Irene sat bolt-right up in her bed; the room spun. She fell back onto her pillows and waited out the dizziness. It was a great strain to read the green numbers on her alarm clock, which danced in odd spirals. Irene squinted and was trying to remember what significance the alarm clock had. All she could think of was the sense of danger. Surely, no significance. She was dead after all.
Wait. Irene squinted again at the alarm clock, staring hard at the numbers. 3:06 am. If she was looking, she couldn't be dead. Irene continued breathing hard. But everything was as it should be. She was in her room, safe. What a nightmare.
Irene closed her eyes, but then the image of Gabriel holding a knife flooded back in. She could hear a chorus of girls screaming. Irene rolled onto her side, covering her ears. "It was just a dream... it was just a dream..." Irene moaned and wasn't sure if she was saying those words, or if someone else was beside her, telling her that. It was reassuring to think it wasn't real.
Irene's mind drifted to the stressful and awkward dinner he had with the Fishers. But as she replayed the evening, her recollection became fuzzy. When did I get home? Did I go straight to bed? Nausea struck before the image of Cyrus, emaciated and brutalised, flickered in her mind like a stop-motion animation. It shuffled with the memory of running down the street, and fighting with an unknown assailant near her home. Where does the memory end and the nightmare begin? Unless...
Irene sat up again and looked down at herself. Her pyjamas were mismatched, and buttoned up crookedly. Sticky sweat covered her, and her scalp itched. She scratched her head, fingers swimming through greasy hair. Her mouth was dry, and she became aware of a grungy, stale taste. Her hands itched. Everything itched. Even the air around her was itchy. She didn't have enough hands to scratch everywhere. Irene clawed at the air ineffectually.
Vague fear and anxiety floated about Irene, and yet the images were rapidly fading. Irene tried to leave, but by the time she reached her bedroom door she felt dizzy. She steadied herself in the doorway, and when the room stopped spinning, she stumbled with determination to the bathroom. She wasn't sure why she was going there. But it suddenly seemed very important that she got to that room.
A face stared at Irene. A girl's face. Greasy, blotchy. It took Irene a moment to realise she was staring at her reflection. It didn't feel like that was her, but it must be. What should be golden, healthy skin was pasty and sallow. She had an awful squirming sensation, like a bug trying to burrow in her flesh, though she wasn't sure if it was digging in or breaking out. She frantically pulled at her pyjama top, fumbling until she pulled the buttons free and stared at the puckered skin around a scab just under her clavicle. The image wavered and she blinked a few times, trying to focus. She ran her finger over it, the rough surface catching the dead skin.
"Ow..." Irene whimpered as a delayed response, as she realised the sore was hurting. Attention shifted to her hands; they seemed unusually large, and the red splotches shouldn't be there. Whose hands are these?
Irene's mouth felt disgusting. Toothpaste will make it better. But as she reached for the white tube a pang of nausea and weakness overcame her. She steadied herself against the counter, taking in deep breaths. The lights in the bathroom were too bright and her head hurt. Irene turned on the faucet, gave her face a splash, and took a sip directly from the tap. Irene buttoned up, turned off the light and shuffled out of the bathroom. What was I doing?
"Irene?"
Irene let out a startled gasp and stumbled against the wall. Then recognition prompted a flood of relief. "Dad?" Irene could scarcely believe what she heard. Questions. She had them, but she found it difficult to form words. She repeated 'dad' a few times, then added weakly, "When did you...?"
"Around midnight. You were already in bed, so I let you sleep." The hall light came on, and sure enough, the paunchy figure of her father stood there in his robe and boxers. He looked so far away, and yet she could see his face clearly. What started as a smile on his face quickly transformed to concern. He walked over, placing a hand on her forehead, then on her cheek. "You're burning up. Do you need me to take you to emergency?"
Irene shook her head. "No... not yet... you just got back... I don't want to go yet... please don't go..." Irene rambled. She felt herself entering a swoon, an odd fuzzy sensation at the corners of consciousness as her vision tunneled on her father's familiar countenance. Again she felt a surge of nausea, but she couldn't bring herself to run for the bathroom. Instead she fell into her father's arms.
