Page 18 of To Save a Vampire
A gasp ripsfrom my throat the moment his crimson blood trails down his skin. The color’s darker than I expected and stains his shirt instantly. It continues flowing down his chest and arms. Endlessly flowing.
The lines of his jaw harden as he clenches his teeth together and seethes out short breaths against the pain, his chest heaving for air. I want to reach for him. Help him in some way. But I remain immobile—a statue among the living.
And the dying.
Ky’s big palm presses into the hybrid’s shoulder and he pushes him back down on the table as my mother skitters close to him with something small in her hand. Ripper whines and prances back and forth at our feet, anxiously walking as if the little dog is confused. The clattering of his nails as he paces below us is all I hear, and I find myself relating to the small dog's nervousness.
My mother wipes quickly at the flowing wound on Forty-four’s neck, her head bent close to the gushing blood. After a minute, she loosens a breath and nods to Forty-four with a nervous smile. When she leans back from the chaos, I see in her hand a pair of tweezers and in the tweezers a small square metal chip.
Forty-four leaps from the table and takes long strides into the next room, the laundry room. His hand is gripping his neck and his blood runs between his fingers, a bit slower now but still streaming over his hands.
He brings in his backpack. His blood is smeared all over the bag’s handle. And now that I’m looking around, his blood is everywhere. It trails the room with little bloody paw prints and large shoe prints mapping the area. It covers the counter he’s now standing near. It covers the table that my hands are still flat against. I lift my palms and find they are red as well. My astounded eyes stare at my stained hands in disbelief as Forty-four continues sorting through the bag.
In a gruff noise, Forty-four clears his throat, and I slowly look up at him. He’s stopped holding his neck and only an insignificant wound remains there.
With a gentle grip, he grasps the now red squirrel tightly in his hand. The animal shakes and squeaks and is now sticky with blood. Around the squirming animal’s neck is the chip. It’s tied tightly there with a bit of string.
Forty-four hands the restless animal to Ky. “Take him back to the forest,” he says in a hoarse voice and then walks away, his boots echoing through the house.
Ky nods sternly, reflecting the soldier he once was. A moment passes as he takes one long look at my mother, like he’s telling her something before he walks out of the room. I hear the washer scrape against the floor, and then the door quietly closes behind him.
The house is silent again.
In a mess of bloody clothes, Forty-four comes back from the other room with what seems like a pair of clippers in his hands. He sticks his fingers into the side of his mouth feeling around at the back of his jaw. I look away already aware of where this is going. After a few seconds, I hear the snapping sound of metal and then again as he clips wires on each side of his jaw. I peer back at him as he removes the wires from his mouth, flinging the thin metal to the ground. He opens and closes his mouth over and over again.
Without a word, my mother leaves the room, probably to watch out the back door until Ky returns. I find myself staring blankly at Forty-four as he paces the kitchen. It’s dark and the room isn’t very big, but he is making it his purpose to do something as simple as carefully walking the length of the room. Again. And again. And again.
Intense attention drifts my way. He stops pacing when he realizes I’m staring at him. I look down at my hands that I still have half raised with my bloody palms face up.
He stands there across the room from me. He glances from my eyes to my hands and then back again. Several times, before slowly walking toward me.
With steady fingers, he opens his bag on the tile floor and brings out a bottle of water and a rag. When he’s just in front of me, he takes one of my stained hands and leads me to a wooden chair. His light touch leads me into the chair until I’m sitting. I’m compliant. Vacant. Like this house.
Bright eyes meets mine from where he kneels at my feet, assessing everything about me. My blank expression is reflected in his gaze. Dark stains line his jeans as he wipes his hands on his dark pants and slowly raises his hand to my chin. He tilts my face gently down to look at him. “I’m sorry.”
It’s the second time he’s said that to me. This time without pain.
“You can speak freely now,” I whisper. I try to laugh, to find some emotion, but only a faulty breath escapes my lips.
His lips lift at the corner, but, like my own hazy happiness, it’s only a half-smile. He takes the water bottle and spills water onto the towel. After it’s soaked through, he takes my hand in his and removes my old bandage from yesterday. Yesterday. It seems like much more time has passed since I unwillingly let him bandage my self-inflicted wound.
The scraps of material are tossed on the floor and he gets started wiping blood from my hands. After a few minutes, I find that my shaky palms are no longer red. They are my own again. Normal again. A slow, well thought out breath meets my lungs and I let him finish bandaging my palm with a fresh towel. When he turns to stand, I grab his arm instinctively.
Confusion crosses his face, but he remains kneeling in front of me. I take the bloody rag from his hand and pick up the water bottle on the floor. Once the rag is drenched and dripping semi-clear water I bring it cautiously up to his neck. His intense eyes never leave my own as I press the cool rag to his skin. The blood is nearly dried, and I rub softly at the flecks. He closes his eyes as I wipe away the mess. I wipe away what I thought was going to happen to him. I wipe away the terrible thoughts that had burrowed into my mind. And I wipe away the idea of losing this hybrid who I now want to protect so badly simply because he needs our help.
I still don’t know what we are doing. What it is my mother intends for us to do to help him. I also no longer feel afraid of the secrets she keeps. Because whatever it is, I’ll do it. If it means saving him, I’ll do it.
He’s worth saving.
He sits on his knees at my feet, his hands fisted on either side of my legs. I move my free hand to the side of his head to steady my work. I find him leaning into my palm, and, strangely, I also find my palm lowering from his thick tangle of hair to his jaw line and neck. He’s breathing steadily, eyes still closed. I finished cleaning off his neck a minute ago but I keep brushing the rag lazily against his skin as my other palm traces his jaw line.
I’m just starting to memorize the shape of his lips when the back door opens and I hear Ky’s metal leg hit the tile floor. The simple clicking noise is enough to snap me out of my trance. I stand from my seat. Forty-four’s hands are still on either side of my legs against the chair, surrounding me. His eyes are unfocused when they open, but he drops his hands and allows me to awkwardly step around him from where he is on the floor. My mother and Ky enter the room and look from where I stand nervously near the table, my heart pounding its way out of my chest and up my throat, to where Forty-four is kneeling in front of the now empty chair.
I give a quick smile and grab a flashlight out of a bag as I rush past them. “It’s been a lot of fun,” I say, a mixture of nervousness and sarcasm. “The whole day, as a matter of fact, but I’m going to bed.” My mother opens and then closes her mouth. “Good night,” I say over my shoulder as I scurry up the stairs in the next room.
* * *
It’s odd to find how heavy silence can be. The house is quiet, and there is even a cool breeze coming in from the open window as dawn creeps over the skyline. Not a sound can be heard, yet my mind refuses to relax. I’m tense with worry and uneasiness and, for the first time in my life, it is caused by my mother. She’s keeping something from me. I saw it all over her face several times today.
