“Move!” Suspicious that Cyrus had been boasting about his power, Irene shoved him as hard as she could. His only reaction was to crook an eyebrow at her. She backed up and tried a running charge, but with little effort he threw her back. She slid along the ground, the sting of friction burns traveling up the arm which had broken her fall. A hiss escaped her as she picked herself up, looking at the red and peeling skin on her forearm.
“Ooooh that looks like it smarts. I could kiss it better, if you'd like," Cyrus teased. Irene made some angry noise that didn't qualify as a word, as she was busy blowing on the abrasion to soothe it. "Come, come. I’m only looking out for your best interest!” he insisted in aspartame tones.
“My best interest? You're only looking out for yourself!” Irene wielded ferocity to mask her underlying anxiety.
Cyrus made a tutting sound and wagged his finger. “Alright, I won't argue that. But Gabriel and his lackeys will be peeping in windows looking for you or me. So tonight, for your safety, you should stay down here with me. Understand, Peaches?”
“You’re just using them as an excuse." Irene curled and flexed her hand in exasperation. "Out of my way! I need something to clean this with.” She held up her arm, pointing to the raw skin.
“Psh. Barely a flesh wound." He waved his hand dismissively. "Anyway, I can stand here all night if necessary, but that might make me a little bit cranky, and you don’t want to see a cranky vampire. Stay down here and get some shuteye. I'll keep watch.” Cyrus purred.
Chills writhed along Irene's spine as she looked around for another weapon, something stronger than scissors. Remembering her previous attempts, she abandoned her search; fighting him head on would be a futile waste of energy. If he would just drop his guard, she might be able to sneak past him.
"You think I'd be able to sleep with you looming?"
"Hmmm... I could always bite you, that worked wonders last time." Cyrus licked his lips. Irene immediately put her hand to her neck and took a step back, shaking her head. He shrugged. "That'd be a no, then."
"At least let me get some medicine."
"Eh... I'm sure it stings but it's not an immediate danger. You can deal with it once the sun rises." Cyrus leaned against the basement door and stared at her neck. "You've survived worse."
Irene aspirated sharply. Her breathing was growing rapid, but she was trying to keep it shallow so it would not be noticeable. She paced for a while, then looked at the bed. There's no way I'm sleeping in a bed he's been in. She could see brown spots on the sheets left from when she first brought him in. She never had a chance to clean them. Knowing she wouldn't be able to sleep, Irene stripped the bed and threw the sheets in for a cold wash.
Irene wished Monica had taught her how to remove blood from sheets. With no mother around, they had to learn through trial and error what to do about their laundry; their father was no help. Irene stared at the stains, repressed resentment bubbling to the surface. Monica didn't have to die. Her father insisted Monica's lung cancer wasn't their mother's fault, but all she could remember about the woman was the smell of nicotine, and the fake nails to hide the yellow stains. Those nails and calloused fingers were rough and pokey whenever her mother tried to tickle her. Irene's family were better off without that woman; she sucked the life out of everyone.
Irene sighed and poured in an unmeasured amount of bleach. All she could do was guess and hope for the best. She'd occasionally glance over to see if Cyrus still guarded the door. He was always ready with an obnoxious grin and finger wiggle.
Without adequate air flow, Irene knew the sheets would not be dry in time, and the spare sheets were upstairs with the towels. She could not spend the whole night pacing either. Resigned, she rolled up an old packing cover to use as a pillow and grabbed the quilt she'd saved from Cyrus's bleeding wounds. With these meagre comforts, Irene laid down on the rug.
"Ah. Seeing reason at last. Sweet dreams, Irene." Cyrus turned out the light.
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“You still do that school thing, don’t you?”
The words jarred Irene from sleep. Her view was dominated by Cyrus's grinning visage. Gasping, she flailed, only to recoil from stiff limbs and an aching back. The pesky vampire perched on the edge of the bare mattress, impish merriment in his eyes. “Forgot where you were, did you?”
Irene stared at the basement ceiling in bewilderment. Audible cracks popped as she struggled to sit up. She was shivering; the rug did not insulate her against the cold cement floor. Gradually, the previous night came back to her, as did the stinging on her arm. She marveled that she got any sleep at all. With a hand on her muddled head, she yawned. Then her mind latched onto the concept of morning.
“What time is it?” Irene sputtered as she scrambled stiffly to her feet. Remembering her watch, she peered at it. 6:03 am. Plenty of time to shower and stretch out the tension before catching the bus.
