Til Death (Immortal Memories) (5 page)

There’s a rough hand pressed to my mouth, muffling all the desperate sounds I’m making. Sounds I don’t recognize. Sounds I’ve never made before. And then a cool breeze whispers across my lips. How is that possible? It must mean the man has moved his hand! I suck in a big breath of air, ready to scream, and then the hand grabs my scarf, pulling it tight across my throat, stuffing the ends into my open mouth, cutting off all sound.

I deemed yesterday as the day everything changes. Isn’t that what I said? And here I am, scraped and bleeding, my eye swelling shut, laying on the cold cement beside a dirty warehouse, making sounds I don’t know how to understand and there’s a man. A big dirty man. He’s stronger than me. His hands are on me. Touching me in places that should be intimate, in ways a stranger never should. He’s leering at me. His yellowed teeth visible between his cracked lips. I gasp, hoping for air, closing my eyes against the way his hands feel scrabbling against the button on my jeans. I don’t want to change. Not like this.

You’re going to feel different for a few days.

This isn’t the kind of different I expected. Entranced by patterns in the grains of wood and the falling of leaves. Captivated by the sound of my voice and the way it tangles with the footfalls of people. Fascinated by the intricate flavors of my breakfast. Awake when I should be tired. More alive than ever. That’s what I hoped he’d meant by different.

Not like this. Not weak and out control. Having the most intimate part of myself stolen by a dirty stranger. Not this kind of different. Things will never be the same. I’ll never be the same.

I’m suffocating in my scarf. The world is spinning in front of me and the man has my jeans unbuttoned. He’s pulling on the zipper, trying to work his grimy hand into my panties. He loosens his grip on my throat and I’m suddenly a cat in water, all teeth and nails and yowling. A buzz saw of limbs. I scratch and claw and scream and when he leans back, gathering power into his fist, I kick him in the balls, again and again and again. Now he’s the one on the ground, scraping his skin on the sidewalk, making sounds he didn’t know he could make.

I’m on my feet. My throat burns and the world wobbles dizzily around me but I run. I scream and I run. A terrible stumbling run that matches my scratchy ineffective scream. I don’t look back. He could be just behind me, his hands reaching out to grab me, to touch me, to trail disgusting bits of himself down my body, a grimy trail in the wake of his touch. But I don’t look. I can’t look. I just run.

I know where I’m going. The only place I can go. To the only person who’ll take care of me and keep me safe and not pass judgement because I was a stupid girl who did a stupid thing and let that man put his hands on me. His hands on my pants! On my skin!

Tears are streaming. Unstoppable. I don’t care. I fumble with the button on my jeans and then it’s just an eternity of one foot in front of the other. People stop and stare. Reach out to stop me and I pull from their grasp. Don’t touch me! No more hands on me. No more strangers putting their skin to mine!

And then I’m at Mia’s door and I’m sobbing and I’m banging my fist against the peeling red paint and she opens it and I stumble inside. Collapse into her arms, burying my head against her chest. I’m crying and she’s asking me questions. Trying to see my face. And then the world spins, one last horrifying lurch, and everything goes dark.

I don’t know how long I lay unconscious. I’m aware of the sound of water being wrung from cloth. The rough touch of a washcloth against my skin. Probing fingers at my throat. Little gasps and exclamations. Worry. Someone’s worried.

“Rachel?”

All I want to do is bury my face into the pillow. Hide and hide and hide and never come out. No good comes from being seen.

“Rachel? Sweetie? We’re going to need to take you to the hospital.”

No. I don’t want to go to the hospital. I can’t go to the hospital. There will be questions and I don’t want to answer them. I don’t want to admit that I was a stupid girl who did a stupid thing and that man had his hands on me…

My heart’s racing and there’s a strange sound. Another sound I don’t recognize. It’s me, mewing into a pillow. Head turned away. Someone’s hand is in my hair, stroking my head. I flinch from the contact.

“Shhh. It’s ok. I’m here, Rachel. I’m here.” The voice belongs to Mia and she keeps saying my name. Wasn’t it just last night that I used her name as a beacon? When she was scared and I couldn’t see my friend in her eyes and I just thought if I said her name enough I’d find her?

I turn to her and her face swims into focus. Worried. Scared. “I need to take you to a hospital.” Her voice is quiet, but even that seems too loud.

