“Are you alright?” Henry asked when he reached the centre of the room.
I shut the front door, put on the safety latch, and turned to him. I nodded slowly. I cleared my throat and willed myself to speak but found it nearly impossible.
“Do you need me to take you to a hospital, Sophia?”
My hand touched the wound on the back of my neck, but I shook my head. I was strangely calm, at peace. Henry looked around the room, noticing the empty vodka bottles that littered my living room floor. The rumpled bedsheets.
I hated my body and I hated my scars, but with shaking fingers, I forced myself to untie the sash from my waist. I let my robe drop to the floor, completely naked underneath.
Henry’s eyes widened minutely, but they never left my face. Both of us had frozen.
I willed myself not to look down to my bandaged thighs, the criss-cross of fresh cuts on my flesh. The old scars on my arms. I forced myself not to curl up, to rub my wounds.
The house was cold, as I was scant with the heating, but I felt nothing but the roar inside my head, pushing me forward. I took slow and deliberate steps towards Henry. I grabbed the collar of his white dress shirt and crushed his lips to mine. Fire raced from my head to my belly. My head swam and warmth pooled between my thighs.
I unintentionally let out a low groan of pleasure. Simply feeling the skin contact of his lips on mine was intoxicating. My moan seemed to thaw him and he wrapped his arms around my waist, his strong hands pressed into the small of my back and forcing me towards him. The kiss deepened. Our tongues battled for dominance, his hands roamed my body and left tingling sparks along my skin.
I broke the contact, just enough to look at Henry’s face, our chests heaved with promise. As if following a silent cue, Henry grabbed my thighs and hoisted my legs around his waist. I felt the cool metal of his belt buckle and the straining fabric of his trousers against the apex of my thighs. I wrapped my legs tighter and he walked backwards to the futon.
I felt drunk, high and completely intoxicated with pleasure. My thoughts swam and turned to mush as I became lightheaded.
When Henry fell back onto the futon, he kept his grip on my thighs and pulled me on top of him. I felt the tickle of my long hair against my breasts as I leant forward to plant fluttering kisses down Henry’s chest. My vision began to blur and I noticed that Henry’s hands had not left my thighs.
This was going exactly as planned.
Suicide by incubus.
When my eyes began to roll backwards into my head, not from pleasure but as I neared the edge of consciousness. Henry’s grip loosened. He put his thumb in his mouth and bit down, hard enough to draw blood.
Dizzy but determined to take this the entire way, I leant forward to continue the kiss, to push him forward. Instead, Henry caressed my bottom lip with his thumb. He left a warm smear of blood on the inside of my lip and my tongue met it involuntarily. Taste exploded in my mouth, cloves, spices and something fresh and clean like peppermint. I moaned again and felt my head clear. I looked down to Henry’s crotch and reached forward, I began to fiddle with the buttons when I noticed that the fresh scars on my arms had faded and nearly disappeared.
Henry raised his hands to put them on either side of my face but I looked down to my thighs, which were spread across the daemon’s hips. Confused and scared. I removed the bandages from my legs with ease and rubbed the skin, it was perfect and unblemished.
His blood had healed my scars.
The drunken descent to unconscious had receded and I allowed Henry to take my mouth with his. I ground into him and sighed in pleasure. No long drained.
No longer drained.
“Son of a bitch!” I snarled.
Henry looked back at me, I saw his eyes turn to flint. They didn’t turn ice blue but remained their deep Lapis Lazuli.
“Excuse me, Sophia?” He said, his eyebrow arched.
“You gave me your blood.”
“Yes.”
“You’re not taking my life-force. Why?” I demanded.
Henry expression changed from passion and desperation to cold hard anger. He put his hands on my hips and shifted me to one side as he stood up. His shirt was unbuttoned and his belt was undone, but he walked to the centre of the room with purpose. Henry picked up my robe and handed it to me. His expression defeated.
“I’m ending this now.” He said.
My mouth went dry, I stood up and took the robe from his hand. Suddenly cold, foolish and very naked. Wrapping the robe around my waist, I went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. It was empty apart from half a bottle of wine in the door and a jar of Colman’s mustard.
I had run out of Vodka. Turning the cheap screw-lid, I downed the contents of the wine. It was off and bitter.
I took my spare cigarettes from the top of the fridge and an ashtray. I pulled my robe tighter and I walked to the front door. I stood there, squaring up to it, without a word I opened it and left it ajar for Henry to follow.
I stood hunched over with my hands cupped as I lit the cigarette between my dry chapped lips. I sat down unsteadily and placed the ashtray on the elevated concrete ledge. The wind was bitter and cold. Harsh against my face and my eyes watered. I took another drag and looked to the sky. No stars in London tonight.
I felt a bitter tear on my cheek but I did not wipe it away. I heard Henry sit beside me. The concrete was cold but I didn’t care.
“I don’t like being used, Ms Taylor.” Henry said.
I tilted my head back from looking at the stars and looked directly at him. He didn’t smile, he stared intently at me.
“No one does,” I said, my voice broke with tears. He let out a bitter chuckle.
