Til Death (Immortal Memories)

by R. M. Webb

  “I’ve tried on a million different things to say and none of them are right. I’d ask if you’re ok, but it’s clear you’re not.”

  “I’m always ok.” I try to smile, but it doesn’t really work.

  “Look. Rachel. I know better than to try and play nurse. You’ll brush me away and kick me out faster than I can say, here, eat your Jell-O.” He pauses and smiles sadly. I stare at his hands. Big hands. A tiny bit of hair on the knuckles. Not a lot. Just enough to know they’re a man’s hands. “But listen. You need to eat. You need to talk to someone. You need to find help.”

  I bite back all the sharp things I want to say, all the sharp things I’d normally say. Thing is, he’s right. I know it deep down at the most real part of me even if I don’t like hearing him say it. Don’t like having to admit it. “I know.” I turn away from Max and move deeper into my apartment, fully aware I didn’t draw the chain back over the door.

  “Well, good.” He’s shocked. I can hear it in his voice. He didn’t expect me to give in so easily. To admit defeat. Weakness. But this is Rachel after the day that everything changes and I’m going to feel different for a few days.

  He’s got something else on his mind. I hear it in the hesitation, in his uncertainty as to how else to proceed. “Say what you came here to say, Max. I’ll probably surprise you and listen.”

  He chuckles but doesn’t move any closer, like he’s afraid he’s going to startle me and I’ll run away, a deer bounding off through the woods. “I want to help you.” I bristle. Tension pulls my shoulders up tight to my ears and I hunch forward and flinch as if I thought he was going to hit me. Either Max doesn’t notice or he’s set the ball in motion and couldn’t stop talking if he tried. “I know money’s tight. I know you haven’t left your apartment for days and so you can’t be working. It doesn’t look like you’ve eaten.”

  There’s a rustling sound as he fidgets with something and I lose the battle with my curiosity, turning around to see him holding something out to me. It’s a handful of money, carefully folded so I can’t see how much, but the bundle is thick and I can see two zeros poking out from under his thumb.

  “I don’t need your money.”

  All the hope that’d been growing on his face crashes into a more familiar form of frustrated disappointment. “Yes. You do.” Apparently the kindness in his voice was attached to his hope because his tone is scathing.

  That’s alright. I pull off scathing better than he does anyway. “No. I don’t.”

  “Please, just let me help you. I’ll hand you the money and disappear if you’d like, but if you don’t do something, you’re not going to pull out of this tailspin.”

  “Tailspin? I was attacked! I’m … struggling. Sure. But this isn’t a tailspin. I’ll get my shit together and everything will be fine.”

  “You always say that! I’m ok,” he steps closer to me, mimicking my voice, waving his hands near his face. “I’m fine. I’ve got this.” He imitates a very haughty, not very pleasant version of me and I’m offended, but more than that, I can’t stop looking at his hands. A man’s hands. Max gets closer and I take a step back.

  “I say it because it’s true.” My voice trembles. I wrap my arms tighter around my stomach and turn away from him. From his hands.

  But Max has more to say. He steps back in front of me. “You. Are not. Fine.” He places his hands on my shoulders and I yelp, jump as if his hands passed an electric current through my body. I slam my fists into his chest and he stumbles back, surprise giving way to anger giving way to apology. It’s that last bit I hate the most. His need to apologize showing me exactly how weak he thinks I am.

  “Don’t you dare apologize.” I choke out the words in between gasps for air, in between clenched teeth. “I don’t need your help. I don’t need Mia’s help. I’m a strong, independent woman and I’ll get through this on my own, thank you very much.”

  The money is still clutched tight in Max’s hand. He reaches it out towards me without a word and I slap it away. The bills fly from his fist and float down to the carpet, more hundred dollar bills than I’ve ever seen all together in one place. I scoop them up, each and every one, and cram them back into his hands.

  “Leave,” I say, and point towards the door.

  “Rachel -”

  I don’t want to hear what he has to say. “Leave!” I stomp my foot and shake my finger at the door, my anger requiring a physical outlet.

