Bring Me to Life

by Scarlett Parrish

  Thankfully, Alyssa herself is awake. Barely.

  When I hove into view, she fights to keep her eyes open, and I pull up a chair.

  "Alyssa. How are you feeling?"

  Her lips move, attempting speech for some time before she croaks out a quiet, "Tired," barely audible above the sounds of nurses bustling here and there, other visitors packing up and readying to leave, patients yapping, a radio playing somewhere in the background.

  "In a lot of pain?"

  She shakes her head, winces. Being brave.

  It's got to hurt. I know it did with me, but then again, my injuries were a lot worse. And Alyssa has the advantage of still being alive. I'm informed there were no vampiric fluids of any sort in the wound, and she wasn't close enough to her heart stopping for there to be any danger of death or transformation.

  I'm going to have to look after her all over again; before it was illness, this time it's injury. I don't mind. It's just that I'd rather not see her in this state at all. But at least I know who's responsible.

  Guilt and shame twist in my gut as I look down at her, so pale against the pillow, her dark hair now pulled back and left curled over one shoulder. Illness leads to pallor, as does blood loss. Put the two together, and one could almost believe Alyssa is a ghost.

  I know who's responsible; partly me for letting her go out alone, but mostly John Williams of course. And that little interlude when I believed it was Adam? I could cringe with the shame of it, and do.

  "What the hell are you doing here? Again?"

  And now the cringing is down to that woman hovering over me like an evil shadow.

  "Honestly...I go to the bathroom for five minutes, and you show up; there must be something supernatural about your timing, as well."

  "Don't you mean unnatural?" I ask, quirking a sarcastic eyebrow at her, glaring as she sits in the other chair on the opposite side of the bed.

  "You said it. I want you out of here."

  I want to ask her and where's Saint George? but manage to resist. Only just. "Do you want me to leave, or would you prefer to find out who's responsible for Alyssa being in here?"

  "One of your lot, I know that much---"

  "Don't think that just because we're of the same species that we have anything to do with each other. After all, that would be as silly as calling you Peter Sutcliffe's new best friend just because you're both human, wouldn't it?" Okay, I don't accuse her of being a dragon---yet---but I can't resist some snark. "Alyssa." I turn back to her daughter; even when she's not quite so ill, quite so quiet, she's much easier to deal with than the piece of work who birthed her. "I'm going to show you a photo of someone. Don't ask where I got it." At this, I glare at the termagant across the bed before continuing. "And I want you to tell me if this is the man who attacked you." That damn cringing won't stop; first because of my guilt over Alyssa's attack, then because of the presence of her mother, and now because I sound like a bad audition for a Sunday night cop show. "You understand?"

  Alyssa nods, a few strands of her hair making scritch scratch sounds against the rough cotton of the pillowcase.

  "Where did you get that?" Mrs. Palmer asks as I lift the plastic ID card and cover out of my coat pocket.

  "I told her not to ask. That applies to you too."

  "If you know something, you should---"

  "Mrs. Palmer, for once in your life, will you shut the hell up?" I don't raise my voice, but a passing nurse raises her head at my tone, and a visitor at a nearby bedside glances over. "You want something done about this? Let me take care of it."

  "You've done---"

  My eyelids twitch as I glare at her. I may or may not lick my lips, as if her neck suddenly looks delicious to me. That's enough to shut her up. I wonder for how long.

  "Alyssa, is this the guy? Do you remember?"

  Her eyes widen as she takes in the photo on the card I hold inches from her face. It's not fair to spring this on her, to cause such alarm, but it's not fair that she went through this in the first place.

  Whimpering, she nods.

  "That's definitely him?"

  "Yes." She's only said a few words to me since I arrived at the hospital, but this is enough.

  "Not Adam?" It's essential I clarify.

  "No." Her voice cracks, like she's about to cry.

  "Not him. That other one."

  I leap to my feet. "Right. That's all I needed to know."

  "What are you going to do now?" Mrs. Palmer asks.

  "Go find him, of course."

  It's only a half-truth. There's one other thing I have to do before I go looking for John Williams who, in the absence of his ID card, must know that someone is after him.

  I need to go home and apologise to Adam.

  I return home with less speed than I travelled to the hospital, reluctant to face Adam, knowing that for once, it's me who owes the apology. It won't be pretty. Knowing Adam, he'll gloat a bit.

  No , a lot. Really make me squirm. Well, if he thinks I'll be dancing to his tune for longer than it takes to say sorry, he'll have another think coming.

  The flat's in darkness when I return; no lamps on anywhere apart from the living room. I walk in, resisting the urge to call out a jokey, "Hi, honey, I'm home," and stop in the doorway.

  "Adam?"

  He's wearing his jacket, sitting up, not slouched, looking as if he's waiting for me. Well, of course he has been all this time, but something's not right.

  "Ah. You're back, then."

  "And you're better?" His posture would suggest as much. Leaning forward on the settee, forearms resting on his knees. No grimacing in pain, no wincing.

  Adam opens his mouth to speak, and I expect a sharp, "What do you care?" and instead get, "Yes." A brief nod. "I am. All healed. How's your friend?"

