I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. I felt too numb. My emotions were all blunted by this truth.
I went back to sleep.
I woke again the next night, hungrier than I had ever been, but my mind was still wrapped around the truths Mirela had unveiled for me. I lay again with my eyes open in the darkness of my casket. I don’t know how many hours passed. Maybe five. Maybe none. Time just didn’t mean the same thing anymore. Only the sunlight mattered. But I sensed I was no longer alone and I wasn’t. The cover to my casket was pulled open. Yelena was there, looking down where I lay, smiling.
“You’re awake. Why haven’t you risen?”
“I don’t know.”
She beckoned me to rise and I did. We ascended the spiral staircase up into the house.
“Where did you go?” I asked her curiously as I had not seen her for five nights.
“As I said, there were things I needed to do. They’ve been settled and I’ve returned.”
“Mirela isn’t here anymore. She left.”
“No, love. She is still near.”
We exited her closet.
Upstairs I saw Berthold and Zacharias were there and appeared to be talking, but I couldn’t hear anything being said, despite my enhanced hearing abilities. Berthold nodded his head in agreement now and then so they must have been discussing something. And then I realized that Zacharias was communicating to Berthold only through his mind. That’s why I couldn’t hear anything. What were they saying? I wondered.
Zacharias turned to Yelena and me, and Berthold followed suit, but it was only momentary. They looked back at each other and Zacharias gave Berthold a firm hug and then released him. He then turned to us and bowed in that old-fashioned way of his, and walked out the front door, into the night, without uttering a word.
Berthold remained across the room looking at us. But mostly he was looking at Yelena.
Yelena finally spoke, “My faithful Berthold, I thank you for your years of tireless devotion. I will miss having you at my side.”
Berthold bowed his head to her.
I was confused. This was sounding and looking like goodbyes. “Wait. What’s going on?”
“I am releasing Berthold of his obligation tonight.”
“What? Why? Where is he going?” I began to panic.
“Calm yourself, Orly. Everything is fine. I have decided to give Berthold his immortality.”
I turned to Berthold, surprised. “For real?” I asked him.
“Yes, Orly.”
“And then you’ll be with us forever?”
He smiled at me.
“Are you ready?” Yelena asked.
“I am,” Berthold answered.
“Then come to me,” Yelena said, and outstretched her arms to welcome him.
He stepped toward Yelena resolutely, but stopped before he reached her grasp. “Would you mind?” he asked her.
“I expected it,” Yelena responded and lowered her arms.
Berthold turned to me and knelt so that his face was level with mine.
“You’re a very special girl, Orly. I’ve enjoyed our friendship and would like to thank you for the happiness you brought to Yelena.” He hugged me and then kissed my cheek. His lips were warm but I felt something wasn’t right. Before I could think too much on it he rose and Yelena took him into her arms.
They hugged tightly and I heard Berthold whisper, “I love you, madam. I have loved you for so long.”
Again this felt like goodbyes. Berthold was going to live forever, but it didn’t feel like a celebration. I thought maybe goodbyes were given because it wasn’t certain Berthold would wake in his grave. After all, Patrick never woke when Hisato attempted to turn him. That made sense, but somehow I knew that wasn’t it. Something told me that this, in some way, had to do with Mirela.
I pushed my way between them, and wrapped my arms around his thighs. “Please don’t go, Berthold. Please don’t go.”
He looked down at me and smiled warmly but didn’t speak.
Yelena spoke. “Let him go, Orly. You will see him again. I promise you.”
I released him and stepped away. Berthold was taller than Yelena, so he lowered his neck toward her mouth and Yelena kissed his throat before biting into it. Usually victims being bled would struggle as they felt their lifeblood draining, but it was different with Berthold. In the grips of the woman he loved, he swooned as he melted into her arms. Yelena released him and with his blood still on her lips, she bit into her own wrist and her blood began to leak in spurts. Berthold took it eagerly into his mouth. He sipped very little before its poisonous effects began to take hold. His body appeared to stiffen and he gasped for air, choking, as though he would retch. After a moment he collapsed, and Yelena held his lifeless body in her arms. She lifted him with ease and stepped out onto the terrace with his body and rose into the darkness of the sky.
I stepped out on the terrace after them, but I was being left behind. From my vantage point, they were already level with the moon.
I was hungry and thought of going out to feed but I didn’t. I was thinking too much about Yelena; something in her behavior since she returned seemed strange, but I couldn’t pinpoint what it was. I wandered around the house, not knowing what to do with myself until I ended up in the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator and looked inside. There were chocolate-covered strawberries. I took one of them, shut the refrigerator and sat down at the table. For the first time since I had been made immortal, I put human food in my mouth. The strawberry was cold and the sweetness was almost too much to bear. It was strange to chew rather than bite and suck. Although the taste and texture felt new to me, it wasn’t satisfying and it didn’t provide the euphoria that drinking human blood did. But despite that, I returned to the refrigerator and removed the dish that held the remaining strawberries and brought it back to the table. I put another in my mouth and then another, and eventually the dish was empty. I returned to the refrigerator and opened it again. I began taking more items out—mineral waters, marmalades, capers, cantaloupe, black olives, kalamata olives, stuffed olives, sauces that were sweet, others that were spicy, some thick, some runny. I tasted them all.