  Max turns, his face sad, more than sad. Resigned. Agitated. Concerned. He’s giving up on me. And lucky me, I get to watch it happen. But then he stops. He turns halfway back around and looks at me over his shoulder. When he speaks, his voice is quiet. Reserved in a way I’ve never heard him use.

  “You know, Rachel. You’re so busy proving to the world that you’re ok, that you can do it all on your own, that you’re pushing away anyone who ever cared about you. You’re going to finish out your life bitter and alone if you don’t stop.”

  And that was that. Max turns his back on me and walks out of my apartment, closing the door behind him without looking back. I race after him, tempted to fling open the door and call him back. To tell him I need him. To tell him I’m scared. To tell him I don’t want to be alone and to beg him to stay. Life is hard and I’m not sure I can handle it and what does that say about me? That I’m too weak to survive the most basic of everyday things?

  But when I reach the door, instead of opening it and rushing into Max’s waiting arms, I slide the chain back into its place and lock the deadbolt and rest my head against the wall. Everyone struggles. And everyone deals with it. That’s all I’m doing. Forcing myself to learn how to deal with hardship. I don’t want to be the kind of person who takes and takes and takes. I don’t want to need things from people. I want to give things to people. I want to support myself and make everyone around me happy. How can I do that if I constantly admit my failures? Constantly need their reassurance and support?

  I wander up the stairs and stare at myself in the mirror, tracing the tiny pink specks on my neck. For the first time since my trip to the warehouse district, I see the way I actually look. Hair pulled back. No makeup. Stains on my sweatshirt because it’s the only one I own and the only thing I want to wear. I’m gaunt. My skin gray and too tight across my cheek bones. The cups of my bra gap open. I’ve lost enough weight that my breasts no longer fill them.

  I pull the rubber band out of my hair and pick up my brush, working it carefully through the tangled ends before I wet it and dry it so that it hangs long and clean down my back. I shrug out of the sweatshirt and toss it in the laundry basket, picking out a clean sweater from my closet. Not too tight. Nothing form fitting. But at least it’s clean. I swipe on some mascara and blink at the stranger in the mirror. The stranger who at least looks a bit more familiar.

  I’m tooling around in my kitchen, looking for something at least marginally nutritious to feed myself when there’s a knock on my door. Two precise knocks. My heart does that funny little tripping skipping thing it’s learned to do lately and my face goes slack with fear, eyes wide, head whipping towards the sound.

  But those two light raps on my door have played themselves over and over again in my memories of the night my vampire showed up on my doorstep and asked to be let in. He knocked. Twice. Just like that.

  After all this time waiting, he’s finally here.

  Chapter 9

  Somehow I’ve made it to the door without realizing it. My hand’s on the doorknob, undoing the deadbolt, and I crack open the door, turning my face to hide the remnants of the bruises spanning my cheek. I gasp, relief flooding through me, happiness verging on exaltation so welcome after weeks of worry.

  “Hello, Rachel.” And as before, I hear the mountains and the evergreens in the snow. “May I please come in?”

  Of course he can come in. I close the door so I can remove the chain and swing it open for him. A smile lights his gray eyes, warming his handsome face. His hands are shoved into his pockets, sl
ightly rounding his broad shoulders. Anger chases away the smile the minute he sees me. It’s like watching the utter destruction of something beautiful. There’s no way to hide the fact that this is a vampire on my doorstep. A predator. A monster.

  He sweeps into my home, closing the door behind him, moving so quickly the door should have banged shut, only it happens in utter, eerie silence. And then, before I can breathe, he’s in front of me and I squeak and step back, banging into the wall. He raises his hand in apology. Long fingers. Delicate yet strong. White skin like stone. Not a man’s hands. A vampire’s. He removes the snarl from his face, schooling it into something more human, something I understand.

  “I’m sorry I scared you.” He approaches me slowly, carefully, his movement graceful and athletic, strong, yet supple. I think of things like cats and snakes.

  I shrug. “It’s ok.” I’m ok. Everything’s ok. What would Max say? Hearing me repeat what must be my incredibly irritating mantra. “I mean. I know you didn’t mean to.”