  My God; he actually sounds concerned. But there's an edge to his voice, something barely held back. I try to name it, but can't. "Alyssa? She's groggy. Her mother? Oh, she's a piece of work.

  Thinks all vampires are the same. Tars us all with the same brush, thinks we're all violent, human- hating scum."

  "Give a dog a bad name, you mean?"

  Oh. Ouch. "Yes. That."

  "Hurts, doesn't it?"

  "Um, I..."

  "Never mind." Adam waves a hand, urging me to carry on. "She's healthy enough? I mean, under the circumstances?"

  "Yes. Being well looked after, and woe betide any nurse who doesn't give her the care she needs, if her mother's by her side."

  "And what news of her attacker, then?"

  Sharpness. Yes, there's sharpness in his voice, but there's a name for it. Something I can't quite name. "She identified him."

  "She identified him as the guy on the ID card I gave you?"

  "Yes. And specifically says it wasn't you."

  "No. Well, I knew that. I just thought it would be as well for you to hear her say it herself."

  Adam stands, rubbing his hands together.

  "Well..."

  I cock my head, wondering what he's getting at. "Well what?"

  "If that's all?"

  "You're not going!" I blurt out.

  "I'm not? And why wouldn't I be going?"

  "Because it's the middle of the night."

  "Late evening."

  "Middle of the night, late evening. Same difference."

  "Still plenty of travelling time left before daylight hits. Oh, wait, there was that one thing."

  Adam taps his bottom lip a few times with his forefinger. "What was it again? Hold on, it's on the tip of my tongue...Ah, I know! You've yet to apologise. Don't worry; you get that dirty little sword---that's sorry, in case you were wondering ---out of your system, and I can be on my way."

  "But you were so keen to come here in the first place."

  "Curious, I'll admit. I mean, when someone you thought was dead shows up after seventy years and fucks you till you can't sit down, it wouldn't be right to let things end there, would it?"

  "It wouldn't be right to let th
ings end here either." I can't believe I just said that.

  "No? Why's that, then?"

  "Because I haven't apologised, have I? I was wrong. You were right. I mean, you were innocent."

  "Can I have that in writing?"

  "And I assumed it was you who'd done it, but you can't really blame me, can you? I mean, you did the same to me, and much worse besides, so..." I shrug. Helpless.

  "Seventy fucking years ago, Nathan." Adam pauses. Lowers his tone considerably. "And I did it because I loved you. Then."

  The pause before that final word makes it an afterthought, and for some reason, that stings. Then.

  Was. Did. All past tense. Fuck. This is just guilt talking, Nathan. Guilt. That's all.

  "I know. But that doesn't change the fact that I didn't want it."

  "And I've felt bad about that every day since. But I can't change it. I wish I could, but I can't. I'm glad you're still here, but I can't do anything about the fact that you hate me for it." He stops and stares at me, biting his lip. As if he's waiting for me to say something. But I don't, and he carries on.

  "Anyway; you can't go on for the next seventy years blaming me for every bad thing that happens, can you? I mean, I know I fucked up, but this time, I actually helped. I saved your friend's bacon, and what thanks do I get? A broken rib and an accusation of guilt."

  "I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry. I assumed..."

  "Yes?" Adam raises his eyebrows in expectation. "Go on."

  "I assumed you'd hurt Alyssa as some sort of roundabout way of hurting me."

  "Why on Earth would I want to hurt you?" He takes a few steps toward me. Only a few. "Oh, I get it. Because I'm the same old Adam Locke I ever was. I lash out at people. I mean, that's why you got in touch with me at all, wasn't it? Because Will's got his piece of fluff, and he thought I'd hear about whatsisname."

  "Kieran."

  "Kieran, then. Will assumed I'd be jealous of the fact that he was happy and in love, so you only decided to show yourself to me at all as an attempt to lure me away from them because there's always going to be a part of me that wishes to destroy anything good, anyone who's happy. And naturally, it would only take Sergeant Nathan Stephenson to effect such a change. I'd only change for you. I couldn't possibly have moved on and matured in the seventy fucking years I thought you were dead, could I?"

  Silent, I look at Adam, wondering when all this is going to end. The guilt, the blame, the apologies.

  "If that's all, I'll be off---"

  "You're going?"

  "Why, yes. I can still cover a fair old distance in the hours of night left remaining. You know that. No need to stay. Unless...? Do you have anything else to say?"

  "I've apologised."

  "Yes." He nods. "You have."

  I swallow back nerves before speaking again, barely resisting the urge to look down at the floor like a nervous schoolboy. "I need you to help me find John Williams."

  "John W---? Oh, the guy who...?"

  "Yes. Him."

  "The guy who attacked Alyssa. The guy who, incidentally, wasn't me?"

  "Yes, Adam. We've already established that you're completely innocent in this regard, and I assumed incorrectly that you were responsible, and I'm sorry, okay?"

  "And you want me to hang around to help you find this John character?"

