable. The moisture trickling out of Michael’s cold red nose had frozen in its place. But still, sweat was dripping down from under his thick toque as he put all of his energy into every single shot.

  Determined, Michael did not stop. He lined up the next puck, and gripped the stick tightly in his hockey gloves. Then, with all of his force, and a powerful battle cry, Michael released the puck into the red net.

  Cling!

  The puck rattled the net as it struck the inside crossbar.

  Michael was not what they called a “talented player”, a “goal-scorer” or a “play maker”. Michael was an enforcer—a fighter. He was the guy they put onto the ice when someone on the other team was playing dirty, or picking on one of the stars.