I shake my head and the world spins. Pain thunders at my temples. I can’t really focus. “No hospital.” Even my voice hurts, scraping against my throat the way it does. She’s going to fight me. Take me anyway. I force myself to focus on her. Will my strength to hold so she can catch a glimpse of the Rachel she knows beneath the bruises on my face. “I’m banged up. But I’m ok. You’re a nurse. You know they won’t be able to do anything for me you won’t do here.”

She acquiesces. Tells me to sleep and I do.

I don’t know what time it is when I wake up. I’m in Mia’s bed. She’s banging around somewhere downstairs. She’s draped some of her pj’s over the chair in the corner and I scoop them up and head to the bathroom. I turn the water in the shower on hot and step in, flinching at the scalding heat. I scrub my skin until I’m pink from head to toe. Rinsing soap from my body only to lather up again. Scrub myself again. Rinse it all away again. I’m out of tears. My face is tender.

I get dressed and run her brush through my hair, wrapping my towel around the ends so they won’t drip water down my back. The girl staring back at me through the mirror is a stranger. Half her face bruised and swollen. Deep purple handprints just beginning to show on her neck. Two precise puncture marks on her throat near her jaw.

What will Mia say? She’s sure to have seen them. What will she think of this new Rachel? This Rachel who’ll feel different for a few days? The Rachel who exists after the day everything changes?

I pad downstairs, the fibers of the carpet dancing under my feet. My senses are still on fire. Enflamed by vampire blood. All the better to see you with, my dear. Coffee drips into a carafe. It must be morning. Mia’s sitting at her dinner table which sits in the exact same place as mine because her apartment is a carbon copy of mine. All the same except for the furniture.

“Hey.” She turns to me, shock and concern and worry and … something else flashing across her face. I don’t like it. It doesn’t suit her.

“What happened to you?” She’s out of her chair, her nurse face in place, all firm hands on my bruises, gentle, but unyielding to my protest. Her fingers trace the pin pricks near my jaw and I don’t like what I see when she meets my eyes.

“I was attacked.” I clench my jaw against the onslaught of images. Hands on my jeans. On my face. On my throat. A fist to my cheek and more stars than I ever thought I’d see. My knuckles scraping against the sidewalk. My fingernails streaking across his eyes.

“I can see that.”

She wants me to tell her more. Doesn’t my face speak for itself? I turn from her and curl up on her couch, clutching her pillow to my chest. So much for being the strong one. It’s like Mia and I have changed places. I’m cowering into her couch and she’s the one in control.

“Please tell me what happened.” There’s a rising edge of hysteria in her voice. “I did want you wanted and didn’t take you to the hospital. I’ve been up all night worrying about you. The least you could do is tell me what happened! Were you … did he rape you?”

My tears shut her up and I swipe them angrily from my eyes. I try to say no, but all I do is squeak. More sounds that don’t make sense. So I shake my head.

“You promise?”

If I could speak, I’d promise. But I can’t. I close my mouth, swallow, and nod.

“But he bit you.”

No. I don’t think he did. I’d remember. I do remember. All of it. Vividly. He didn’t bite me.

“That bastard hit you, and he choked you, and he tried to rape you, and he bit you and drank your blood.”

I don’t know what she’s talking about. I’m just staring, mouth open, shaking my head. I don’t want to hear what she’s saying and she’s got it all wrong.

“You’re always so certain you’re safe! Like you’re invincible! Rachel,” Mia falls to her knees in front of me, both hands on my thighs, eyes wide and crazed. “Vampires are evil. Do you see it now? After last night? After what he did to you? We’re not safe! No one is!”

And then it all clicks together. Of course she thinks the attack and the bite marks happened at the same time. Why would she think anything else? How could she know about the visit from the vampire the night before? How could she know that I was hunting him down and these bruises came from the hands of a mere mortal?

I try to articulate my thoughts but it’s just a jumbled mess of an explanation, adding fuel to Mia’s fire.

“I’m going down to that church. The Order of the Righteous Hand of God. I’m going with Elijah, the guy you had the good grace to introduce me to? Ya. Turns out we have a lot in common.” I cringe from the spite in her voice. “Come with us, Rachel. They’ll keep us safe. Safe from things like this.” Her hands flutter from my face to my throat and pull away from the bite marks my vampire left behind.