Upon reaching the top of the stairs, a plaintive mew drew Irene's attention to Silver's empty food and water dish. Irene picked up her cat and hugged her, pressing her face into the soft fur. Silver had been given to Monica when she first got her diagnosis. The vibrations of her sister's cat purring steadily boosted her spirits. It was like Monica giving her the push she needed. Irene fed Silver and continued about her early morning routine.
As Irene tied her shoes, she glanced up at a pair of black pants. She grumbled as Cyrus once again loomed in her personal space. Glaring had proven ineffectual in the past, but Irene did it anyway. “Don't you ever pull something like that again."
Cyrus clicked his tongue as yet again his skeezy grin spread across his face. “You make it sound as if something happened, which nothing did, as disappointing as that is.”
Irene stood on tiptoe to loom over him for a change, her lips still pursed. “That something will never happen. Remember that, Cyrus,” Irene hissed. Afterwards she pivoted on her heel and left, chin held high.
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Irene got through school without garnering concern from her teachers with unnerving ease. Her concentration failed, and some of her absences went unexplained. But truancy was rampant enough among her generation that most of her teachers barely batted an eye. Her biology teacher was the only one to ask her if everything was alright, to which Irene explained that she was recovering from a nasty bug. She simply failed to mention the bug had a name: Cyrus.
Irene stayed behind to finish up her missed assignments. When she finally left the school it was unsurprisingly overcast. Zipping up her jacket, the frazzled teen hurried to reach the next bus. Everyone she passed on the street made her nervous. Anyone who caught her eye caused her heart to leap until they smiled and passed by. Although she did not prefer the evenings, she'd never feared them before. Upon reaching home, Irene sighed. How much longer was this going to go on?
Several days, as it turned out. Despite her mistrust of Cyrus, he made compelling arguments for her to continue to sleep in the basement. To Irene's relief, however, he spent the nights patrolling and she was up before he returned. She saw as little of him as possible, which permitted her to reach some sort of equilibrium.
Every day she reconsidered calling the police. Her father was also frequently on her mind. He'll be home soon, won't he? Surely he could find a way to fix this. He usually knew what to do... when he was actually around.
Irene spent her lunch breaks working on homework and her daylight hours in the library due to inclement weather. As a result, chores went unfinished.
Mundane necessities such as laundry, cleaning, and shopping had been neglected, and it was beginning to impact Irene. Thus, one afternoon, she left school at the regular time. When she exited the school doors, her path was blocked by Merle, whose countenance reflected yet another stormy mood brewing. Irene released a sigh as her shoulders sagged.
“Where are you headed?” Merle asked, stepping into Irene's space.
Irene stared at her incredulously. “Home. Why do you ask?” She tried to push the unease out of her voice.
“Really? Mind if I walk with you, then?” Merle's body language evoked nonchalance, but her voice was drenched in suspicion.
Irene sighed and slowly nodded her head. “Sure. But I can't dawdle; I have errands and homework."
Merle looked irritated but nodded. “Need any help?”
Irene shook her head. “No thanks."
Merle shrugged. “Alright. Let’s go then."
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
They walked together, silence occasionally broken by awkward attempts at small talk. Upon reaching the bus stop, the girls turned to face one another.
“Look, Irene, I'm sorry for the way I acted. But you haven't been yourself. Will you just talk to me, like you used to? I promise not to get mad this time. I was a bit harsh, but things just looked so… well, you know."
Irene let out a beleaguered sigh. Maybe Merle deserved the truth, but she was dubious of Merle's ability to understand. Even Jordan didn't take her seriously.
“Merle… I told you it's complicated…” Irene reiterated. Merle’s cheeks turned pink, but she bit her tongue, and continued to stare hard at Irene, urging her. She sighed and cast a glance downward, before staring Merle straight in the eyes again. “If I told you vampires were real, how would you react?”
Merle laughed, but Irene wasn't smiling. It took Merle a moment to catch up, and her merriment quickly turned to perplexity, then morphed to indignation. "What, you really expect me to believe that?"
Irene frowned, resignation weighing her head down. "No."
"It's not like you to joke like that, Irene." Merle put her hands on her hips. "But if you don't want to tell me the truth, fine, whatever." She crossed her arms and shrugged, a sour expression pinching her face.
"Trust me, you are better off not knowing," Irene assured with her own shrug in response.
