Page 14 of A Heart Of Bitter Poison
There’s no moon. The stars are vibrant orbs of swirling color in the heavy black blanket of night. As I hoped, there’s a fire pit in the backyard close to a small wooden barn, a pond nearby on the left. Its surface is so quiet that it reflects the sky as a perfect, polished mirror. Tall cattails frame the dark water, frogs croaking night songs from hidden grasses on the shore.
Four adirondack chairs circle the stone hearth of the firepit and I set my things down on the one that faces the barn. I stack some wood and kindling from a pile next to the building onto the bricks and light the bonfire, then sit for a while and watch it consume the wood. When it’s hot enough, I throw in my clothes and stare them down until they melt into the embers beneath the flame.
I turn my journal over in my hands, running my fingers across the embossed golden vines and flowers. Even without a moon, I can see the metallic hue shimmer in the starlight. The thought of the Reaper choosing that design because I might like it… the idea alone, whether it’s true or not, is enough for me to reconsider tossing the notebook into the fire. That’s why I came out here really, to shed my skin and burn it. To turn this memory into ash. It’s just… I can’t quite make myself. Maybe if I felt angrier. Sometimes I do. Maybe even if I felt sad. I feel that often too. Right now, however, I just feel raw, scrubbed as clean as my skin.
I open the book to the last note and glance at the writing again.
I’m sorry.
I don’t look for too long at those letters adorning the top of the paper like a title. Maybe the empty pages that follow would be a book of broken promises. These thoughts are bitter and morose, I know. But we vampires can’t help it sometimes when so many years pass through our eyes into a well of memory that will never die.
I keep my eyes on the fire as I slowly tear the page free of its spine. The little fibers separate like skin ripping free of the flesh below. I know such sounds well. Gallus made sure I wouldn’t ever forget them, even if my vampire memory one day atrophies. If I remember nothing else, I will never forget those sounds and the feeling of the pain that came with them.
I’m sorry.
I look at those two words one last time before I crumple the page into my fist and throw it into the fire. It glows bright orange. Worms of hot light eat the edges first, chewing the paper until the words are lost forever.
I tear the next page of text free of the book.I’m not all vampires, the final line says. I compress the paper in my palm and throw that in the flame too.Maybe I’m not any kind of vampire anymore,I think as I watch the paper burn.
Maybe I can do this page by page. I can work backwards all the way to the start. Maybe I just need to deconstruct my pain one moment at a time. Throwing all of it into the flame at once is too much to bear, another loss all its own. But one page, then another, and another… watching the physical memories burn one by one is something I can handle, until I can’t anymore.
I don’t know. How bad is it, really?
That’s the last line on the next page. It was after our encounter with the angel in Saqqara, moments before Ashen offered me his blood for the first time.
I hesitate. The memory of taste fills my mouth. I swear I can still feel the hum of his presence in my veins. My fingers press on the edge of the page, ready to pull but unable to.
A sluice of ice-cold water seems to slide down my spine.
That’s when I hear it.
Silence.
The frogs have gone quiet. There are no insects chattering in the night. Even the stars lose their shine on the wave of instinct that coats the world and invades my pores. Time grinds to a halt around me.
I hear a ripple in the water of the pond. It’s the sound of tiny waves breaking the polished tension of the surface and lapping at the shore.
I rise from my chair, clutching the notebook to my chest. The blanket falls around my bare feet. I step away from it slowly, one foot after the other. I don’t want to be caught in its tangled embrace.
My nostrils flare as I try to take in every scent around me. The dewy grass that bruises beneath my soles with every silent step I take toward the barn. The fabric softener that clings to the fibers of my clothes. The smoke that lifts toward the sky.
I can’t catch anything beyond the smell of the fire or the crackle of wood breaking beneath the flame.
But I know I’m not alone.I know it.
I dart on my tiptoes for the last few steps to the barn, grasping the latch of the iron handle and pressing it slowly with my thumb. It makes a quiet clunk, the only sound besides the fire in the night.
I close my eyes. I focus on steady breaths in and out. When the pins of the old door grate against the hinges, I lift the handle a little to ease the gravity of the planks of knotted wood under my control, keeping my pace steady and smooth. As soon as there’s just enough room, I slip inside, then close the door until only a crack is left through which to watch.
I unsheathe the blade from my thigh and press my face to the thin wedge of space between the door and its frame, squinting into the night. And I wait.
I hear it before I see it. The reptilian sound of skin against the earth.
Slick, ridged scales glisten in starlight as a snake serpentines out of the pond, sliding across mud and grass. The wet tongue flickers and catches the reflection of the bonfire light. It’s enormous, larger than an anaconda. I know with certainty that it is not of this realm.
I watch as the snake makes a careful procession toward the fire. It slows as it reaches the blanket I left behind. I cursed inwardly that I didn’t toss it into the fire, even though it probably wouldn’t have made a difference.
The pace of the snake’s tongue quickens. It raises its head and tests the scent on the blanket. A low hiss emanates from its neck. It is pleased with what it’s found.