"Irene!"
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Beep. Beep. Beep.
A rhythmic electronic sound was the first to come to Irene’s attention when she regained consciousness. Irene wasn't quite aware she was conscious and she just focused on the noises, drifting along with it. For a moment she felt weightless. Soon she became aware of many more sounds. Distant voices talking, the shuffling of feet, and the moving of equipment. Irene drowsily opened her eyes, shuddering at the light that surrounded her. She sighed, moving one hand to her face. Her other arm stung, and she felt resistance when she moved it too much. Irene shut her eyes again, groaning softly.
"Irene, you're awake!" Irene turned her head to the source of the voice cracked one eye open. The fuzzy visage of her father came into view.
"Dad..." Irene croaked softly. She tried to sit up, but pain all through her body caused her to give up.
"Take it easy, Irene. Do you know where you are?" came a female voice Irene did not recognize.
Confusion hit Irene initially, but she doubled down and concentrated on listening. Taking turns fading in and out of focus among the din was footsteps, banging vents, beeps, and voices mixed with other human sounds such as coughing and moaning. Acrid, sharp, and musty, there was a smell of body odor, disinfectant, and vinyl. "Hospital." She knew the sounds and smells all too well. Irene looked over at her father again, eyes drawn to a bandage around his arm. "Dad?"
"Don't worry, kiddo, just giving back in gratitude," her father responded, gesturing to his arm. "I figured someone's donation saved you, so I ought to restore the balance."
"You needed a blood transfusion. You came in with septicemia," the nurse explained.
"Septi... whatta?"
"Septicemia. It's an infection of the blood. A doctor will come by to check on your progress; he can answer your questions."
"Infection? Uh... isn't that... what antibiotics are for?" Irene's words felt blurry as she was saying them, thoughts like pond minnows that scattered at the slightest movement.
"That's right. But your case was acute; the transfusion was necessary to stabilise you," the nurse responded as she kept her eyes on the vital monitors.
Irene let out a long sigh, easing her head back into her pillow. Irene's memories were foggy. She was afraid to ask what happened to her. She was even more afraid if someone were to ask her about the last few days. Thoughts fleeting, she remembered a red room, Gabriel, and her shirt covered in blood.
"You really had me worried, Irene," came her father's voice. "I should have checked on you sooner. I had no idea when I got home that you were so ill, until you fainted right into my arms." His elbows rested on his knees as he slumped forward. "If only I made it home sooner..." her father's burry voice trembled with pent up regret.
"Yeah... I guess... sorry... my head's all fuzzy," Irene muttered softly.
"Just rest, kiddo, rest. I'm here now, and I'll keep you safe," her father reassured her. She didn't want to argue. She didn't want to think. She checked her confusion in at the lobby and embraced the feeling of safety her father provided. Secure albeit weak, Irene drifted back into slumber.
Irene slipped in and out of consciousness while she got her strength back. When she was more awake, her nurses got her up and moving as much as possible, encouraging her to sit in a chair for her meals instead of in her bed. Sometimes her father was by her side, making small talk. She could sense there was a topic he was dancing around, but she wasn't ready to pry. There were other times, however, when it was just her - her and the rest of the patients in their curtained off cubbies. Unlike the Fishers, her family could not afford a private room for her.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
To Irene's relief, her father wasn't present when the doctor came to speak with her. He opened with a lot of the standard questions. Irene provided him with relevant medical history that couldn't be collected before. He reviewed her latest lab results, reporting that her numbers had improved.
"Now, then Miss Locklyn, I need to ask. How did you get that cut below your clavicle?" Irene felt a lump forming in her throat, which she tried to swallow as her hand traced over the mostly healed wound.
"I... don't..." Irene floundered. Irene wanted to go home as soon as possible. Thus, she carefully considered what answer would help achieve that goal.
"It's okay, anything you tell me is confidential," the doctor urged.
