by Rae, Nikki
Evan perks his head up, about to glare at Myles but he thinks twice about it.
Myles’ eyes shoot to his direction. I can tell by their expressions that they’re having some sort of private conversation that I can’t be a part of.
“She’s been out,” Myles says, I’m guessing for my benefit. “I haven’t had a chance to tell her.”
His grip on me loosens enough so I can at least lift my head off of the pillow.
“Well,” I chime in. “Someone better tell me what the fuck is going on.”
My eyes shift from one to the other but they’re too busy staring each other down to notice.
Finally, Evan turns his head to face me. Myles’ expression protests the gesture, but he says nothing.
“We think there is a fang in your leg,” Evan says.
“Uh.” I swallow hard. “What?” I try sitting myself up, but my elbows won’t lock.
Myles comes forward, lifting me under the arms and propping a pillow behind my back. He sits down carefully near my knee. Now when I stare down at my shin, there’s a new pad of gauze covering part of it.
“The ones who hurt you were most likely very weak,” Myles starts before taking a deep breath. “If you were struggling…”
“You’re saying some vampire’s fang popped off in my leg?” My voice scrapes through my throat like there are shards of glass attached to it.
Myles closes his mouth so he doesn’t say anything else. He nods.
“Then why does it hurt now?” I ask, my eyes darting between both of them, not sure who will give me an answer. “I was fine before.”
Evan looks like he’s about to take over, but Myles cuts him off. “It might be pressing on a nerve. Walking could have aggravated it.”
I look to Evan now because, call me crazy, but I think Myles is leaving some details out.
A brief glance at Myles, who waves a hand at him, and Evan begins talking. “There is also another possibility.”
“A small possibility,” Myles adds.
“A possibility that the vampires that bit you were infected with Michael’s blood.”
My breath gets caught in my chest.
“If that’s true,” Evan continues, “when the fang broke off, they would have bled into you.”
“So you’re saying that I might be infected too?”
Neither of them says anything. Myles tries to hold my hand and I move away.
My eyes widen and my pulse quickens, the pain in my shin going along with it and sending a shock through my leg.
“It’s probably nothing,” Myles says like it can comfort me. “We have to take it out so we can see.”
Evan excuses himself and leaves the room, probably hyper-aware of the tension, fear, and uneasiness of the entire situation. I stare at the covered window, not taking my attention off of the blue the curtain. I know if I do, I might freak out.
“Are you okay?” Myles asks.
“Just trying to tell myself that this is my life right now,” I say quietly. “No big deal.”
He hesitates, but his hand lands on top of mine. I let it stay there this time. We don’t say anything else.
Evan steps back into the room after this short exchange, carrying a red bag with a white cross on it. Suddenly, things are that much more real. Things are moving too fast.
Myles takes my pillows away until my head is flat against the mattress, then he removes the blankets from the rest of my body before sitting next to me.
Evan stands at the foot of the bed, opening the bag and taking out a pair of white rubber gloves that he shoves on.
It's so quiet.
Neither of them are talking and I can’t say anything.
I watch as Evan fills a vile with clear liquid and begins methodically sticking it into my leg in various areas.
“This will not completely numb it,” he says, “It is too deep.”
“It runs too deep.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and turn my head so when they’re open again, they’re on Myles. He’s staring at my face, making sure that I’m not in pain, I guess. I am. I am completely and totally in agony, but that doesn’t matter. What the hell am I going to do if I’m infected?
“You okay?” Myles asks for about the thirtieth time. I'm half-tempted to not answer him, but I nod so he'll stop asking, if only for a few minutes.
Then the stinging of the needle starts to fade away, turning into more of a tingle. When I can no longer feel the burning, throbbing, or stabbing, I finally relax for a few seconds. I take in a few breaths without worrying if they'll turn into gasps or screams.
“He's going to take it out now,” Myles says, breaking me out of the calm. “Just try to stay still.”
I don’t want to watch Myles watching me or Evan ripping open my leg, so I turn my head to the ceiling, figuring it’s the best option. The only sounds I hear are the rubber gloves on Evan’s hands squeaking once in a while and some kind of metal instrument like scissors snipping.
“Do I have to be awake for this?” I blurt out.
“Yes,” Evan answers when Myles offers no response.
I don’t feel anything until we’re a good fifteen minutes into it. Even then, it’s just small, sharp pains here and there. I can deal with that. Myles moves closer when he sees my expression, but he doesn’t touch me.
He only has to do that when white-hot stabbing overtakes me, causing my body to bunch up and my limbs to flail. I try to move my head to make sure Evan isn’t actually cutting off my leg, but Myles has my face in a firm grip.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I scream in response.
“Myles,” Evan says through my shrieking. My uninjured leg kicks something over, causing a loud, metallic crash. I can feel one of Evan’s hands on top of my right knee and the other wrapped around my left ankle.
“Please,” I whisper when my voice cuts out. “Please stop.”
I start to feel tingling at the back of my head.
“I thought I had to be awake.” My voice is barely there.
“You do,” Myles whispers as I continue to thrash. “I’m making it so you can’t move.”
