Page 11 of Watch Me Turn
Then I snip the corner of a blood pouch with scissors and pour a few shots' worth in, eyeballing the 1:7 ratio and hoping for the best. The crimson swirls into the pristine white liquid, turning it a nauseating pink. I use a teaspoon to stir it quickly, and as it blends together it reminds me of watered-down Nesquik strawberry milk. The kind I'd drink as a kid, sprawled out on my belly in front of the TV watching cartoons while my human sisters kicked each other in the shins and squabbled.
I pour the rest of the blood into the other mug and take a sip. Delicious and possibly Greek. Lots of oregano, feta, and olives in their diet. I enjoy the taste of it on my tongue and swirl it around like a fine wine. Then I catch a whiff of the lacrimae—hot dairy mixing with copper—and my appetite evaporates.
I have no idea how I'm going to sell this one to Angel. Lying seems like the best option, and I'm going to need to give the performance of a lifetime. I channel my inner Meryl Streep, slap on the most dazzling faux smile I can muster, and I spin on my heels. Both mugs raised like a couple of Academy Awards.
"Order up. Look, I know I'm not the best cook, but I?—"
Oh fuck. He's dead.
The mugs clatter into the sink, lacrimae and claret splashing up the stainless steel as I rush to his side.
"Angel?" I say, slapping at his burning cheeks, but he's unresponsive, his dark pupils fixed to the ceiling. My pitch rises. "Are you okay, bud? I really, really need you to be okay."
Nothing. His unblinking eyes don't even twitch.
His shirt gapes open, buttons torn open in haste and dangling from threads. No doubt he tore them to get some relief from the raging fever. I hear his heart, but I need to feel it. I slide my cool hand under the fabric, placing my palm on the inferno of his chest and feeling for his heartbeat. I almost faint with relief when it flutters beneath my fingers. Pumping a steadily fading rhythm somewhere miles below his ribcage.
"Hey, you still in there?" I say, cupping his chin and turning his face to meet me.
Still nothing.
I lean closer, sweeping a thicket of hair behind my ear and lowering it inches from his lips. Listening for breath, for anything.
"Angel, please just give me a sign. Tell me to fuck off. Call me a bitch. Whatever you need to do, but say something," I plead as I watch his chest for movement.
Agonizing silence fills the room and stretches for an eternity. Then his lips move against my ear, barely a whisper.
"Sophia."
The sound of my name hums through me, low and rough, raising goosebumps along my neck. This close, I can smell the fever on him, feel the heat radiating off his skin.
I pull back to look at his face. His eyes have finally focused—dark and fever-bright—locked on mine with a strange, raw vulnerability that seems out of place on his face.
"Please...don't leave," he whispers.
The words crack on the way out. His hand reaches for me, trembling, and when his fingers close around my wrist, the gripis desperate—like he's drowning, and I'm the only thing keeping him above water.
For once, I don't have a sarcastic comeback. Don't feel the urge to mock him or roll my eyes. Something protective unfurls in my chest, warm and unwelcome.
"Whatever you need. I'm here," I hear myself say, and I mean it.
4
TASTING TEARS
You need to drink this," I say, holding the mug of lacrimae out to him.
Angel eyes it suspiciously from where he's propped against the pillows. "What is it?"
"An ancient recipe packed with essential nutrients and like twelve grams of protein. All the things your body needs right now."
"It looks like Pepto-Bismol."
"I figure it tastes better than Pepto-Bismol."
"You figure? That's a shitty sales pitch."
I shift on the edge of the bed so we're almost touching and bring the mug closer. "Just try it. Please. You've got to have something, and you're in no position to refuse. Not after that little stunt."