"It was an accident," Irene said vaguely as she tried to imagine a whole scenario that could end in a cut. The skeptical lift of the doctor's eyebrow set her one edge. He frowned, clearing his throat as he pulled up a chair and sat, staring at her with a look of pity.
"An accident? We see a lot of 'accidents' in here," the doctor said softly. Oh no. Does he think my Dad did this? Is that why he waited until I was alone to talk to me? Irene coughed and looked away.
"Yes. Um. I was drinking with some of the other drama students and we decided to do a scene from Shakespeare with real knives. I was embarrassed and ashamed, and didn't want anyone to get in trouble, so I tried to clean and dress the cut myself." Irene had never been drunk in her life and wasn't sure how credible her story was. But from the amount of dumb things other students claimed to do under the influence, she hoped it would be believable.
The doctor studied her, as if trying to decide whether to accept her admission. He sighed and wrote something down on his chart, eyebrows furrowed. She detected a note of frustration and disappointment in him. Or perhaps she was just projecting her own feelings onto the doctor. "I shouldn't need to remind you that the legal age for drinking is nineteen. And as a doctor I suggest you avoid drinking alcohol, even when you're old enough. It's bad for your liver and can lead to... accidents." The doctor looked up over his clipboard. "I also hope that in the future, even if it happens during a misdemeanor, you will seek medical attention more promptly. I won't bandy about it. You could have died."
"Thanks for your concern," Irene muttered. "I really felt like I was going to die, and being told that, it... it fits." The doctor studied Irene a moment before his expression softened. He scratched his jaw with his pen, a grating sound as it rubbed against his five o'clock shadow. "Doctor?"
"Yes?"
"...The nurse said blood transfusions were not uncommon to treat sepsis, but... was I anemic?" Dealing with vampires, it felt like a very relevant question.
"Your RBC and hemoglobin were critically low. Which is why I will be prescribing iron and B12 supplements in addition to antibiotics. Your platelets were unusually high, which is usually the opposite case with septicemia. However, everything is looking better and you will be discharged soon. A nurse will go over some paperwork with you and your father, which will include home care instructions." The doctor looked down at his chart again. "I would suggest following up with your GP and getting additional blood work done in a week's time."
Irene nodded. "Of course. Thank you, doctor."
As the doctor had indicated, Irene wasn't in the hospital for much longer. It was a great relief for Irene to finally put some of her own clothes on. Her medical questions were answered well enough. She knew what to do to manage her recovery. But she still had questions about what had happened. Not just her, but the other girls. A voice broke her from her reflections. "Ready to go, kiddo?"
"Actually, before I go, I'm going to visit Jordan. Why don't you go get a coffee? I'll meet you there," Irene said.
Her father raised his pale eyebrows. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather go home and get some rest? You can always come back."
"I'd sleep a lot better after checking on him," Irene responded.
"Alright, sweetie. Let me at least walk you to his room. You still don't look too steady on your feet."
When Irene reached Jordan's private hospital room, he was dozing. She smiled gently and put her hand on his. After a silent moment of admiration, she felt his hand squeeze hers. Irene leaned closer to him as he opened his eyes. A smile spread across his blanched lips.
“Irene, you’re here…” he said in a quiet, raspy voice. Irene’s eyebrows furrowed, but she forced her subtle smile to maintain her morale. He was sounding worse.
“Yes, I’m here,”
Jordan looked at her, then at her hand that he was holding. Immediately, he frowned as he saw the hospital bracelet. "Irene? Are you... are you okay?"
"I will be. I just had an infection, but I'm going home today," Irene said, taking initiative to banish his concerns. Jordan stared at the ceiling for a moment and closed his eyes. Irene’s smile dropped and she knelt beside his bed. How she wished she could bring him home with her. She did not want to stay in the hospital, but she did not want to leave his side, either.
“Irene…” he said quietly, then opened his eyes and turned to look at her. “I can see… you are aching… and afraid…” Jordan said in broken up sentences.
“You’re right.” There was no point in assuring him she was fine. He saw through her, and there was no point in hiding anymore. She crossed her arms on the bed, then rested her chin upon her cradle of arms.
