Page 72 of Shut Up and Bite Me

Red spider veins extend beneath her eyes as I physically watch her willpower snap in half. She grabs my neck, cocking it to the side at the same time I ease out of her.

She punctures my neck, and I slam into her. I fuck her relentlessly as she drinks greedily from my neck. We continue to worship each other as we crest the edge of euphoria, our bodies winding up together.

She releases my neck, blood trailing down the side of her O-shaped lips as she tightens around me, moaning my name repeatedly. Grabbing her hand, I lock my fingers in hers and pin it above her head as we fall apart at the seams, wrapped in each other’s embrace.

Nothing could have prepared me for the changes I would go through after the ceremony of Life and Death. How intensely everything around me would change.

My strength was something I prided myself on before, but it was nothing compared to the strength and power that flows through me now.

Seeing the world through the lens of Vivian’s gaze has been nothing short of enlightening and life-altering.

Feeling her presence and her emotions has only deepened the love I have for her, rooting it deep in my bones. She didn’t just change my life; she gave me life, ripping me from the life I never truly wanted and placing the world in my hands.

I’m not just faster and stronger. I heal almost instantly, the same way her body does. My sense of smell is totally different, every scent more intense. It’s like my senses have become supernatural. I can smell people’s scent before they even turn into our driveway.

I no longer have a need for my glasses; my vision is better than it ever could have been as a human. I can see details on the dust particles floating through the air. I can see the perspiration on my skin.

It’s like I’ve been living in a blurry world and I just got upgraded to high definition, seeing details that I never knew existed.

But as high as the highs are, the lows hit just as hard.

Today is Cheryl’s birthday, and every year since her passing, I’ve brought flowers to her grave and had lunch with her.Whether rain, sun, or snow, I have never missed it. Today won’t be any different, except I’ll get to introduce her to Vivian.

We’re stopping into Ambrose Floral Shop before we head to the cemetery to get the prettiest bundle of flowers for the prettiest gal.

“Welcome in!” The same lady who was working the last time I was here greets us from the cooler, loading new stems into the white buckets.

“Hello!” Vivian greets her, trailing her hand on one of the house plants, caressing the leaf tenderly.

The nice lady shuts the glass door of the cooler and turns to face us, brushing her hair out of her face. “Two dozen red roses.” She points at me. “I remember you. What can I help you with today?”

Vivian smirks at the mention of the roses, and I almost break, laughing at the memory, but I manage to hold it together.

“We need a bouquet of flowers—primarily pink if possible. It was her favorite color.” An image of Cheryl wearing one of her pink sweaters flashes in my mind, my chest contracting at the pain that follows.

Vivian walks over to me calmly, resting her hand on my arm, offering me comfort both from her touch and her emotion that sinks into my chest, soothing the ache.

“Absolutely. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll get a bouquet put together for you.”

“Thank you,” I murmur before she gets to work, grabbing stems of different flowers from the coolers.

Before I know it, she has created the most perfect bundle, one that I know would bring a happy tear to Cheryl’s eyes.

God, I wish she were still here. I may have stumbled down a different path than the one we planned together, but I know she would be so proud that I’m following my heart.

The little time we had together, that is all she ever wanted me to do—to focus on the good and allow myself to love and be loved. So many people—countless, really—showed me firsthand the evils that exist in this world.

They aren’t always monsters with fangs; they are a seemingly normal man named Alfred who welcomes you into his home and beats you behind closed doors. They are a woman named Monica who puts locks on the fridge and pantry doors, using food as a tool for punishment, starving a six-year-old child so consistently that they are too weak to leave their bed.

Cheryl was the one good exception to the horrors of my experience in foster care. She gave me a second chance at life, giving me the tools I needed to succeed.

I regret not getting to know her deeper, not asking her questions about her childhood, her marriage to her late husband, and everything I could have learned that I’ll never get the chance to know now.

But it’s funny because when you’re young, you never think of the lives your parents lived before they had you. They are just mom or dad, and you’re too focused on your own lives to dig into their past. Only when you start to experience life, truly live through the highs and the lows, do you wonder what tribulations they may have faced and overcome.

But that regret is one I will live with for eternity. And I will have to accept that I was blessed enough to know Cheryl at all.

We pay for the flowers and head to the cemetery, my heart in my throat as I visit my oldest friend.

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