"Yeah, yeah, Irene, so serious and grown up, knows her little friend is too childish to understand anything," Merle sneered. "Look, I apologised. I tried to be a good friend. But I guess you're not ready." She threw her arms into the air, took in a deep breath, then let her arms collapse to her sides. "I'm sorry. I just don't know what to do. Something's up... I'm concerned."
Irene looked away. The distress her recent behaviour was causing her friend was hard to contain. "I'm not... thank you Merle. For being concerned." Usually, Merle was fairly oblivious. But if even she could see something was wrong, clearly Irene wasn't handling everything as well as she thought. But she needed to protect her friend. "You're right. I'm not ready to talk. Could I just be alone now, please?"
Her friend squinted at her for a good long while. But finally, Merle heaved a ridiculously large and theatrical sigh and turned away. "Fine. You wanna be alone? Then that's exactly what you're gonna get."
Irene sighed and watched her childhood friend go. Normally she didn't mind being the calm anchor to Merle's melodrama, but when her reaction was actually reasonable, it seemed more draining.
The combination of Merle's continued pecking and the dark clouds wearied her; she wanted to be home as soon as possible. So much for getting the shopping done.
Even at a brisk pace, the walk home felt longer than usual. Sunlight made a valiant effort to break through the gloomy cloud cover, but was continuously thwarted. Even though it was not yet four in the afternoon, night was overstepping its boundaries. Irene kept expecting to see that tall blonde man step into her path any minute.
Tingle. The hair on the back of Irene's neck rose. She turned a corner by an old motel and then screamed.
Standing in front of her in a long coat was a man. However, he was not tall nor was he blonde; he was not even imposing. The man also yelped in surprise, bringing up his hands to shield himself, finger tips poking through worn gloves. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
Irene put her hand to her chest, breathing deeply to coax her heart to slow down. "No, I... I'm sorry."
The dishevelled man partially straightened up once he realised he was not about to be struck, and held out a hand entreatingly. "Please... please can you spare some change?" he warbled pathetically.
"I don't' carry cash." Irene lifted her chin. He'd just waste it on beer.
"You sure? Oh... no I suppose not... no fine young lady like you'd want anything to do with me. Waste of space. Lay-about. She was right to leave me, I suppose, as you're probably right to keep on a-walking." The man's shoulders sagged. He let out a foul smelling belch.
Irene stepped around the man, nose wrinkling. He lifted a hand as if to try and stop her, but she pointedly crossed the street. If she stayed within earshot, he would probably follow her home, telling her the same tired story about how his family left him. Irene didn't blame his wife. Sobbin' Robin, as everyone called him, was a rather notorious fixture around her neighbourhood. However, as irritated as she was by the close encounter with the wastrel, she was vastly relieved he wasn't a vampire.
Irene made it home at last. She dropped her backpack at the door and immediately took stock of which tasks were most urgent. She'd first start the laundry and then wash the dishes. Some of the dirty plates had cultivated mold, and she feared what else might grow if she left them any longer.
Chores helped keep Irene's hands busy, but she continued to ruminate on her predicament. Is Gabriel really as bad as Cyrus says? Or is he just trying to scare me? How can I find out without putting myself in danger? As she finished drying some dishes, a hand on her shoulder caused her to jump. She swiveled around to face Cyrus. His face was molded into that crooked grin of his.
“You’ve let time slip away from you; aren't you hungry?” Cyrus tilted his head, squinting.
Irene shook her head, but in defiance, her stomach gurgled. “I guess I should eat…” She rummaged through the cupboards and fridge. “There isn’t much here.”
“You could always order pizza. That way both of us will get a meal,” Cyrus suggested nonchalantly.
Irene nodded and reached for the phone book, and then stopped. She pivoted on her heel and fixed him with a mighty glower. “That wasn’t funny!”
Cyrus let out a chuckle, obviously believing that it was. “I was actually being serious. I’d rather not hunt tonight, but I am getting a little peckish. Come come, I’ll pay."
“I am not going to sentence some poor delivery boy to his death just for free pizza!”
“Oh, but you’d let me starve?”
“Will it kill you to skip a meal?”
Cyrus sighed and feigned another one of his horrific pouts. “Maybe not me, but it might kill you. If I get too hungry, I become a real beast. That is a side of me I hope for you to never see.” He illustrated his remarks by making a claw with his hand. Irene rolled her eyes and disengaged, going straight to her room.
Irene was putting clean laundry away in her dresser when she heard a chime. When she opened the door she was presented with a small pizza from an extremely skinny delivery woman, whose head looked too large for her small frame. Irene was both confused and annoyed. In response, the delivery woman rolled her eyes s she noisily chewed her potent mint gum.