“Wanna talk about it?” Jordan asked in a whisper. Irene slowly nodded her head, her eyes already going moist at the hard recollection. Not all of it was quite clear yet. She couldn’t remember how she got from Gabriel slashing her to sitting in a hospital bed, but she could find fragments that terrified her as much as Gabriel. Still flashes of Cyrus, looking almost deranged with hunger, haunted her.
“Jordan… remember what I told you?” Irene began, but trailed off, imploring Jordan to speak.
“What you... you mean about… the immigrant?” he whispered. Irene nodded her head and rested it again atop her arms.
“Did you hear about... Tina going missing or…?” Irene asked. Jordan’s pupils contracted and his relaxed, weary look became intense and focused. He nodded, but said nothing. Irene closed her eyes, remembering those girls, afraid and confused. “What did you hear?”
"...That she died from a drug overdose," Jordan said, furrowing his eyebrows.
"An overdose? Really? Where'd you hear that?" Irene asked, her head popping up from its rest in surprise. Jordan rolled onto his side, studying Irene tensely.
"Keith. He was shaken up about it. He suspected something was wrong when she went to live with her father..." Jordan exhaled something between a snort and a sigh. "But, Irene, what does he have to do with this? Unless... he's not from a cartel is he? I know you'd never use, but..."
Irene sat up straight, leaning away from the bed. "But?"
"...Have you gotten involved in drug trafficking?"
Irene was struggling to keep up with the direction the conversation was going. Drugs were the least of her concern. Jordan thinking she was involved with them was something she was unprepared for. But then again, she wasn't prepared to accept that vampires were real either. Again, Irene's hand went to the scab on her chest, feeling its rough texture beneath her thin t-shirt. The longer she remained silent, the more tense Jordan became.
"No, nothing like that..." Irene swallowed hard and looked away, trying to stop her eyes from watering. Jordan looked shaken.
"Have they... did he... have you been checked for..." Jordan grew more apprehensive as he tried to bring his question to fruition.
Irene leans forward, gathering both of his hands together and looked him straight in the eyes. "Stop." A sick feeling came over Irene; she was not ready to explore the possibilities.
"I'm sorry Irene. You were trying to tell me about Tina. Go on..." Jordan said, dropping his gaze.
Irene closed her eyes, steadying herself. "I know that she and some other girls were abducted. If she did overdose, I don't think she took the drugs willingly," Irene affirmed in a stern, matter-of-fact tone.
“Irene… have you told the police?”
Irene opened her eyes and winced. He looked ghastly and spooked.
"If you saw someone getting kidnapped..."
“No. I can’t,” Irene said uncomfortably.
Jordan continued to stare at her unblinking. “You must. Those girls’ parents have the right to…”
“No, Jordan. I didn't see them get taken," Irene clarified, bringing up a hand.
"Then how do you know?"
"Because I was taken, too!” Irene hissed, emotion catching in her throat. Jordan flinched, drawing away from her slightly. He remained in stunned silence, then slowly rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "By... vampires."
“By... vampires…” Jordan repeated incredulously.
Irene sighed and buried her face in her arms. “I don't know what happened to those girls… and I can’t remember what happened to me… I was restrained and injured… and then… everything from then on is a mess of disconnected flashes that make no sense! It makes my head spin to even try to connect it all, and I feel so strange and sick… but I heard them screaming as I was led away. I still hear them!” Irene said, her throat becoming tight. She bit her lip so as not to cry, but there was still a wavering in her voice. She felt Jordan’s hand gently touch her shoulder.
“Irene, I wish I could take all that scares and haunts you away… I wish I could protect you.” Jordan reached out and gently stroked her brow.
“Jordan… thank you. I need to go… I don't want you to see me like this.”
Tears quietly invaded Jordan's eyes, and it was all too much for Irene. She hurried out, pausing in the doorway to wipe her eyes. Although quiet, she could hear his voice.
"But… I just want to be there for you… especially when you're like that…"
Irene resolutely left.