My pulse quickens as my movements slow. I try sitting up and I can’t. I can’t do anything but lie here.
“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m right here.”
Both of them let go of me, and Evan continues to rip apart my leg. I try to concentrate on breathing, staying awake, the plain, white ceiling, but the fire in my shin leaves no room for anything else.
I’m almost grateful when my vision tunnels.
“Stay awake,” Myles’ voice echoes around me.
It’s like I’m on the edge of a cliff and he’s holding out his hand to me. It’s completely my choice whether or not I grasp on.
I decide that right now, it’s better to fall.
***
And I do fall. Right into a nightmare.
I’m back in that pink house, on the ground. I can only see once in a while, like my eyes won’t stay open. It takes me half a second to realize that the reason is because there’s blood in my eyes. There’s blood everywhere.
Michael is here too, laughing as something grabs onto my leg, clamping down as I scream. Something else latches onto my right arm.
“Do you think he can save you this time?” Michael says. “Do you think it will be that easy?”
He’s saying something else, but it’s drowned out by the sounds of my own agony.
***
Dry. My mouth is so dry. My throat is so raw.
“Are you awake, sweetie?” I hear Phyllis ask.
I try to open my mouth to speak, but my voice doesn’t come out. My eyes open slowly. I have to reach up with my hand to rub the cloudiness away, and that movement seems to vibrate every aching bone in my body, all the way to my shin.
Someone’s covered me up to my shoulders with the brown blanket again, but a quick glance around tells me that Phyllis is the only one here. She’s sitting next to the bed with a paper
cup in her hand. I slowly shift myself upwards as she stands, placing a pillow behind me and handing me the cup.
“Here,” she says.
My shaking hands grasp around the paper cup like it’s made out of gelatin and I’m afraid it’ll slip out of my palms. I want to gulp it, but the first sip makes my throat burn, so I slow down. The window near the bed has gone dark. I must have been out a while.
“I thought you left.” I whisper.
Phyllis takes the empty cup from me. “I was going to,” she says, “but then I heard you screaming.”
I try to sit up even more so I can uncover my leg, but I can’t.
“You’re alright now, Sophie,” Phyllis says, smoothing my hair. “Try and rest.”
I hear her flip flops smack against the linoleum as she heads toward the door. I don’t want to be left alone because then I’ll only have my thoughts; I don’t want to go to sleep because I’ll only be greeted by more nightmares or memories.
Good thing that at the same time Phyllis leaves, Myles is coming back in.
He wastes no time sitting down next to me.
Before he can say anything, I ask, “Am I okay?” My voice comes out raspy.
I think Myles is going to answer me when he stands, but he turns and starts walking toward the kitchen, holding up a finger when I open my mouth to ask him again. I hear water running and then shut off. He walks back to the bed and sits down again, handing me another paper cup.
“You’re dehydrated,” he states when I stare at the liquid rippling between my hands.
“Well?” I whisper, not about to let the question I asked go unanswered. I take a sip of the cold water so I have something else to concentrate on.
“We don’t know,” he says, and when he looks back at me, his eyes are watery. He takes a seat on the edge of the mattress again.
“What do you mean?” I try to steady my voice, but it’s still weak.
The cup is empty again, and he takes it from me. When I glare at him when he makes a move to go back to the sink, he sets the cup on the nightstand, causing a soft, hollow sound.
“We have to see if your leg is healed,” he says. “If it’s not, then…” He can’t finish the sentence.
“Then I’m infected?”
“There's a good chance.” Myles is still staring at the empty cup next to me.
“Okay,” I say, adjusting myself again. A wave of dizziness and nausea wash over me and then pass. I notice the IV sticking out of my arm has two tubes now: one red, one clear.
“I need a phone.”
Myles looks at me for a second, his expression concerned that I might actually try to stand. If I wasn’t so exhausted, I would. And I would leave. And I would call Jade. Then we could figure this out. Then everything would somehow be alright.
“Sophie, I already told you,” he tries to be as gentle as he can when he says it, reaching forward and grasping my hand. “I can’t let you call him. I’m sorry.”
I bend my good leg just to see if I can. I’ll work my way up to the other one. If I can limp, I can get past him and to a phone. There has to be one somewhere.
“Sophie.” Myles is more cautious now. “Just relax.”
He tries to touch me, but I shrug him off. “How can you tell me that?”
His hands hover mid air, and then drop back to his sides.
“I know I’ve been a real crappy girlfriend,” I say, vaguely aware that I’m about to begin rambling. “I know you’re mad at me or hurt or whatever, but I need to talk to my brother. He needs to know that I’m okay or not okay and I think I’m freaking out.”
With that, the water works start. Damn it.
My head is against my one bent knee now, my eyes tightly shut so I don’t have to look at anything. In between sobs, I slowly bring up my other leg, my shin throbbing in time with the beating of my pulse as I suck up snot.
Myles moves closer, but it’s a few minutes before he touches me at all. He places one hand on my back as I heave breaths in and out of my sore throat.
“I’m not angry,” he whispers when there’s a small lull in my freak out. “I know you’re scared and I’m sorry.”