“You don’t understand …” Those are the first words I’ve managed to speak that made any sense at all and they surprise me. I trail off, not sure how to finish the sentence in a way she’ll actually understand.

“No. It’s you who don’t understand. Do you really believe you’re invincible? Attacked by a vampire and don’t need help? Drowning financially and don’t need help? You’re not an island! You can’t do it all by yourself!”

I’m battered and I’m bruised and I think part of me might have died last night because I really don’t feel like myself at all. The last thing I need is Mia yelling at me. Hopping up on her soapbox and parading her fear out in front of me. I met a reason to be afraid last night. And he wasn’t a vampire. He was a scraggly, dirty man with rancid breath.

I launch myself from her couch and out the front door, not sure if I’m running from her or from the memories of last night. Mia’s chasing me. I can hear the swish of her pj pants as she runs. All the better to hear you with, my dear.

“Rachel, I’m sorry!” She’s screaming after me, her voice echoing around the courtyard and I can see crazy bird lady watching us through her window. “Come back!” Mia calls after me, heedless of those around us who may still be sleeping. “I’m so sorry. Don’t lock me out!”

But that’s just what I do. I burst into my apartment and lock the door behind me, sliding down to the floor, knees tucked to my chest and wait for her to stop banging on the door. When she’s gone, I put my head down, grimacing as the bruise in my cheek makes contact with my knee. I’ve used up all my tears. Now would be the time for them to come, when I’m alone with no one to judge me but myself. Let them burn in my eyes, wash away all the fear and worry that I’ve kept locked up inside.

But no. I sit quietly, staring at the faded pink spot on the carpet where I lay dying not two nights ago. Two nights since I met my vampire, two nights that I’ve cheated death. Maybe it’s better if I have nothing to do with him after all. Maybe it’s better if I go with Mia to the Order and pledge myself to their church. Maybe it’s better if I forget about ever learning his name, and commit to never staring into those gray eyes again, never asking why he makes me think of snow in the mountains. Stone and snow and pine.

That’d be the smart choice. The safe choice. The choice Mia would recommend and Max would agree with. I sit like that, balled up on the floor by my door, staring at the pink spot in the carpet, trying to convince myself to go with Mia. To be smart. Safe.

But I know I can’t. I won’t go down to the Order of the Righteous Hand of God because it wasn’t a vampire who hurt me. It was a man. And that silly church can’t keep me safe from the hands of men.

But a vampire can.

Days pass after I run home from Mia’s and process what happened to me in the warehouse district. I don’t leave my apartment. I don’t really eat, and I don’t really sleep, and I don’t answer the phone. By now, if I had a job, I don’t anymore. I do shower. Over and over and over. Hot water burning my skin, washing the trails of contact that man left on me down the drain. When I run out of soap, I pull on sweatpants and a sweatshirt, hide my face under a ball cap, and dart through the store, making eye contact only with my feet.

Mia stopped showing up a few days ago. She’d come over, knock a few times, talk to me through the door. At first, I could hear her skin press against the red paint and her fingers land lightly near her face, tracing little patterns while she spoke. But that faded over time. I’m sure that means the vampire blood is out of my system. I should be done feeling different, but I don’t think I’ll ever be the same.

I use thoughts of my vampire to chase away thoughts of the man. When I wake, trembling, covered in sweat, certain I’d felt his rancid breath on my face, hovering over me while I sleep, I calm myself by imagining my vampire snarling, baring his teeth, biting the man over and over and over until he’s ever so sorry he hurt me. I’ll close my eyes and imagine my vampire checking over me, taking stock of the damage, vowing never to let me out of his sight again so that I’m safe for the rest of forever.

I never give him a name. I could imagine him having any name I want him to have. But I don’t. I want to use his real name and somehow, as soon as I start to feel better, I’m going to find him and he’s going to tell me. That just is. A fact. A truth.

This morning the bruises on my face are fading into sickly yellows and greens. The marks on my neck, so clearly the shape of hands left on my body, had flared up into angry reds and purples. Now just the remnants of the mark are left. A yellowed finger here, tracing up the soft line of my throat and wrapping around my jaw towards my ear. Another greenish speck, a fingertip digging into my flesh. The skin on my neck used to be raw from the scarf sliding around as he tightened it, strangling away my screams, but even that’s healed.