I extended my hand to his cheek, he lifted his hand and placed his hand over mine. I could feel the electricity. It went right through my fingers and straight to my stomach, it was like fireworks under my skin.
“Sorry,” I murmured. I moved my hands back.
I could see myself reflected in his deep blue eyes. I shivered deep to my core.
I wondered why I was such an idiot, inviting the daemon back into my life when I could have easily lived without him in it. I clenched my jaw and tried to push the dark swirling thoughts from my mind. I was going to hell, I might as well have a good time on the way there.
Henry smiled. It made him look innocent, human but still the daemon shone through and lit him up from within. He was to be frightened of, something older and ancient.
“I should be scared of you. But I’m not.” I stated; my voice low and husky.
“Then you have a death wish.”
“I think we have already established that.” My lips hitched into a smile but I shook my head and sighed.
“How pathetic…” I laughed. “It’s ten o’clock at night, crying on the bathroom floor and the person I happen to call is an incubus. What does that say about me?”
“I can leave if you want,” Henry muttered. It sounded like that was the last thing he wanted.
“No—you were the only person,” I finally looked into his eyes and they had lightened to a pale icy blue from deep lapis lazuli, “…that I could talk to.”
Henry took a big breath, “You drink a lot.”
“No more than anyone else.” I hedged.
He shrugged. “I used to be a drunk, you know,” Henry said as he looked into the dark street. His lips pulled back into a frown as he scowled into the night air. “It doesn’t do anything for me now.”
I could hear people talking, rowdy and loud on the other side of the street, I tilted my chin to my front door and pulled my robe tighter.
The daemon nodded and I smiled weakly, I kept my head down as we walked into my house.
“Are you okay?” Henry asked.
“Weirdly enough, I am.”
Henry raised his hand again and then dropped it, turning away. He sat down on the futon, I felt my cheeks heat from the memory of him between my thighs.
“Tell me about yourself?” I shook m
y head to clear the dirty thoughts.
“I like jazz,” he smiled as if he recalled memories. I was jealous, just an empty vessel pooling knowledge and wishing that I had some to share.
“Are you afraid of anything?” I asked.
“There is little to fear when nothing can kill you,” his lips pulled into a crooked smile.
“Au contraire,” I muttered. Henry laughed and clicked his tongue on the roof his mouth as if debating something.
“I guess you’re correct. I do have a fear,” he conceded.
“Oh really?”
“Moths…butterflies…” he shuddered.
I wanted to laugh at him, I wanted to smile and try and pretend he was a normal human, but there was an underlying voice in my head throughout. Daemon: daemon, daemon, monster, monster, monster. But I wanted my personal angel to realise that I wanted to hear about him, everything about him.
Without a thought or care, I leant forward and crushed my lips to his.
It occurred to me quickly that Henry was not continuing the kiss. I felt the familiar dizziness return and I slumped down. The world faded to white noise and darkness.
I realised he was calling my name repeatedly but it sounded like he was underwater. I felt my body slide to the cool wooden floor and his icy hand grabbed my shoulders. Everything hurt—my eyes eased shut.
I woke up in bed, the sheets were scratchy and stiff like paper towels you’d find in a restroom in a service station.
“Hello, Ms Taylor—I’m glad to see you’re finally up,” a cheerful voice accosted me from my grogginess. I flung my hand to my head and pushed my hair out of my face. There was a nurse at the bottom of my bed but it wasn’t my bed…it was a hospital bed.
“What…where?” I asked slowly.
“Your friend brought you in. It seemed that you were slipping in and out of consciousness. There is nothing wrong with you. It was just lack of sleep and nutrients, seems a case of fatigue to me,” the nurse said brightly. I looked down to my hand and realised it was attached to an IV. I groaned and shivered, trying not to look at it.
Henry had left me—he just dropped me off? What the fuck?
“My friend?” I croaked, and then cleared my throat, “where is he?”
The nurse smiled kindly. Pity, I guessed. “He dropped you off and left honey. Didn’t say anything else.”
I nodded and put my free hand onto my stomach as it clenched in regret and fear.
The nurse’s eyes dropped down to my arms for a second and I flinched realising that my scars were on show for the world to see. The fresh ones had healed thanks to Henry’s blood, but the deeper and older scars were visible. Roll up roll up fuckers—self-harm on display.
Why did Henry leave? I wondered.
“You should get some sleep, Ms Taylor. The doctor will be back in the morning to discharge you.” I nodded and kept my head down as I looked at the scratchy blanket and wondered what I did wrong.
The doctor tried to refer me to a counsellor, but luckily for me the hospital was so busy that I never saw the same doctor twice. I didn’t have mental health problems. I just had a few scars. Nothing to worry about.
I kept my arms to myself, smiled and told them that I had been feeling under the weather—possibly a stomach bug that had already passed and I wanted to go home. I left the next day.
I felt the need to get out of my clothing as soon as possible and wash the hospital smell of my skin. It reminded me of my dad’s cancer more than a decade ago.
When I got home—finally, I sat on my bed and checked my voicemail but Henry hadn’t called, texted or emailed. He hadn’t even been in my house; it was as I left it.