I was wondering where Yelena had been the past few nights as I opened a bottle of kosher pickles, but as the vacuum seal broke with a pop, the things Mirela said to me about never finding love crept into my mind again until it dominated my thoughts and I stopped thinking of Yelena completely. Even though I had no desire to see it again, Lux’s beautiful face appeared in my mind’s eye. Thoughtlessly, I dropped the jar of pickles and it smashed on the Spanish tiles at my bare feet. Mirela was right. The way Lux rejected me would be the way all my romances, for all time, would play out. I looked at the shattered glass below me and stepped on it and felt myself bleed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The refrigerator was open and empty when Yelena came home. Broken glass and broken dishes were scattered across the kitchen, and food of all kinds stained the floor and walls. The bloody footprints of a child were tracked all over but my wounds had already healed. I was sitting on the tile; my back was to her when she entered the kitchen.
“What happened, Orly?”
I didn’t answer.
“Why have you done this?” she asked.
I didn’t know how to begin.
“Answer me,” she said firmly.
So I slowly spun myself on the floor and as I turned she saw my soles caked with unwashed blood and then looked into my face and saw that I was fuming with rage.
“What’s wrong?” she said, aghast at the sight of me.
“Where did you go?”
“I buried Berthold.”
“Not that. All those nights before.”
“I told you. I had things to take care of.”
“What things?”
“That I can’t tell you, Orly. Not now. Not yet.”
“Then I can’t tell you why I did this.”
“Yes, you can. Please, Orly. I need to know.”
“You know why. To save your life.”
“Or to save yours, you mean?”
“What are you talking about?” she whispered, and that it came out in a whisper told me Mirela was right. She was found out and she knew it.
“You just needed me for my scribbles.”
“No, Orly. That’s not true.”
“Yeah, right. If I couldn’t draw for you, you would have let me die.”
“Orly.” All she could say was my name; nothing else escaped her lips even though her mouth was open.
“No one is ever gonna love me, Mother.”
“I love you.”
“I’m not talking about that kind of love and you know it. You knew I’d always be a child! You knew everyone would look at me like I was a little kid forever!” I sprang to my feet and continued screaming. “You should have let me die, instead of giving me this kind of life! Because you knew what it would be like!”
“Orly. Listen to me. Don’t believe the things Mirela told you. They’re not true. Things are not that simple.”
I didn’t know how she knew Mirela and I had talked about the tragedy of my eternal youth. She said no one could hear us up in the sky. But somehow Yelena knew Mirela’s thoughts were guiding my words. Yelena knew everything. It made me even angrier.
“I gave you life because I love you, Orly.”
“Then let me scribble you right now to find out where you’ve been.”
“Orly, please trust me when I say I can’t allow you to do that. It’s for your own sake. And trust me when I tell you I love you. Truly, I do.”
“You only love Marcel.”
“Why are you hurting me like this?”
“Why didn’t you tell me he was dead? You knew this whole time he was dead. You knew this whole time he was never coming back.”
She didn’t say anything. She was hurting deeply, and I had hurt her. She looked like prey to me and so in my nature, I decided to bite into her even harder.
“If I wanted to hurt you, Mother, I would’ve told you this whole time I’ve been feeding you scribbles of innocents.”
“What?” she gasped.
“Don’t play dumb. You had to know there isn’t that much evil in the world. You just lied to yourself so all those murders wouldn’t be on your conscience.”
She shook her head. “No. That’s not true.”
“It is true. And you know it. I lied to you just like you lied about Marcel. Just like you lied to me about saving my life because you loved me. The truth is, you love yourself and you thought I would make your life feel less guilty.”
I stepped back and saw the distance grow between us, finally fearful she would attack me in some way. But she didn’t. She just stood there staring at me. A single blood tear slid down her cheek. I expected more tears or fury from her, but neither came and that convinced me she didn’t ever feel as guilty as she pretended to about taking innocent life. I saw she was like the rest of us. Of course I know now that the quantity of tears and the pitch of one’s agony don’t define the severity of the devastation felt. One tear can be enough to express all the ruinous desolation held in one’s heart. And even though I didn’t know that during our hostile moment in the kitchen, seeing her one tear fall from her cheek to the floor sparked something in my heart that told me one thing was still certain—I loved Yelena—even if she did or did not truly love me back. What I also did not know at the time was that that tear hadn’t fallen for her conscience. It hadn’t fallen for her innocent victims. It hadn’t even fallen for the memory of Marcel. It had fallen for us because we would now never be able to remain as we were. Happy. Together.