  “What happened to you?” His cold hands are tracing my injured cheek, his eyes register that he’s made out the imprint of a man’s hand on my throat. “Who did this?”

  With halting words and half formed sentences, I tell him the story. It’s the first time I’ve talked about it since it happened. Tears well in my eyes and I let them fall unhindered. Ever so gentle, he wipes them away. And I cry and I talk and it feels so good to get it all out. Not to be the sole owner of my tragedy.

  “And I hate it,” I say, when I’ve shared the entire story with him, “because I pride myself on being together. On being smart. Strong. And I was so stupid. Stupid to go by myself. Stupid to let him touch me. Stupid to wait so long to get away from him.”

  He presses a finger to my lips and the gesture startles me silent. He bends and swoops me up into his arms, cradling me like a child. I press my face against his collarbone, the stubble on his jaw scratching against my forehead, and I inhale. His scent makes me feel safe in a way I’ve never felt safe. He crosses the living room to my couch in just a few strides of his long legs and sits, still cradling me, so I’m all curled up in his lap.

  “You’re not stupid. You didn’t do anything to bring this on.” I smile into his chest and enjoy the way his arms feel, wrapped around me, holding me close in a way I’ve never let anyone hold me before.

  “What’s your name?” I ask, my words echoing against his neck. “Or is it against the rules for me to know?”

  He laughs. A rolling sound, rumbling in his chest like distant thunder and a warm fire. “The rules?”

  I sit up and study his face. “I don’t know how this works. You were so mysterious the last two times I saw you. Maybe that’s just … the rules. That’s silly. I’m sorry.” His eyes are alight with the smile stretching across his face and I continue, emboldened by his proximity. “It’s just all this time, the only name I have for you when I think of you is vampire. The vampire. My vampire…” My stomach drops. Did I just say that? Admit to calling him my vampire? Like I have some sort of claim on him?

  “So you’ve been thinking about me?” There’s not a hint of recrimination in his voice.

  “Non-stop.”

  “Well good. Because I’ve been thinking of you non-stop as well.”

  This experience with him is so unlike the last two times I’ve been with him, I start to wonder if I’m dreaming. Did Max’s visit finally break the last thread of my sanity? Am I really collapsed somewhere in my apartment? Hallucinating all this rather than facing the reality of what my life’s turned into?

  “Thomas.”

  I refocus on him, eyebrows knitting together in question.

  “My name is Thomas.”

  “Why do I smell the mountains on your skin?”

  He wasn’t prepared for that question. His smile runs away from his eyes and is replaced by pain. “Because that’s where I was born.” And that’s all he has to say about that. I’m suddenly uncomfortable. I’m curled up in his arms like he’s a long lost lover, nuzzling his chest and sharing the worst parts of myself with him.

  I crawl awkwardly out of his arms and stand. “Can I get you anything?” That might be an absurd question. “Coffee?” He shakes his head. “Wine?” Another little shake, this time accompanied by a smile.

  “I’m fine, Rachel.” Goosebumps break out along my skin, hearing him say my name.

  “Why are you here?”

  Thomas crosses his legs and folds his long fingers together. “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” He pats the cushion on my couch next to him. “Come back. I won’t bite.” His gaze jumps to my neck, to the pink dots near my jaw, but I sit down next to him. “You’ve lost weight.”

  “I’m ok.”

  “Are you?”

  “Are we really at the point where you get to ask that?”

  He laughs again. “Oh, Rachel of the mahogany hair and whiskey voice. Bearer of cupcakes. Brave enough for the vampire den.” I’m not sure what to say so I stay quiet. “I like you,” he finishes.

  “Well, good.”

  “Speaking of cupcakes, did the new ones work out for you?”

  What I should say is yes. Yes, the cupcakes worked out. They were delicious and everyone was happy, the end. But I don’t say that. “No. Actually they didn’t.”

