Page 5 of This Blood That Binds Us
The corners of his mouth twitched. He wasn’t going to find that as an attractive option. I didn’t, either, considering a vampire could have been on the loose somewhere—or maybe I needed psychiatric help—but my brain flipped in cartwheels thinking of the hospital bill. A couple more days was going to set me back until I was at least thirty—and that was a generous estimate.
After some back-and-forth, he eventually agreed, though he had empathy in his eyes and a strong dad aura as he lectured me about the importance of taking care of my wound and looking out for any serious symptoms.
“Do you have any more questions?”
Those words snapped me back into reality.I had nothing but questions that begged to be answered. They danced on my tongue, pushing for my attention. But I wouldn’t find them in that hospital bed, racking up a lifetime worth of debt.
I cleared my throat. “Uh . . . no thank you.”
“The nurse will be back in shortly to discuss some follow-up care and instructions for your medication. Kimberly...you get some rest. No more hiking trips for a while—and bring a buddy next time.” His voice echoed through the crisp, white walls, leaving a deafening silence in his absence.
I was unbelievably confused. The urge to pull the covers over my head and hide expanded by the second, but I had an even greater urge to do that under my own cute strawberry-covered duvet. All I wanted was to nestle into my fluffiest pink socks and wrap my aching shoulder in my heated blanket. My first step was to get out of the hospital.
When the nurse came to talk to me, I sat up straight and softened my voice. I complimented the fluffy pen with the little silver balls. I put on my best fake smile, but I made sure to let some pain through, being a recovering patient, after all. The world was crumbling around me, but I needed to keep my feet steady, putting one very dirty hiking boot in front of the other.
My foot slumped into my thick-soled boot. Normally, I’d cherish strapping them on, but it was different. The usual strength and confidence they lent me was nonexistent as I struggled to pull my laces taut. Everything was sore, and my eyes were heavy. With no one to drop off some clothes, I had to wear out my hiking clothes. A few spots of blood lingered on my flannel, and my shorts weren’t covering up my scratched-up knees. My hair smelled of bonfire as I pulled my yellow coat over my shoulders, little clumps of soil littering the floor around my feet. Jaw tightening and teeth clenched with the movement, I let out a low groan from my throat. I needed more meds to survive the day. The only reflective surface in the room was an empty bed pan, and if I looked anything like I felt, it wasn’t worth an attempted look.
The nurse led me out into the hallway, where I glimpsed my neighbors across the hall. Some were my age, asleep witha parent in the chair, their eyelids full with sleep, their arms draped across the armchairs. Others were older, with drooping faces and wrinkles settling into their frowns. I didn’t know their stories. I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
An older couple caught my attention, who reminded me of the couple I had encountered on the trail before my attack. Hair speckled with gray, wrinkled smiles. Love wafted off of them in a way that I could feel in the air. A tickle on my skin raised the hairs on my arm. The man laid in the hospital bed, his wife glued to his side. Children sprung from one side of the room to the next until they piled on to the hospital bed. Laughter reverberated through the walls. Their parents ushered them in for a picture, celebrating.
Instinctively, I looked away, shielding myself from their light. Their love. My shoe laces snapped against the tile floor, and I stopped.
“Hold on a sec.” I called the nurse, who was already a few feet ahead of me.
“Do you want me to take the picture so you can all be in it?” I said, pointing to their phone.
I knew I looked like I had been run over by a truck, but their moment was too special to pass up. The laughter’s magnetism forced me to linger in the doorway. I almost hoped they’d say no, but the bigger part of me felt like a small child begging to be included in some way.
“Yes!” The woman’s eyes lit up with excitement. “That’s so kind.”
Her warmth caught me off guard. The room radiated a euphoric energy of happiness and love. I swallowed the lump in my throat and took the phone. The kids clung to their elders cheek-to-cheek. Their arms interlocked. Teeth flashed. The room erupted into a cadence of thank yous, laughter, and footsteps.
My nurse greeted me at the door, and we walked in silence down the hall. A hole had formed in my chest, and every time I inhaled, the hole expanded. I counted our footsteps as they echoed along the softer patterns of heart monitors and beeping machines. My phone was lead in my pocket. No one called. No one texted. After a deep, calming breath, I refocused. I wouldn’t allow myself to think about it anymore, or I would explode.
