by Lewis Aleman
“We need to leave—now,” his voice powerful and certain.
“Where?” squeaks from my mouth, my mind still struggling to take in the unreal situation that surrounds me.
Shaking his head, “Don’t have time for this. We walk out together right now, or I throw you over my shoulder and leave that way.”
He sees my repulsed expression.
“Sorry, but I’d rather have you hate me alive than like me dead.”
“Who says I like you?”
“Your lips did.”
“When?”
“Last night. Assumed you’re not the type to touch your lips to just anyone.”
“Care to read what they’re saying now?”
Chapter VI
Dark Leg of the Triangle
They say every story has three sides. Two are the sides of the people fighting or loving each other, and the third side is the truth. The third voice is the one people hate more than anything because it shows the lies in the first two sides, and most people have already picked their favorite of the first two—the one they want to believe, and they hate hearing that they were wrong—they despise hearing anything different than what they want to be true.
The third point of view puts an end to the discussion—the fight they’ve been enjoying over and over again—whether the hero will live, whether the good guy gets the girl, or what suitor the fickle heroine will choose. The third voice ends it all—no more imagining how things will turn out, no more arguing with other fans about how it should all end, no more teams rooting for their chosen character to be the winner.
The third p.o.v. declares a clear victor, making all their cleverly-worded phrases and insults at the other side worthless and outdated. Even the wittiest snarky comment attacking the winner is worthless because, if it held any truth, the winner would not have won. If someone says something will happen and it doesn’t, that someone is wrong. Period. No amount of nasty criticisms will ever change that. All of their claims at coolness and all of their weapons against their opposition are made obsolete.
My name is Edgar. I am the outside point of view, and there’s no shortage of people I’ve made hate me.
Pulled into this by Roderick. His angry voice waking me this morning from the deep sleep at the end of a rowdy night. My bloodshot eyes were angry as they opened to see his furious face peering down on me, but I knew I had to obey.
Was impossible to look past him to the yellow, smoke-stained, sagging motel ceiling. Hard to look past him at anything else. His form demands attention.
Roderick’s presence is a magnetic darkness. No matter where he goes, eyes follow, imaginations race to keep up, and courage flees the viewer’s chest.
If I summoned the sun amazingly close to the earth, right at the edge of the horizon—a giant fireball singeing and melting all that we hold dear, and if I placed Roderick in front of it, his shadow would be all you’d notice. Were he standing between the jaws of a monstrous shark the size of a shopping center—tearing through the water toward you at terrifying speed, you’d look past the raw pink gums, razor-like triangular teeth, and emotionless black eyes to the man standing in the ghastly mouth staring into you as if he knows all of your secrets and all the good things you wish you could do while he smirks at how little he cares about any of it or about what he is going to do to you.
I hate Roderick like the addict hates his dealer. Just as dependent on the decadence he brings me. My body aches, waiting for the terrible hit to fill the hole inside of me, feeling as though I’ll die the worst, sweaty, shaky death ever experienced—until I see his unholy form with my relief.
He’ll supply the hit I need. For a moment I’ll feel euphoric, but at the peak of the relief I’ll turn sour, knowing the next urge will be all the stronger, knowing with every fix that I’m sliding deeper from the light of freedom, feeding the withdrawal that grows wider as it devours me more every day. Every time I quench the need, it only makes the next need stronger—demanding more juice to fill it.
I hate the narrowing light of hope for reminding me that I could climb out, I hate Roderick for giving me the poison that I begged him for, and I hate myself for not thinking I’m worth the fight to quit.
I’ve done terrible things to fill a terrible need. Time and again.
I don’t know what Simon’s done to bring on the wrath of Roderick, but I’ll bring Roderick what he wants, even if it means I’ll do terrible things to Simon.
The girl needs to be taken alive. Simon can be dragged back either way.
Chapter VII
Twilight under Treetops
The sunlight turns a strained orange color, almost looking burned, as it reaches through the tree branches down onto the ground all around me.
When I started this day, I surely didn’t think it’d end up with my butt in the dirt, watching my shirtless protector sweat as he sharpens the points of branches into spears with his fingernails. Heck, when I woke this morning, I had no idea I’d ever see him again, much less learn his name, have him save my life a second time, and lastly whisk me away into the middle of the woods.