I stormed out and went to my room and undressed. I showered, washing the blood from my feet and all the food that had spilled onto my skin. Though I was hungry, I was too upset to go out and feed, so after I dressed myself in a nightgown, I headed to my casket and lay down, hoping its revitalizing effects would curb my thirst a little longer and let me forget everything Mirela made me understand. I wanted to go back to being ignorant of my true situation so I could feel loved again by Yelena.
I must have lay there for an hour before I heard Yelena descend the staircase. When she reached the floor I heard her approach but I didn’t hear her open her own coffin. She was waiting outside of mine. Maybe she wanted me to rise, but I didn’t want to see her yet. Eventually she knocked.
“What is it, Mother?”
“I must speak to you and it must be now.”
I didn’t answer. I was stubborn.
“Please, Orly. Let me in.”
I didn’t hear her place her palms on the cover of my casket, but somehow I knew they were there. I could feel them. She was pleading with me. I was so confused. I loved her but there was still the truth of the lies we had been living. What Mirela said. That it was only for the scribbles. That Yelena didn’t truly love me. But I loved her so much. I pressed my hands on the underside of the cover and lined them up to where I knew her hands were, and through my casket cover we touched palm to palm, and I could feel her warmth even though I knew she was as cold to the touch as I am. I was feeling her love for me or my love for her, or simply our love for each other. I pressed on the hinged cover so that it opened a couple of inches. I would let her in.
Yelena took it from there and opened the casket completely. She was looking down at me as if she were watching over me. Her face was clear. She had washed the streak of blood from her cheek.
“Thank you,” she said, but I didn’t answer. “Orly, listen to me. The things I keep from you are not kept because I feel you’re not old enough to know them or because I don’t trust you. They are kept because I am protecting you.”
“Protecting me from what?”
“From Mirela.”
“Mirela? What does she want with me?”
“She wants your life, Orly. She wants you dead.”
That couldn’t be true. She was telling me this only so I would refute all the things Mirela had told me. “I don’t believe you.”
“I know you don’t. And that’s okay. What you need to know is that what I have been doing and will do is done to keep you alive for no other reason but because I love you.”
She reached to touch my face, but I flinched, still stubborn and feeling betrayed.
“Where did you bury Berthold?”
“In the desert. You know where.”
I did know where, but I didn’t say anything.
“Listen to me. Marcel is a different story. When he left me all those years ago, I told myself it was because he shared in the guilt I felt for murdering so many people. Somehow that was easier for me to stomach than the actual truth. The truth is, Marcel felt guilty, but not for killing. He felt guilty because the guilt I felt for killing made me hate myself. It made me hate my existence. It made me hate being immortal. And in some ways, it made me hate him. He couldn’t bear what he had done to me so he decided to hurt himself, and he did this by leaving me even though he still loved me more than anything or anyone else the world. But he didn’t leave by going far far away. He didn’t go far at all. He went for a run on the beach, outside our house, just as the day was dawning. He ran toward the sun and incinerated himself on the shore. Marcel committed suicide.”
I shook my head slightly. I was speechless.
She continued. “I didn’t keep the truth of him being dead from you in order to protect you. I kept that truth from you because I had also kept it from myself. I’ve only recently admitted it. Orly, I couldn’t begin to accept his death until you came into my life. My love for you has begun to make me feel whole and alive again.”
I didn’t know what to believe and what not to believe. Something told me she was telling me the truth now, at least about Marcel. She reached for my face again, and this time I allowed her to touch my cheek.
“My precious daughter.
What a blessing you have been.”
“I lied about the scribbles,” I said.
“No you didn’t.”
“No, I mean I lied tonight. None of them were innocents. I promise.”
Her cheekbones rose. She was smiling with only her lips. She didn’t believe me, but she appreciated what I was trying to do, what I was trying to take back so that it wouldn’t hurt her.
I rose from my casket and hugged her tightly. She stood up, holding me as I hugged her, my feet not touching the floor, and she squeezed me, pulling me into her until we felt like one. I closed my eyes and smelled her sweetness. She laid me back down in my casket and leaned forward and kissed my forehead, my cheek, my lips, and my chin. She straightened herself and smiled, this time showing her teeth. “I love you so much,” she whispered.
I wanted desperately to say “I love you” to her, but I didn’t. The torrent of emotions in that moment felt like the sea receding and then crashing on the shore once more. The endless cycle of thundering waves. It was too much. I didn’t know what to feel. I didn’t know how to say “I love you” to the person I loved most.
She caressed my face and kissed me once more before closing the cover of my casket, and all was black. She didn’t retreat immediately. She rested her palm on my cover again. I touched back and held it there until I felt the warmth slip away when she finally lay herself to rest. The added weight to her coffin commenced the audio track—the sounds of the Malibu shore, the shore where Marcel died. It echoed through our chamber and put me to sleep.
The Scribbled Victims Page 24