Irene sat bolt-upright 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 tried to remember what significance the alarm clock held. 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. If she was breathing, she was still alive. But how? No. 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 she had shared 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. Staggering with a lopsided gait, she tried to leave. Dizziness stymied her progress. 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.
A face stared at Irene. A girl's face. Greasy, blotchy. It took her 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 collar bone. 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, seeming surprised at the pain. 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. Need water. Cool water splashed against her face, only then she realised how warm her skin felt.
What was I doing? Irene buttoned up, turned off the light and shuffled out of the bathroom.
"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. I didn't want to wake you." 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.
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Beep. Beep. Beep.
A rhythmic electronic sound was the first sign of consciousness that won Irene's attention when she woke. Weightlessness clashed with emerging awareness. Soon, more sounds crowded her senses. Distant voices, shuffling, clicks and clacks, and the rumble and growl of weight-bearing wheels on a hard surface.
Irene drowsily opened her eyes, shuddering at the light that surrounded her. She took a deep breath, moving one hand to her face. Her other arm stung, and she felt resistance when she moved it too much. She shut her eyes again, groaning softly.
"Honey, you're awake!" Irene turned her head to the source of the voice and cracked one eye open. The fuzzy visage of her father came into view.
"Dad..." Irene croaked softly. She tried to sit up, but her body hurt too much.
"Take it easy, Irene. Do you know where you are?" came an unfamiliar voice.
Confusion ensnared Irene, but she doubled down and concentrated on listening. Taking turns fading in and out of focus among the din were 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." Irene looked over at her father again, eyes drawn to a bandage around his arm. "Dad?"
"Don't worry, kiddo, I'm not hurt. Just giving back in gratitude," her father responded, gesturing to his arm.
"You needed a blood transfusion. You came in with septicemia," the nurse explained.
"Septi... what?"
"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. Impressions of red. Yes. A red room, Gabriel, and her shirt covered in blood.
"You really had me worried, Irene," came her father's voice. His elbows rested on his knees as he slumped forward. "If only I made it home sooner..." her father's burry voice trembled.
"Yeah... I guess... sorry... my head's all fuzzy," Irene muttered softly.
"Just rest, kiddo, rest. I'm here now," 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.
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.
To Irene's relief, her father was absent 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 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."
"It was an accident." Irene 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."
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.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
"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 for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to accept her admission. He sighed and wrote something down on his chart, eyebrows furrowed. "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. The doctor studied Irene a moment before his expression softened. There was a soft grating sound as his pen rubbed against his five o'clock shadow. "Doctor?"
"Yes?"
"...The nurse told me that 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. Now, everything is looking better and you will be discharged soon." 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."
It was a relief to be in her own clothes again. Irene hated hospital gowns, although it was a sentiment she was confident many shared.
"Ready to go, kiddo?"
"Why don't you go get a coffee? I want to check in on Jordan before I leave."
Her father raised his pale eyebrows. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather go home and get some rest first? 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 gently put her hand on his. After a silent moment of admiration, she felt his hand squeeze hers. She leaned closer to him as he opened his eyes. A smile spread across his blanched lips.
“You’re here…” he croaked in a quiet, raspy voice. Irene’s eyebrows furrowed, but she forced her subtle smile to maintain her morale.
“Yes, I’m here,”
Jordan looked at her, then at her hand that he was holding. Immediately, he frowned. Irene also looked at her wrist; she had forgotten to remove the hospital bracelet. "Irene? Are you... are you okay?"
"Just an infection. Just stopping by on my way home," Irene said, taking the 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. Something lurched in the pit of her stomach and she winced.
“Irene…” he breathed her name, then opened his eyes and turned to look at her. “You're hiding something... aren't you?” Jordan asked in broken up sentences.
“What makes you..." Irene began to object, but then she took a deep breath and looked down. There was no point in assuring him she was fine. She crossed her arms on the bed, then rested her chin upon her cradle of arms. "Yeah, I guess."
“Wanna talk about it?” Jordan invited in a hushed voice. Irene slowly nodded her head, her eyes already going moist at the scant 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.
“Jordan… remember what I told you?” Irene began, but trailed off, imploring Jordan to speak.
“What you told... you mean about the immigrant?” he whispered. Irene nodded her head and rested it again atop her arms. "Did he hurt you?"
Irene sniffed and took in a deep breath. How could she talk about something she couldn't fully recollect? She looked back at him, then suddenly Keith of all things sprang to her mind. Why him? As Irene focused on it, she suddenly saw his step-sister. She was there.
“Actually... have you heard anything lately about, uh, Tina was it?” Irene asked. Jordan’s pupils contracted. He nodded silently. Irene closed her eyes, straining to remember more. “What did you hear?”
"...That she died from a drug overdose," Jordan furrowed his eyebrows. "But... Irene... what would that have to do with..."
