Olivia

by Genevieve McCluer

  When it’s all gone, I stand up in a state of utter bliss. It feels amazing. This must be ambrosia. How could I have ever eaten anything else? This was all I needed. Oh, but I can think again. The fog is gone.

  My own deeds finally strike me. Her body lies before me. I want to vomit. God, what have I done?

  I grab her, shaking her, willing life back into her. She can’t be dead! She can’t. I won’t allow it. No. I can’t lose her. I can’t be the one who did this. Even if she was having an affair, how could I kill her? How can this be who I am…what I am? I’ve murdered her.

  I jerk awake, panting, my eyes wide. It’s been years since I last had that dream. It’s almost always the Hunt. Even my subconscious isn’t so cruel as to make me relive that. Why now? These pills were supposed to help. I swipe at the table beside me, knocking the packets of pills onto the floor along with the glass of water. It shatters against the wall, shards of glass scattering about the newly formed puddle. The pill containers bounce off, unfazed.

  I climb out of bed, the image of her lifeless body burned into my retinas. She’s all I see, everywhere I look. I did that. I killed her, and it wasn’t even true. I was just so hungry. This is why I’m damned. It’s not because I’m a vampire. It’s not for any other reason. I murdered the love of my life. I ate her.

  I truly am a monster.

  It’s been so long, and yet her memory still haunts me. I’ve never loved again. I’m not worthy of it.

  That’s why. That’s why that dream is back. Her ghost is haunting me. She’s reminding me of why I can never be with anyone again. I don’t deserve it. It’s the same reason that Vanessa died, isn’t it? I don’t deserve love. No one who could do what I did could possibly deserve love.

  I collapse in the hallway, leaning against the wall as the tears fall. I should’ve died that night. I wanted to. I tried to. I tried to kill myself, but he wouldn’t let me. There’s another mortal sin. I’m damned many times over. It’s no wonder this scar never goes away.

  The small cross-shaped burn on my chest shows clearly through my nightgown. Every other wound has healed. Only this one remains, to remind me of exactly how God feels about me. Even his infinite capacity for forgiveness isn’t enough for me, not after all I’ve done. He has cast me aside.

  I deserve hell. I should get it over with. I can end my life, end my suffering, and accept my fate. If only I wasn’t such a blasted coward.

  That night, I had the courage. Back then, I was still a soldier. I hadn’t spent my life running away. I shot myself in the head, and I survived. It didn’t even scar. Instead, the gun was wrestled from my hands, and I was bound and left to starve for I know not how long. Long enough that he thought I’d listen to him when he offered me blood. Long enough that it worked.

  I stare at the ceiling, wishing I could stare up into heaven itself. If I could only beg for his forgiveness in person. I’m just too afraid to accept my punishment. Perhaps that’s the only reason I keep living.

  A squawk sounds from my shoulder. I blink away tears, trying to make out the blurry image. “Okay?” Harvey asks, perched on my shoulder, his head cocked in concern. “Okay?” How long has he been there?

  I shake my head. I’m not okay. Sighing, I drag myself to my feet. I can’t leave him alone. Maybe that’s why I keep buying these animals, so I have an excuse to keep on living. I stumble into the kitchen, my legs yearning to collapse all over again. “Would you like some fruit?”

  “Tea.”

  “I don’t feel up to—”

  “Tea.”

  Is he trying to look after me? If I make some for him, I’ll have some myself. It won’t make a difference. Maybe I’ll put some blood in it.

  “Tea,” he repeats.

  “Okay, okay.” I put some water in the kettle. Looks like we’re having tea.

  * * *

  Either they wrote the same paragraph over and over again in this book, or I’m having trouble concentrating. I was hoping to bring my knowledge of biology into the twenty-first century. If I don’t have some understanding of it, I won’t know what to invest in, but more importantly, I’m trying to get my mind to focus on something else. I’ve been on this page for almost an hour.

  I’ve tried taking half a dozen each of the pills, and nothing has happened. It’s not some miraculous instantaneous cure-all, but how can I still be this bad? Her face refuses to leave my thoughts.