Maybe the doctor was right. My memory loss caused some kind of wild hallucination. Meaning it would be safe for me to go back to my dorm without a care in the world. I could just go back to the way things were before. I could continue to work my butt off to get a good job. I could graduate college. It could work. If only my shoulder would stop throbbing.
All my life, I’ve never really been afraid of anything. I suppose that, when I was a kid, I had fears but not the ones most kids do. I feared for my safety. Growing up in foster care was scary at times. Not all foster parents were created equal, and sometimes, just for a season or two, I’d keep my mouth shut to survive. But those times passed quickly in a child’s mind. I always had something to occupy myself with. Things I could throw myself into that made unpleasant times pass quicker. But when I grew older, the fear that seemed to hold most others from achieving their dreams never frightened me. Most students fresh out of high school feared the world. It was different for me. I had already seen the world. Seen the dark. For the most part, I had come out unscathed. When I aged out of foster care, I wasn’t afraid. When I became part of an annoying statistic and lived in my car, I wasn’t afraid. When I got down to my last dime, Iwasn’t afraid. I wasn’t ashamed of being a foster kid. I was proud I could get to where I was on my own.
So, it was no surprise I wasn’t afraid of returning to a world where vampires might have existed. If it weren’t for my wounded shoulder, I might have let my brain believe I’d imagined it. Hallucination still seemed like the most likely option of all.
But the bite stared me in the face every time I looked in the mirror. Throbbing. Festering. Not in the normal way wounds would. Tiny blue and red veins bloomed, along with a bruising that seemed to grow with time.
I sighed and rubbed the bite’s indentation. I had done an extensive Google search on the subject, but I was smart enough to identify human-like teeth marks when I saw them. I had given up on the thought of it going away. I ruffled my hands through my messy mop of hair and went straight for my closet.
I liked to describe my dorm room ascozy. I used the word as an excuse to splurge for an extra fluffy comforter and twinkle lighting that wrapped around the bed frame, but it was just to atone for my lack of space. A few steps led me right in front of two warm wooden sliding doors that I had decorated with Polaroids and book pages.
My heart sank as I looked at the little green plaid dress I had picked up at the thrift store just days before the accident. I had been so excited to wear it to school, pair it with some platforms, and maybe a cute hat. That was out the window. The delicate fabric brought the gentle scent of wool and too much fabric softener embedded in the fibers to my nose. I loved that weird smell. Thrift stores were good for much more than finding old books, like furnishing the majority of my wardrobe and my dorm. I grabbed an oversized sweatshirt, denim jeans, and fluffy pink socks to wear with my Docs.
My phone vibrated on my desk across the room, which was only two steps away from me. My loft bed took up most ofthe room, leaving minimal room for my desk underneath and a small bookshelf. The plants on my window sill cascaded down to a mini fridge and covered the tiny cat magnets holding up my reminder notes.
Excitement hummed in my chest as I unlocked my phone. Just a spam email. No new messages. Not even from Chris.
Chris was my suit-wearing best friend, whose dream led him away from the lush mountains to a concrete jungle. The only relationship that had truly stuck after aging out of foster care. I pulled the phone up to my ear, trying to call again. After a few seconds of ringing, I placed my phone into my pocket. Oh well. It didn’t matter.
The clock on my desk caught my attention. I shoved my bag onto my good shoulder and left for class. The bag crackled with the new additions I added over the weekend. Taking my only known information about vampires, demons, and general bad guys, I prepped for two approaches. One practical: pepper spray, emergency key chain alarm. And the non-practical: a wooden cross from the craft section and a wooden stake from the home improvement store. I was grateful Buffy the Vampire Slayer had taught me a few things, but I still wasn’t completely convinced I was sane. Either way, the additions wouldn’t hurt.
My hospital discharge landed on a Friday, a day when I had one class—luckily, it was Public Speaking. I had no issues with missing any curriculum in that class. My professors were more than understanding when I emailed over my doctor’s note. I used the weekend to recover. Frantically calling Chris—with no luck—I did whatever I possibly could to convince myself I wasn’t losing my mind. I scoured the internet for every animal attack forum and recovery page I could find, a disgusting chore. I did it to find some peace of mind, but there was nothing. No Google images of a bite mark, with bruising and little blue veins.