Thus far, my twentieth year is either the most bizarre I’ve ever known, or it has become so dull that I’ve lost my mind and decided to live in a fantasy world. Scary to think I’m only two days into it. As I watch him with all of his attention on tearing into the branches to make sharp points, as little notice of me as a caterpillar climbing up a nearby tree trunk, I know this is no delusional fantasy of mine. I’d have him focused on me. Sad that this is the only proof that I haven’t gone insane: the boy ignores me.
Somewhere along the high-velocity, hour-long drive out here, he grew silent. Brushing off my questions with one-word answers or none at all. Every time his eyes began to look warm again, he’d shake it off, resurrecting his cold and focused facade.
It’s like he’s the jaded twin brother of the man I met last night. He seems so far from the guy who jumped from a rooftop to save me from three beasts. He doesn’t even resemble the boy who convinced me to leave my half-full mocha latte sitting on a table to run away with him.
All of those things vex me to my core, but the one that stings the most is he seems to have nothing left of the smooth Casanova who danced with me, made my body glisten from his heat, and kissed me with more passion than I’ve ever felt.
The few glimmers of his past self that have broken his stone persona have come when I’ve called him by his name. In those moments, the effect was only fleeting, but they were the highlights of our hours in the woods. Simon—the name still seems so special to me—the last connection I have to the beau in my heart, a picture locket to a widow.
Can’t understand how he’s grown so cold. All of a sudden I’m repulsive to him—he becomes annoyed every time I make him acknowledge me.
Was he just drunk last night, and the infatuation’s worn off? Am I ugly to his sober eyes?
He moved too well to be that drunk. Threw stools across the dance floor and exactly onto the thugs’ backs that he was aiming for way up on the stage.
Am I such an odd girl that I was just a different flavor for him to taste? A freak to try out?
The last glow of the twilight begins to give way to the blanketing night.
I can’t take it anymore.
“Why are you ignoring me?”
Doesn’t look away from the point he is sharpening.
“Did I do something wrong?”
Still no response.
Shaking, “If you won’t talk to me about what the hell is going on, I swear I’ll walk out of these woods and leave you here to be nasty and mean all by yourself,” deep breath, “I swear it, Simon.”
Without budging his head or slowing the stroke of his nails into the branch, he says, “If you have any desire to live, I can’t leave your side.”
His voice sounds so flat—drained of emotion.
“Doesn’t sound like you’d care anyway.”
“Doesn’t matter if I care. It’s a fact. You leave—y
ou die.”
Sniffling becomes involuntary, “Well, what if you’re killing me now?”
“I haven’t done anything to you.”
“You haven’t?”
“Don’t be dramatic. Haven’t laid a hand on you.”
“Yes, you did. Your hands were on me last night, and they protected me today.”
“Never laid a hand on you in anger. Never hurt you.”
Silence except for the faint drone of grasshoppers and my sniffling.
Giving up on getting through to him, letting my heart tear itself freely, I whisper to myself, “Yes, you did hurt me.”
He still carves. Shutting me out.
A whimper squeals out from me, pushing past the lips I try to hold tightly together.
The whittling stops. He turns and looks at me.
“How?” he asks.
“What?”
“How did I hurt you?”
Stunned, I say nothing. How could he have possibly heard me? It was barely a whisper, and he sits far away from me. Finally, I say, “You got my hopes up. Made me think you liked me—only to crush me now.”
He sighs, “I never promised you anything. Has it occurred to you that I might have nothing good to offer? That everything inside me is bad for you?”
“Isn’t it up to me what’s good for me?”
“You have no idea what’s good for you. Can’t be twenty years old yet, and you think you know what’s good for you,” he snickers—a cruel, forced chuckle with no joy in his voice.
“You promised me even though the world tries to pull us apart they won’t win.”
Looking away from me and toward the jagged spikes he’s piled up at his feet, “You shouldn’t believe everything a guy tells you in a bar.”
The exhaustion, the emotional strain, and the fear have taken their toll on me, but it’s the hurt that obliterates. Tears fall. All strength is gone.
His face is stone. Beautiful and cold. Can’t tell if his eyes are welling up like my own—tears blur my vision.
Magnificent.
Handsome.
Monster.
The saddest sound to touch my worn ears still eats at my soul two hours after it’s been silenced. I’ve heard junkies beg for a hit, promising disgusting favors, having sold all their dignity for that temporary rush. I’ve heard young widows wail at the loss of their husbands in war. I’ve even heard my own wretched cries when Eleni was taken from me.