  I’m better than this. I’m stronger than this.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  Shoving the book aside, I stomp over to the fridge. I drink the blood cold. I need something to help me focus.

  It doesn’t seem to make a difference. Tastes good, though.

  Dr. Rosseau-Lester and I had a session yesterday. I don’t care how good she is, I’m not weak enough to need to see a therapist two days in a row. I can deal with this myself. I’ve been dealing with it on my own for hundreds of years. She thinks I need exposure therapy? She thinks I need to be around people? Fine. I’ll go be around people. I am a general in the Venetian army, I am a centuries-old and powerful vampire, and I am stronger than any fucking issue I might have.

  I slam the door behind me, keys in hand, and climb into my car. Where do humans spend time?

  I go to the mall. The actual one. The one that isn’t a façade used as a black market.

  In the massive parking lot, row upon row upon row of cars surround me as the sun blares down. I swallow a lump in my throat and park. There are so many people here. Why would any place need this many people? This is ridiculous. Why would they all come to the same place?

  I’ve been in big cities. I spent a lot of time in London in the 1800s, but this is absurd. This is far too many people.

  Reaching for the keys, I fumble, not even able to turn off the ignition on my first try. If I could sweat, I would be a mess right now. I should go home. This is a stupid idea.

  No. I can’t. I can’t keep dealing with these dreams. If desensitization is what I’m after, I’ll get it. Ms. Rosseau-Lester wants me to take it slow, build my way up, just keep having little chats with her until I can consistently handle meeting her eyes and being in a room with her, but that’s too inefficient. I won’t keep being a coward. I can do this. I will face my fears, and I will overcome them. That’s all there is to it.

  I successfully snatch the keys from the ignition, slam the door behind me, and stomp out onto the hot pavement. Even through my sunglasses, it’s far too bright. How do people stand this?

  I saunter over to the entrance as casually as I can manage, grit my teeth, take a deep breath, wonder if my lungs have atrophied over the years, grip the door handle, and start to pull. I just need to open it. The door isn’t that heavy. I could fling it off its hinges without a thought. Why isn’t it moving?

  Grasping my wrist with my other hand, I give it a tug, almost falling on my ass as the door flies open. I manage to stay on my feet because I am a vampire and not some pitiful puppy and stride right in without a fear in the world.

  There are too many people.

  I swear I can count a hundred right here.

  There are children running about, climbing on some plastic and metal monstrosities atop a bouncy green floor. Their parents, I presume, are watching them from benches against the wall. All around, shoppers wander between stores, carrying bags of various spoils.

  I still haven’t taken a step. My feet have forgotten how to move. How is everyone else able to simply walk around? Don’t they know the monsters that surround them? These humans are capable of anything. They could set upon each other at any point, they’re killers, merciless machinations of… I sigh. Of God. They’re his creation, as I am. Even as flawed as they are, they aren’t wrong. They’re just as they’re meant to be. I’m the one who isn’t. I’m the one who’s a monster.

  Wow. Did I really have a Nietzschean moment of realizing that I’m the real monster? I’m a vampire, a murderer. Of course I’m the real monster.

  Humans are too, tho
ugh.

  I steel my nerves and take a step, walking past his favorite creations. I have to think of them like that. Don’t think of them as the reactionary fools, hunting down your entire species because a book told them we were bad. Think of them as children of God.

  I cross myself, barely noticing the pain as I walk. It makes me feel a little better. Since I’m already here, I decide to step into a clothing shop. I haven’t updated my wardrobe in a few decades, and after the moths found one of my closets, I’m sure I could use some new outfits. I’ve already replaced most of it online, but it’s always better when you can try things on. It was far easier when I could have people sew garments to my measurements, but I couldn’t have a human touch me like that without killing them.

  I find a dress that appeals to me, a cute top, a nice skirt, and some jeans. The last time I bought jeans, bell bottoms were still in fashion. I take my meager selections and approach the changing rooms. “Did you find everything okay?” a woman asks, approaching me.