“Did ya order a pizza or no?”
Before Irene could say no and apologize for the inconvenience, Cyrus intervened. “I ordered a pizza."
The pizza woman looked Cyrus up and down, and her taut lips turned up in a smile. She held out the cardboard box, which released tender streams of steam out the crevices. He handed her a green bill, and she seized it, shoving it into a blazing red fanny-pack. The lollipop-headed woman whisked some golden hair out of her face, light reflecting off of her bright pink acrylic nails. Irene bet they hid nicotine stains. The pizza lady dug around in the pack for the correct change, and dropped it into Cyrus’s open hand.
“Here ya go,” she said, batting her fake lashes. The spectacle made Irene sick, but not as sick as the thought of Cyrus sinking his foul teeth into her pencil neck. The aforementioned vampire shoved the pizza into Irene’s arms, keeping strong eye contact with the delivery-twig. Irene glared at him, holding the pizza grudgingly, ready to throw it down, grab him by the ear, and drag him back inside. However, before she could take action, he slipped outside, closing the door behind him.
Irene felt heat well up inside of her. He had the gall to order the pizza anyway? She calmed herself and carried the pizza into the kitchen, setting it on the table. Insufferable jerk! Does he think I'll just keep looking the other way? High on indignation, she marched to the front door and swung it wide open. But no one was there.
Cautiously, Irene walked over to the car, a little afraid of what she may find inside. As she neared the slightly misty windows, she paused. Perhaps I should just go back inside. Pushing away that thought, she rubbed her hand along the windows, peering in. Anticipation prickled along her skin as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.
Nothing.
The car was empty. Irene swiveled around and scanned the eerie dark. Did he cover her mouth and drag her into the bushes? Is he killing her now? Terror returned to her with a prickling sensation on her neck, an echo of when she was bitten. Sympathy melted her unjustified ire towards the delivery lady. Why doesn't she scream for help?
Irene tip-toed back to her front porch, her eyes darting around nervously. She rubbed her temples with the palms of her hands, trying to de-escalate her anxieties. Normally, if someone were in danger, she would call the police. Maybe they would be able to subdue or at least chase Cyrus away. Irene started to think about all the possible victims that he had since he had invaded her basement.
Enough is enough! Irene went inside, shut the door, and locked it. Perhaps it was foolish of her to think a locked door would keep Cyrus out, but it would delay him.
Irene went back to the kitchen, no appetite for the ill-gotten pizza despite its enticing aroma. She picked up the phone, listening to the dial tone as her hands hovered over the '9' key. Irene hesitated. What should I say? A man attacked a pizza girl? But I didn't actually see an attack. Someone was peeping in my windows? Is that actually an emergency call or just a complaint? Will I get in trouble if it's not what they consider an emergency?
Irene hung up and sighed. She grabbed the phone book to look up the RCMP to file a complaint. Against whom? Cyrus may not have been lying about lacking papers. Biting constituted assault; she could report that. The problem was, there was no evidence she had been bitten. In her personal experience, police didn't take teenagers seriously, and liked to shuffle everything off to other agencies. Huffing angrily, she sat down at the table.
Homework would suffice as an adequate distraction, and Irene was determined to ignore any banging at the door. So she slogged through wordy math problems. Gradually, the math problems began to revolve around Cyrus. It started with an innocuous question about pizzas at a party. The smell of the pizza beckoned her. But then she remembered her anger at him. Soon she began wondering what the formula was for determining how fast a rate a human body could be exsanguinated. Stop it! Irene tried to focus.
Why hasn't he come back?
The battle was lost. She stared at the unopened box of pizza. It mocked her. She salivated as her stomach churned. There was no pride in wasting food. She reached over to lift the lid.
SLAM!
Irene gasped at the sound of a car door shutting. She got up and rushed to the foyer window, peering out at the driveway. Headlights beamed through her window as the sound of tires on gravel clawed at her ears. Did he steal the woman's car? Is he leaving? She couldn't make out who was driving. Irene sat there, long after the car had disappeared, waiting.
Nothing.
Is he... gone? Was it as simple as that? Surely not!
Once again her stomach complained. Irene sat down and ate the pizza, but barely noticed the taste or textures. He'd ordered ham and pineapple, and she did not like pineapple on her pizza. But her mind was too full to care. Is it over? Tempting as celebrating would be, it was premature.