This only causes me to cry harder. He lets me. We don’t say anything until I have no tears left. Instead of turning and hugging him, I straighten my posture to curl onto my side so I face away from him, bundling the blankets around me. My leg starts throbbing harder in the new position.
I figure he’ll leave me alone to sleep when I hear his footsteps trail back into the kitchen, but the faucet starts running again, and he sets the cup back on the nightstand before sitting in the chair next to me.
After an immeasurable amount of time with me staring blankly at the wall near his arm and him staring back at me, he speaks. “Remember when I told you about me?”
I swallow, my throat aching more with tears I can’t produce. “Yeah,” I say. My voice is quiet, weak; it seeps out of me like smoke.
“I thought I made a huge mistake,” he says. “I thought you’d never want to see me again.”
I sit silently, wondering what the point of this is. Not just the conversation, but all of it. The lies, the apartment, the club, the bites, Michael trying to kill me and then leaving me alive.
“What would you have done,” Myles says after a few minutes, “if I had still told you everything I told you and then I added to that the fact that someone you loved was hurt because of me?”
“I don’t care,” I say, sounding more like a whiney child than I intended to. I turn onto my back again, feeling shaky and tired and wanting my brother more than anything.
“I’d hate you,” I say, staring at the ceiling.
“I know,” Myles says.”But I wouldn’t care about that. What would you do?”
“I don’t know.”
“If it were Jade?” he asks.
I shut my eyes for a long time before turning my head to look at him. “I’d do anything to save him.”
“I know.”
“So…” I pause so I don’t cry. “That’s enough of a reason to keep him away?”
When I face him again, he’s staring at his hands. “We don’t even know if you’re infected yet,” he says. “In a few days, you could be completely healed and Jade would never know.”
“And I'd just have to make something up as to what happened to me during all that missing time.”
Silence. Then, “I’m sorry.”
“What if I am infected?” I ask. “What then?”
“You probably aren’t.”
I take in a deep breath and let it out. I want to be angry that he keeps saying that, but I want to be more hopeful that he’s right.
“But if I am,” I barely say. “It would make sense. It would explain why I’m alive.”
“How?”
“Last time I had Michael’s blood in me, he did it in case I got away.” My eyes are starting to feel heavy now, but I want to keep talking. “It’s just like last time.”
“No,” Myles says, but it’s barely above a whisper. “I don’t think that’s what happened.”
“Then why would he do it?” I ask. “And why would you bring me to a place that’s protected from him if you didn’t think he would try to hurt me again?”
Myles says nothing. I want to believe it’s because he thinks I’m right, but I think it’s more because he doesn’t want to argue. Neither do I.
“Anyway,” I say, “in the off-chance that I am infected, what are we going to do?”
I want him to be closer to me, just for the comfort, but I refrain from asking.
“We have a few options.” He takes the cup from the nightstand, and instead of getting up to refill it, he just plays with it in his hands so he doesn’t have to look at me. “We could do the same thing we did last time,” he says, turning it over and over, like there’s some magical spell written by Dixie Cup on it. “There’s the last resort—turning you.”
He looks up, waiting for a response. I give him none.
; “Or I could bite you whenever it comes to the surface.”
“Like Evan and Ava?”
He nods.
“But that won’t solve anything,” I say. “Ava’s still infected, and Evan is too.”
“By the time Ava dies,” Myles says calmly, quietly, like he’s had to explain this before. “She’ll be older. At least sixty. And Evan will outlast her, though I don’t know for how long.”
“So you’re saying you’d want to wait for me to get old and die—still infected—and then you’d die?”
Myles opens his mouth, but I cut him off.
“And in the forty or so years between now and then, I’d have to live like Ava does? Getting sick and throwing up blood until you bite me? For the rest of my life?”
“Don’t get upset,” he says in the least demanding tone I’ve ever heard. “It’s only an option.”
I ignore him. “And then you’d die.”
He laughs a short, quiet laugh. “Sophie, please,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m over four hundred years old. I think I can come to terms with my own death.”
“Suicide.”
Now his eyes soften, like he touched part of me he didn’t mean to. “Okay,” he says. “We don’t have to do that if you don’t want to.”
I turn my attention back to the ceiling now, my eyes fighting to stay shut as my brain fights to keep them open.
“I don’t want you to die,” I whisper. “I don’t want to die.”
I can’t see where Myles is because my eyes have finally won out and closed. He pauses for the longest second before gently pushing some hair away from my face.
“That’s not going to happen,” he says. “I promise.”
I swallow before opening my eyes.
“We should check your leg.”
All I want to do at the moment is go back to sleep, but I need to know what kind of shape I’m in more than anything else. I brace my arms on either side of me, prepared to sit up, but Myles pushes me slowly back into the mattress.
I resume my staring at the ceiling.
He shifts the blanket off of my legs, leaving the top half of my body covered. He then goes back to the drawer of the nightstand and I watch his every move. He takes out a cardboard box and rubber gloves come out of that. He wriggles his hands into the white latex and then sits down next to my leg again.