  The air seems thicker. I try to swallow and can’t. My breathing starts and quickens.

  She stares at me. “Was there something you were looking for?”

  I blink. I should just kill her.

  An unconvincing smile slowly appears on her face as her eyebrows knit together. “Hello?”

  Say something before she gets suspicious. She might figure out what I am, then she’ll round up everyone here, they’ll find every piece of wood and sharp object they can scrounge up, and they’ll all chase me down and shove a stake through my heart. If I don’t act quickly, I’ll die. “Sorry,” I mutter. “I’m fine.” I want to drop the clothes where I stand and flee, but that would be too strange, too suspicious. “Just want to try these on.” My voice shakes as I sputter the words, dashing into the changing room before she can ask me anything more.

  I collapse on the little bench behind the red curtain, clutching my knees to my chest, trying to get myself to stop breathing. This is too much. I’m not ready. I can’t take it.

  My cheek stings, I stare at my own hand to find that I’ve slapped myself. I have to beat the sense back into me. Letting out the last of my breaths, I lean back, staring up at the ceiling, past the thin rod holding up the curtain at the dotted rectangles of drywall and plaster. I don’t even care about the clothes anymore, but I must keep up the charade. No, more than that, I have to make myself do this. I’m sick of being afraid all the time.

  I try on the outfits. Apparently, I still have a better eye for clothing than I’d expected as they all fit. Back in my tan button-up blouse and gray skirt, I grab the new articles of clothing and take them to the counter.

  Managing to smile and nod at whatever she says, I hand over the cash, reluctantly take my change when she offers it, and walk out of the store. The bag slams against my calf as I stop dead. I was heading toward the exit, but I already decided what I’m doing. I won’t give up.

  I turn around and proceed deeper into this horrific labyrinth, shutting my eyes as I pass through a throng of people. I can almost feel them stabbing at me.

  When I open them again, I find myself surrounded. There are humans everywhere, on every side of me. There are table after table filled with them eating, there’re some women testing out a perfume to my right, a few children playing with a remote-control helicopter to my left, and behind me, there’s a wedge of hunters, heading right toward me.

  I turn back around, my eyes wide, to see more of them walking through the field, straight at me, crossbows in hand. My grip on the bag tightens as I look for any means of egress. I can’t take them all. Even if I manage to, it’ll cause more to come, looking for me, out for blood. This was a terrible idea. I’m going to die. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

  Doubling over, my hands covering my eyes, I wait for death. It doesn’t come. I don’t feel their bolts skewering me or their flames devouring me. No blade comes for my head. I look up. I’m still in the mall. People are staring at me but only a few. Most of them are still going about their business. Where did those hunters go?

  I scan the crowd, looking for any sign of them, and I swear I see a familiar face. It’s only for an instant. Someone walks in front of her, and she seems to disappear, but I swear it was her. Was that all a hallucination?

  Shaking my head, I shove through the small crowd of concerned onlookers, looking for any sign of her. She was real, wasn’t she? Bianca?

  There’s no sign of her anywhere. I can’t smell her either.

  With a heavy sigh, I throw myself into a nearby chair. The table seems to be empty, so I’m not drawing any extra attention to myself. I pinch the bridge of my nose, shutting my eyes, focusing on my other senses. I’m not looking for her anymore. She was just part of my delusion. I’m trying to center myself, to calm down enough that I can leave without leaving a pile of bodies behind me.

  After a few moments, I stand up, my eyes still closed, and walk back to the entrance, using my other senses to avoid walking into anyone else. When I’m finally back in my car, the tears begin to fall.

  That’s never happened before. The flashbacks have only ever been in my dreams. It’s never made me hallucinate. Maybe the pills only made me worse. I’m not taking any more of them. I can’t handle that again. It felt real. I was certain I was going to die. And I was sure I saw Bianca.

  Chapter Five

  Depression

  I’m not quite sure how long I’ve been on this couch. I know that The Great British Bake Off was on at some point, but I couldn’t tell what happened. I don’t particularly care, either. I know I made it home from the mall. Well, I must have. I’m here. I don’t remember the drive at all.