"An overdose? Really?" Irene's eyes burst open and her head popped up. "Where'd you hear that?"
Jordan rolled onto his side, searching Irene's face intensely. "Keith. He was pretty shaken up." Jordan exhaled something between a snort and a sigh. "What does Tina have to do with that guy? 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?"
"He hasn't been bringing drugs into your house has he? Or... he hasn't forced you to be a mule, has he?"
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.
"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."
Jordan winced. After floundering with clearly confused and painful thoughts, he sighed. "I'm sorry Irene. You were trying to tell me about Tina. Go on..." Jordan dropped his gaze.
Irene closed her eyes, steadying herself. "I don't think her overdose was an accident. I think she was forced to take the drugs," she affirmed in a stern, matter-of-fact tone.
“What? How would you... I mean you wouldn't make up... have you told the police?” Irene opened her eyes, flinching at what she saw. He looked ghastly and spooked. "If you know something about Tina..."
“No. I can’t."
Jordan continued to stare at her unblinking. “You must. Her parents have a right to know. Keith has a right to…”
“No, Jordan. They're better off not knowing."
"Not knowing that she didn't take a lethal dose of meth? Irene, what do you know? What happened to Tina?" Jordan's voice was going from prodding to interrogative. It vexed her, but she couldn't blame him.
“Because Tina was attacked by vampires! And so was I!" Irene blurted in a fury of vexation.
Jordan stared at her, astounded. He remained silent for a good long while. Each second that passed by without a word spoken was hardly bearable for Irene. Her fingernails dug into the palms of her hands as she clenched her fists. She willed him to say something, but he just looked away.
“I don't know what happened to her, or to them..." The faces of two other girls she vaguely recognised from school taunted her. "…I can’t remember what happened to me!"
"To you? I thought you had an infection..."
"I did! But... oh Jordan! It was awful! 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 rambled, 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... I...." He probably thinks these are delirious ravings. But maybe that is for the best. "I need to go… I hate to let you see me like this.”
Jordan looked up at her, eyes misty and brow furrowed in consternation. However, he didn’t do anything to stop her. Tears quietly invaded his eyes, and it was all too much for Irene. She hurried away, pausing in the doorway to wipe her eyes. Although quiet, she could hear his voice drawling in a tired, half-asleep murmur.
"But… I just want to be there for you… especially when you're like that…"
Irene squared her shoulders and left before she broke down and said too much more.
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"Well, this has been a crazy fall." The voice of her father intoned over the car's engine. Under Irene's distracted gaze, buildings zipped past in a blur. When she didn't respond, he shrugged. "I, uh, met your tutor. He was asking how you were doing."
"That's nice," Irene muttered. Then she replayed the sentence in her mind. "Wait, who?"
"Your tutor. Cedric or maybe it was Sydney..."
Irene fixed her father with a stare. "Cyrus?"
"That's the one." Still gripping the steering wheel, Mr. Locklyn lifted a single finger. "He dropped off a card for you last night."
Irene swallowed hard and then looked back out the window. Her first impulse was to immediately tell her father Cyrus was not to be trusted. But she was tired and sluggish, and the most she could manage was a garbled sound of dismay. This earned her a brief glance of concern from her father.
Irene closed her eyes, flashes of Cyrus closing in on her flickering through her mind. Either he was himself again or her memories exaggerated his monstrosity.
"Oh. Sorry. I'm tired."
"Yeah, I can see that." Mr. Locklyn drummed his steering wheel. "But since when have you needed a tutor?"
"The AP courses were tougher than I..." Irene trailed off. No. Her knuckles became white as she clenched her fists and stared out the windshield. "It's all lies!"
Her father's plump hands gripped the steering wheel tighter. "What do you mean? What's going on, Irene?" He glanced at her quickly then back to the road, a tell-tale tick in his cheek.
"Cyrus isn't a tutor. He's..." A vampire? No. Time to start telling the truth without telling the truth. "He's in a cartel."
"A cartel? Him?" Her father scowled as he pulled to a stop at a red light. "The argyle sweater vest was a bit over-selling the part."
Sweater vest? Irene cleared her throat.
"But what do you have to do with him?"
"He needed help, and I helped him. But then things started getting weird," Irene shook her head. "I didn't know what I was getting into, I was just trying to be a good person."
"You are a good person. It's just... as I keep saying there are wolves out there." Her father rubbed his forehead with the back of one hand, keeping the other on the wheel. "But why lie to me?"
"I was scared you'd overreact and start driving crazy, like you did when Monica told you that Benny pantsed her." Mr. Locklyn swerved ever so slightly, but immediately corrected the course.
"Of all the things to remember..." he muttered. "We'll talk about this when we get home."
Irene closed her eyes and leaned against the window.