The vampire bites have closed, leaving just two tiny little pink specks that wouldn’t catch your eye unless you knew to look for them. Which I do. I spend hours in front of the mirror, ignoring all the more vibrant wounds on my face, and study those twin puncture marks. Sigh as they heal. Grieve their loss.

They say time heals all wounds, right? Eventually even the little red scars will be gone. Erased from my body just as the bruises on my face and throat disappear, the scrapes on my hands, arms and legs, close up and vanish. But what about the nightmares? The cold sweats? My inability to leave my apartment? What about those wounds? How long will I bear those scars?

I swallow down the panic in my stomach. I’m tired of feeling my heart skip in my chest. Tired of swimming in nerves. I’ll live in fear as long as I let myself live in fear. It’s up to me to face it all. To take steps to overcome what happened to me. After all, what
really
happened? Nothing. Right? He hit me. And he hurt me. But he really didn’t take anything from me.

I tell myself that. Over and over. Maybe one day I’ll believe it.

There’s a knock on my door downstairs and there goes my heart again, tripping over itself, a thundering flurry of adrenaline coupled with the urge to run. I creep down to the door and try to listen for whomever might be on the other side, but the strength of my senses has faded as the bite on my neck healed. I’m now just any other girl.

“Who’s there?” I’m surprised that I asked and surprised by the stranger I hear in my voice.

“Max.” He doesn’t knock again. Doesn’t beg me to let him in. He gives me the time and the space and the quiet I need. Waits for me to decide what to do.

I want to tell him to go away. To leave me alone. Thanks for playing, but game over. I’m done. But I guess I’ve decided to stop listening to that fear because I twist open the deadbolt and undo the chain, open the door just enough to see that he’s alone before swinging it wide and letting Max into my apartment.

He gasps when he sees me. Swathed in sweatpants. Hair unceremoniously pulled back from my face. Bruises dotting my cheek and neck. Bits of pink skin standing out on my hands - the last remnants of the ugly scrapes across my knuckles. I manage to hold up long enough under his scrutiny before I turn from him, my arms snaking around my stomach to hide the tremor settling into my hands.

“I’ve tried on a million different things to say and none of them are right. I’d ask if you’re ok, but it’s clear you’re not.”

“I’m always ok.” I try to smile, but it doesn’t really work.

“Look. Rachel. I know better than to try and play nurse. You’ll brush me away and kick me out faster than I can say, here, eat your Jell-O.” He pauses and smiles sadly. I stare at his hands. Big hands. A tiny bit of hair on the knuckles. Not a lot. Just enough to know they’re a man’s hands. “But listen. You need to eat. You need to talk to someone. You need to find help.”

I bite back all the sharp things I want to say, all the sharp things I’d normally say. Thing is, he’s right. I know it deep down at the most real part of me even if I don’t like hearing him say it. Don’t like having to admit it. “I know.” I turn away from Max and move deeper into my apartment, fully aware I didn’t draw the chain back over the door.

“Well, good.” He’s shocked. I can hear it in his voice. He didn’t expect me to give in so easily. To admit defeat. Weakness. But this is Rachel after the day that everything changes and I’m going to feel different for a few days.

He’s got something else on his mind. I hear it in the hesitation, in his uncertainty as to how else to proceed. “Say what you came here to say, Max. I’ll probably surprise you and listen.”

He chuckles but doesn’t move any closer, like he’s afraid he’s going to startle me and I’ll run away, a deer bounding off through the woods. “I want to help you.” I bristle. Tension pulls my shoulders up tight to my ears and I hunch forward and flinch as if I thought he was going to hit me. Either Max doesn’t notice or he’s set the ball in motion and couldn’t stop talking if he tried. “I know money’s tight. I know you haven’t left your apartment for days and so you can’t be working. It doesn’t look like you’ve eaten.”

There’s a rustling sound as he fidgets with something and I lose the battle with my curiosity, turning around to see him holding something out to me. It’s a handful of money, carefully folded so I can’t see how much, but the bundle is thick and I can see two zeros poking out from under his thumb.

“I don’t need your money.”

All the hope that’d been growing on his face crashes into a more familiar form of frustrated disappointment. “Yes. You do.” Apparently the kindness in his voice was attached to his hope because his tone is scathing.

That’s alright. I pull off scathing better than he does anyway. “No. I don’t.”