  It was dark a minute ago, why is the sun up? Oh, well. I can deal with it. It’s not worth the effort to draw the blinds. It’s not like I’ll spontaneously combust or anything. I just have a bit of a headache. I close my eyes. I’m not sure if I’ve actually slept yet.

  I wake up to a beak poking repeatedly against my head. Did he slap me with his wing? “Harvey?” I mutter. My voice is hoarse. It sounds strange to my ears.

  He squawks, flapping indignantly.

  “What?”

  He squawks again.

  If only parrots could talk. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

  “Carrots?”

  It takes all of the strength I have, but I force myself to my feet and shamble to his cage, tossing some feed into the dish before giving him his medication. He squawks again, looking curiously at me before flying into his cage and taking a bite of the food.

  Yawning, I wander back to the couch.

  I must’ve fallen asleep again since the sun is now down, and phaser noises are coming from the TV. Lying there, I can’t quite summon up the energy to put anything else on. I stare, only able to use one eye as the other is pressed against the armrest of the couch. There’s a spot on the floor. Where did that come from? It’s not blood, and it doesn’t look like parrot droppings or shedding. I watch it for hours. What could it be?

  The sun rises, and I realize that it was a trick of the light. That was exciting.

  I turn over, burying my face against the couch cushions.

  At some point, I wake up and feed Harvey. That reminds me, how long has it been since I’ve eaten? What day is it?

  Rather than checking, I return to the couch. There’s already an outline in the shape of my body, and it would be rude not to fill it. Someone made a cake roll on television. I don’t think I’d have the appetite to eat even if I needed people food.

  Talons touch down on my chest. I blink, staring into Harvey’s golden eyes. He stares back, tilting his head back and forth as he examines me.

  “I’m not dead.” Well, I guess I am, but that’s hardly relevant to his question.

  “Dead.”

  I blink. “Thanks.”

  He flaps once. “Tea?”

  Something vaguely resembling a smile forms on my face. I do have the sweetest little parrot. None of my cats or dogs ever cared about me ha
lf as much as he does. “I love you, Harvey.” I let my eyes drift closed again. Was there something I was supposed to do?

  “Tea.”

  I wave a hand vaguely at him. “In a little while.”

  The sound of my phone ringing wakes me up. I pat my pocket and don’t see it. I look at the coffee table and at the floor around me. It’s only then that I realize the sound is coming from behind me. Am I so out of it that I can’t even use my damn superhuman senses?

  I snatch the phone from its charger on the counter and answer the call. When did I plug it in? There’s no way Harvey would have known to do that. “Hello?” I ask, yawning.

  “Ms. Crocetti,” I recognize the voice, but I can’t quite place it, “Did you forget about our appointment?”

  Harvey’s not scheduled for a few more days, I’m pretty sure. He still has a couple pills left. That doesn’t sound like Mia, anyway. I mean Dr. Sun. Damn it.

  “You there?”

  “Sorry.”

  “You said you wanted to do therapy by phone, remember? Now’s your appointment.”

  “Oh.” It’s Ms. Rosseau-Lester. I guess that makes sense. “Yes, sorry.” I collapse back on the couch, the phone still clutched to my ear.

  “Are you doing okay? You sound really out of it.”

  “I’m fine.”

  She sighs, her chair turning beneath her. She sounds genuinely concerned. Great, I’ve worried my bird and my therapist. I must be worse than I thought. “I’m generally not too big on pushing a client who doesn’t want to talk, but you sound like you might need it. Did you try the medications?”

  “They don’t work.”

  “How long did you try them for?”

  “I tried the Prazosin once.”

  “And the Lamotrigine?”

  I shrug.

  Somehow, she seems to catch my meaning. I can almost hear her roll her eyes. “They don’t work instantly. You need to give them more of a shot.”

  “No, I’m done with them. I’m done with trying to fix me. All it does is make things worse.” That’s the most words I’ve said in days. I need a drink.