  "You'll be able to show me where the attack happened. The doorstep where you dumped him. He doesn't have his ID now, so he'll know it's been stolen for a reason, that someone's after him, so he might do a disappearing act. I might need help tracking him down."

  "You expect me to hang around to help you out?"

  "No; I don't expect it. But I'd like you to."

  "You'd like me to?"

  "Appreciate it. I'd appreciate it." It's damn hard to look at him now, so I let my gaze wander all over the room. Above the window and the locked-tight blackout blinds. What looks like the vaguest beginnings of a spider's web in a far corner of the ceiling.

  "Not very good at tracking people down, huh? You seemed to manage it okay with me."

  "Will helped." Automatically, my head flicks in his direction, and I frown in something like anger. Frustration, maybe.

  "Ah." He nods. "Will helped. Of course. Will helped you to track me down; you need me to help you track John Williams down. To be honest, Nathan, I don't think you need me around at all. You just would like it if I hung around for a bit to salve your conscience then pissed off quietly into the night. I kinda like having the upper hand---I don't know if you've noticed that about me---so that's why I'd rather just drop you in it and leave you to deal with this yourself. Pardon my bluntness, but you've had a good few years to get used to it, so, would you excuse me---" He tries to push past, but I stop him with one hand on his chest.

  "No."

  He looks down at my hand on him then up into my eyes. "No?"

  "You can't just go now, when we need to...I mean, a day or so of..."

  Adam looks down at my hand again; the hand which I can't seem to withdraw. "Nathan." He pauses, and the look in his eyes when he meets my gaze again has no anger or frustration in it at all.

  Just that mysterious something I heard in his voice earlier. Some might call it hurt. "I don't think you appreciate exactly how it would feel for me to spend any more time in your presence, knowing that you think the worst of me possible, at any given moment."

  "I don't."

  "You do. Oh yes, you do. You thought I was the one who attacked Alyssa. Why? Because of what I did to you all those years ago. And okay, I can understand that; I mean, you haven't spoken to me in seven decades. To you, I'm the same Adam Locke I was seventy years ago. But I don't want to look at you and see an accusation in your every movement or word or glance."

  Ironic though it may sound, I swear as if I feel something in me has just died. "How am I supposed to see what a fine, upstanding member of the community you are these days if you bugger off back home, or to some other locale?"

  "I'm not saying I'm a saint. Far from it. But..." He takes my hand, lifts it away from his chest, and lets it go. "You're the one person who can make me feel guilty. I saw your ghost for years, and I don't need to see the accusation in the real Nathan's eyes too. I can tell you till I'm blue in the face that I feel bad about it, I've moved on, I'm not quite that mischievous anymore, but you think I'm the same old Adam. And to me, you're the same old Nathan. You haven't changed. Not to me. We look at each other and see people who don't exist anymore."

  "So what? You're just going to go home?"

  "What else is there to do?" Adam shrugs.

  I feel like I have to say something. But I've no idea what. If I open my mouth to speak, pure nonsense will come out. Something stupid. "I'm sorry about your broken rib." Yeah. That was pretty stupid, all right.

  "And I'm sorry about the..." He waves a finger at his own neck, without touching it. "Thing. All the blood."

  "It's all right." And for the first time in a long time, I realise it is. It really is all right. "No one died, right?"

  He snorts with laughter, and I smile.

  "Right. Well. I best be off." But he's making no moves to go.

  "Unless..."

  Adam flinches but doesn't take his eyes off me. "Unless...?"

  "We could pretend we've never met before."

  He frowns, cocks his head. "Just forget each other ever existed? Not sure that's going to be entirely possible. Especially now that I know you're still alive."

  "No, I mean, like...Shit, this is stupid."

  "No more stupid than any other idea you've ever had, I bet."

  "Funny, Locke. Hilarious."

  "Okay, okay, tell me. What's this stupid thought of yours?"

  "We forget the last seventy years and make out this is our first meeting. We don't know each other."

  "And what? Introduce ourselves as if we're strangers, then...?"

  I shrug. "We see what happens. You're sorry, I'm sorry, no point grieving over people who don't exist anymore. Right? They'r
e dead; we're still alive."

  Adam looks down at the carpet, hands on his hips, not exactly an aggressive stance, but he looks for all the world like he can't work out what planet I've just arrived from.

  Then he looks up. And holds out his hand.

  "Adam Locke. I don't believe we've met."

  My short burst of laughter is tinged with loss, but more relief. I take his hand and introduce myself. "Nathan. Nathan Stephenson. I was a sergeant a long time ago."

  "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Nathan."

  I can't be sure, but somewhere in the sliver of space between our joined hands and the promise to start again, something long-dormant stirs.

  Sometimes, things we think are dead are merely sleeping.

  About the Author

  Scarlett Parrish is allegedly human and lives somewhen in this dimension. In between feeding her insatiable appetite for James Purefoy DVDs, smut-reading and chocolate biscuits, she wonders if she'll ever get a good night's sleep.

  At the moment, she's probably writing another dirty book. Or thinking about Michael Fassbender. Or both.

  Blog: http://scarlettparrish.blogspot.com/