“Please, just let me help you. I’ll hand you the money and disappear if you’d like, but if you don’t do something, you’re not going to pull out of this tailspin.”

“Tailspin? I was attacked! I’m … struggling. Sure. But this isn’t a tailspin. I’ll get my shit together and everything will be fine.”

“You always say that! I’m ok,” he steps closer to me, mimicking my voice, waving his hands near his face. “I’m fine. I’ve got this.” He imitates a very haughty, not very pleasant version of me and I’m offended, but more than that, I can’t stop looking at his hands. A man’s hands. Max gets closer and I take a step back.

“I say it because it’s true.” My voice trembles. I wrap my arms tighter around my stomach and turn away from him. From his hands.

But Max has more to say. He steps back in front of me. “You. Are not. Fine.” He places his hands on my shoulders and I yelp, jump as if his hands passed an electric current through my body. I slam my fists into his chest and he stumbles back, surprise giving way to anger giving way to apology. It’s that last bit I hate the most. His need to apologize showing me exactly how weak he thinks I am.

“Don’t you dare apologize.” I choke out the words in between gasps for air, in between clenched teeth. “I don’t need your help. I don’t need Mia’s help. I’m a strong, independent woman and I’ll get through this on my own, thank you very much.”

The money is still clutched tight in Max’s hand. He reaches it out towards me without a word and I slap it away. The bills fly from his fist and float down to the carpet, more hundred dollar bills than I’ve ever seen all together in one place. I scoop them up, each and every one, and cram them back into his hands.

“Leave,” I say, and point towards the door.

“Rachel -”

I don’t want to hear what he has to say. “Leave!” I stomp my foot and shake my finger at the door, my anger requiring a physical outlet.

Max turns, his face sad, more than sad. Resigned. Agitated. Concerned. He’s giving up on me. And lucky me, I get to watch it happen. But then he stops. He turns halfway back around and looks at me over his shoulder. When he speaks, his voice is quiet. Reserved in a way I’ve never heard him use.

“You know, Rachel. You’re so busy proving to the world that you’re ok, that you can do it all on your own, that you’re pushing away anyone who ever cared about you. You’re going to finish out your life bitter and alone if you don’t stop.”

And that was that. Max turns his back on me and walks out of my apartment, closing the door behind him without looking back. I race after him, tempted to fling open the door and call him back. To tell him I need him. To tell him I’m scared. To tell him I don’t want to be alone and to beg him to stay. Life is hard and I’m not sure I can handle it and what does that say about me? That I’m too weak to survive the most basic of everyday things?

But when I reach the door, instead of opening it and rushing into Max’s waiting arms, I slide the chain back into its place and lock the deadbolt and rest my head against the wall. Everyone struggles. And everyone deals with it. That’s all I’m doing. Forcing myself to learn how to deal with hardship. I don’t want to be the kind of person who takes and takes and takes. I don’t want to need things from people. I want to give things to people. I want to support myself and make everyone around me happy. How can I do that if I constantly admit my failures? Constantly need their reassurance and support?

I wander up the stairs and stare at myself in the mirror, tracing the tiny pink specks on my neck. For the first time since my trip to the warehouse district, I see the way I actually look. Hair pulled back. No makeup. Stains on my sweatshirt because it’s the only one I own and the only thing I want to wear. I’m gaunt. My skin gray and too tight across my cheek bones. The cups of my bra gap open. I’ve lost enough weight that my breasts no longer fill them.

I pull the rubber band out of my hair and pick up my brush, working it carefully through the tangled ends before I wet it and dry it so that it hangs long and clean down my back. I shrug out of the sweatshirt and toss it in the laundry basket, picking out a clean sweater from my closet. Not too tight. Nothing form fitting. But at least it’s clean. I swipe on some mascara and blink at the stranger in the mirror. The stranger who at least looks a bit more familiar.

I’m tooling around in my kitchen, looking for something at least marginally nutritious to feed myself when there’s a knock on my door. Two precise knocks. My heart does that funny little tripping skipping thing it’s learned to do lately and my face goes slack with fear, eyes wide, head whipping towards the sound.

But those two light raps on my door have played themselves over and over again in my memories of the night my vampire showed up on my doorstep and asked to be let in. He knocked. Twice. Just like that.

After all this time waiting, he’s finally here.