I turned on the shower and put my hand under this time to make sure the temperature was just right, I peeled off my old clothing and stood for a few seconds in the spray of the shower, the cold white tiles seemed so enclosed that I circled around and felt trapped. Thinking of everything that had happened yesterday—the too vivid memories that came, I leant against the tiles with my bare arms above my head as if I was tied to a stake. I was breathing heavily as the water hit my back and I could hear my sister as I was pelted by the harsh spray of raining water from the shower head.
“I’ll see you in an hour,” she said.
I turned off the shower and picked up my towel, shaking my head at myself.
Pathetic. I walked down the hallway and right to the end of the corridor when I reached my bedroom door. I put my hand on the doorknob, the other arm suspending my towel around my breasts. I froze and turned to the door just next to mine.
I stared at Melanie’s door and released my hand from the brass doorknob. I took two steps, and then another two until I was face to face with a room that I hadn’t been in for a year—a place that I hadn’t touched, hadn’t looked at, and tried not to think about.
It screamed at me. I turned the door handle and took a step into the room. Taking a deep breath, I let it hit me like a bulldozer. The room smelt like Melanie, like green tea, jasmine body spray and shampoo. The bed was neatly made; the cover was blue with a kitsch paisley pattern and the bookcase was full to the brim and taking up the entire right-hand wall.
I could see the dust, a thick blanket cloaking over the wooden shelves. I got closer and trailed my fingers along it, searching the titles and looking at anything that may have been misplaced or a book that looked more worn than the others. I reached the end of the room by the window, the curtains were drawn my attention to the empty space at the end of the shelf near the top. I knew the book that went in that space.
The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath. The dust had been disturbed by fingers marks, Henry had taken a book to read but it had been the one book that Melanie had written her name in; right on the second page. Her favourite book. He had come in here and disturbed her room. I shook with anger. I slammed my hand onto the bookcase and screamed in frustration.
“You left me at the hospital—you left me, Henry! You had no right to take that book!” I shouted to the empty room, bubbling rage that almost seemed visible. My sister’s bed smelt like her and for the first time in a year, I slept without dreams of blackened skin and crawling through a pit of needles.
7.
In the staff room, I kept my head down as Gina counted the fifty-pound float at the beginning of the night. She watched me anxiously and gave a pleading glance as if begging me to tell her what happened. I chewed my gum with exaggerated jaw movements and ignored her. It was nicotine gum. I tried to not focus on my cravings and keep the smile on my face when all I felt was anger and need for a cigarette. My foot tapped the floor impatiently.
“I collapsed in my house Gina—it’s not like I died,”
“I should have come,” she said. “I worry about you in that house on your own. Now something like this happens…”
I pulled my lips into a half smile. “I had a stomach bug,”
Gina thrust a small brown envelope into my hands. The name SOPHIA TAYLOR was printed across the front. I opened it without a word and noted that my sick day had been deducted from my wages.
Gina busied herself with counting the coins, I sat by her side on a stool. Here for the early shift, bored and picking out dirt from under my nails.
I looked up to the security monitors. Nothing to report but watching the little ticker on the clock was exciting. In some conflicted way, I was counting the seconds in my life with fear.
One—because it could end at any moment, and that scared me. Two—because maybe, in some tiny way, I wanted it to end. I wanted to close my eyes and let the pain of life end and bring the reprieve of death. Three—I counted social interaction as a chore. You can only keep the happy, happy smiley faces on for so long.
Gina took the till lid and snapped the metal shut before sliding it onto the counter. She put her hand on her hip and leant across the white office desk.
“Someone came in for you yesterday,” she informed me.
I bit the inside of my cheek. “Who?”
“A m
an…good looking…tall…” she smirked. My heart was beating in my ears. Had he come to my workplace? When he knew that I was at the hospital, when he couldn’t even stay with me. Anger flared in the pit of my stomach and I worked hard to keep my face expressionless. I shrugged and continued to stare as if to urge her to continue. Gina smiled knowingly at me.
“Was he pale?” I asked hesitantly. “Brown hair? Blue eyes…”
Gina smirked. “Don’t know, he was good looking, that’s for sure. He’d get it.”
“Get what?” I wondered. “You’re married.”
“Unhappily married, might I add. He’d get it from me,” Gina told me. “He said he’d come in again tonight.”
“What was his name?” I asked.
“No—sorry didn’t catch it. If I’d have known that you’d be so crazy in love to see him I would have given you a call.”
I laughed forcefully, “and I wouldn’t have answered because I was in the hospital.”
“Still hate needles?” Gina said, pointing to my hand.
“Yes,”
Gina took a step forward and wrapped her arms around me. I just held her, weakly, and let her do it.
When my shift started, it was busy for a Monday night or maybe it was because I was trying to make myself busy so that I didn’t have to think. Like always—it didn’t work.
I was trapped in thoughts, the music thumped and people screamed their drink orders at me. I didn’t have to speak, I would just nod, immersed in my own little world.
Daemons of London Boxset (Books 1-3) The Bleeders, The Human Herders, The Purebloods Page 7