  Disappointment flickers in his eyes. “Oh? They weren’t any good?” And so, in the spirit of the night, I launch into my story, divulging more information to him than I’ve even given Mia. I tell him about the resounding silence in response to my resumes, my dwindling bank account. My hatred of cubicles. And then I tell him of my love of baking. My desire to be the master of my own fate. To make it or break it based off my own skills. “I was on the way to a meeting with some people who might have loaned me money,” I say. “And I’d brought the cupcakes as an example of my skill as a baker.”

  “So, when you brought cupcakes from a different bakery…” he trails off, understanding dawning.

  “I just looked really young and foolish,” I finish.

  “I’m so sorry.” The look on his face says he really means it.

  “Don’t be. I’m fine. Everything will work out some way or another.”

  … You’re so busy proving to the world that you’re ok, that you can do it all on your own, that you’re pushing away anyone who ever cared about you …

  Could it be true? Is Max right? Am I pushing everyone away? Thomas away? Or am I proving how strong I am? That I always land on my feet?

  Thomas gives me a look I can’t quite decipher. “That’s more true than you probably know.” Weeks of daydreams and fantasies come rushing back at me. His lips on mine. My hands in his hair. His arms wrapped around me, drawing me close, molding my body against his. Him protecting me and keeping me safe from all the nightmares that hide in darkened alleys. I blush, not sure where to look because all I can see are his lips. My eyes are hooded and lidded and my lips part. I want him to kiss me.

  With effort, I wrench my gaze from his mouth to his eyes and see my desire reflected there. My pulse quickens, my stomach does little flip flops. Thomas sighs, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply through his nose. “You smell so good.”

  A common enough thing to say to someone you’re attracted to. Harmless. Expected. Except this time, it doesn’t feel the least bit harmless. There’s so much need in his voice, I remember that he’s a predator and I’m his prey. I should ask him to leave before I end up hurt.

  But I don’t. I lean in. “So do you.”

  And then his lips are on mine and they’re everything I’d dreamed they would be. His arms pull me close, pushing me against him, and I’m safe and I’m consumed and all I want is more. How can he be so cold and so strong, yet so supple and gentle? Without thinking, I climb onto his lap, straddling him, facing him, and I cup his face in my hands and part my lips, inviting his tongue into my mouth.

  Who is this girl? Where did she come from? Just a few hours ago, Max’s hands terrified me an
d his touch was repellent but now? Now with Thomas I’m burning for his hands to explore my body. Eager and impatient.

  Thomas’s lips leave mine and trace down my jaw and towards my throat. I tilt my head back, inviting him to move towards the tiny pink scars that I’ve spent hours studying in the mirror. “I need to taste you.” His voice is husky with desire.

  “I need you to.”

  After weeks of fantasizing about this, of imagining his teeth piercing my skin, the rhythmic pull of his mouth against my throat as he sucks my blood into his mouth, I’m so very ready to experience it again. And maybe, just maybe, he’ll share his blood with me, too. I’ll be Rachel, the girl who survived the day after everything changes, feeling different for a few days and this time it won’t be lonely or scary.

  He hesitates and I grow impatient. “Do it. I want you to.” And that’s all the invitation he needs. His teeth sink into my neck and I moan as he begins to drink. My hands are on his arms and I get to feel his biceps flex when he clutches me closer to him. I wait for the room to start spinning and the stars to hide the world from view but it doesn’t happen. He stops. Pulls back. Studies the twin trickles of blood tracing down my neck and tickling at my collarbone with his hooded, lust-filled eyes.

  “Don’t stop.” I mean it. I want him to take me to the brink again. I want to dance with death and come back whole on the other side.

  “I have to.”

  “You didn’t before.”

  “I have to now.” He licks the blood from my collarbone and traces his tongue up to the holes he left in my throat. Pressing the tip of his thumbnail against his long, extended canine, he draws a tiny bead of blood and rubs it to the puncture marks. “This will heal the bite mark so you don’t have to try to hide it.”

  I want him to kiss me again. To bite me again. So many weeks of wanting this, of pent up fear and longing and so many different emotions and he’s here right now and all I want is him. Thomas. I hear his name in my head and smile. Thomas. My vampire.