None of them tore at me so violently as hearing her cry herself to sleep. Hunted. Endangered. Betrayed.
Maybe her cries hurt me most because I caused them. All the others were the result of tragedy. Cruel fate. Her cries were given birth by my harsh words. Her pain is my spawn. Inflicted upon her against her will.
Her sweet voice asking what she had done—assuming she had failed me in some way. It echoes in my head. Cutting deeper every time it repeats.
Her sad, green eyes on fire beneath her silky brown hair, melting from my words. Breaks my heart to think some of her sweetness may have been burned away forever. Hopefully, all of this will save what’s left of her. Even if it kills all that’s still tender in me.
She still sleeps.
Her slumber has grown deep, blanketed in the heavy peace of the moonlight filtering through the night air.
The same moonlight offers a dim illumination of her body. Staring at her closely for so long, the light seems to sparkle over every contour, especially along the slope of her neck as she lies on her side—her hands tucked sweetly under head—her hair spread out on the ground around her as beautiful as freshly-fallen, golden brown autumn leaves.
Voices scream in my head. I’ve fought them my whole life except for the past six months. Finally gave into the bloodlust and fed carefully on select girls, never damaging any of them more than leaving them a little lightheaded and lonely the next morning.
Fought it for so long. Decades. A marathon fasting that left me broken and bitter. Was strong for so many years, but not like this. Not like some psycho standing over her while she sleeps, staring at her, absorbing her beauty like a predator in the shadows, letting her dainty scent tantalize my senses and make my fangs ache.
Never had to stand guard like this. Taunting myself with an aroma I can only smell as a tease, never allowing myself to taste. It’d be one thing to shut her out, avoid her like hell, and try to keep my mind free of her body’s temptation. That would be torture enough. It’s quite another thing to have her before me, glistening in the moonlight, smelling as delicious as a fantasy, filling me with desire.
Her image is more than any pheromone. Her hot body rising and falling with each breath, throbbing with every heartbeat. She is more than a feast to a ravenous man, more than Aphrodite appearing to a shipwrecked sailor—lost and achingly alone on a deserted island.
It doesn’t help that I haven’t fed in days—it was two nights before I met Ruby when I last satisfied the craving. The healing has taxed my body—the fights have left my muscles sore. Fighting off whatever the hell they put into me with that needle has eaten away nearly everything left in me. Every part of me screams to be rejuvenated. Just a little taste would relieve so much anguish. Just a quick embrace at her neck would silence the grinding voices in my head.
She twitches in her sleep—I can see the blood pulsing under delicate human flesh like a scarlet ghost beneath a thin sheet of glorious skin. It’s like I can see another version of her just beneath the surface, shimmering and otherworldly, calling me over with a beckoning finger.
I quietly step toward her, until I can lean down and put my face the closest distance from her cheek. The temptation rages inside me. Mind races for any excuse to dive into her. It’s some insane irony that my desire for her as a person only adds to the need to taste her as a prey.
Even in sleep, she makes my body ache in agony.
I can’t take it. Losing control. Her wiles fill my mind clouding everything else. Stumble away from her—eyes closed.
Arch my back at the night sky that illuminates beyond the treetops, throw my hands to my head, and scream, “No, I won’t do it!”
Her flesh jumps. Her eyes flutter. I’m still not free.
Shut my eyes and scream again, “Never! Won’t do it!”
When I finally let my eyes open, Ruby sits, legs crossed in front of her and her arms wrapped tightly across her chest.
“Wh-what was that about?” her chin shakes as she speaks.
“Bad dream,” I say.
She looks entirely unconvinced and uncomforted.
I continue, “Forget it. Lots going on lately. Took a beating today—of course, I’m going to have bad dreams. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.”
Her face looks troubled, and she squirms.
“I told you I’d be fine. Don’t worry about it and go back to sleep.”
I can see her blood pulsing through her exposed arms and neck. Every pulse of her heart makes the shape of her lovely body glow in my eyes, like she’s wiggling every part of herself before me. Her neck a hot, illuminated crescent. I slam my eyes shut, trying to shake the temptation off. Straining to block it all out of my mind.
Leaves and twigs crackle close to me.
Panic flings my eyes wide open. She’s within an arm’s reach.
“I told you to go back to sleep,” I say roughly. Correcting my tone to something softer, I add, “You need to rest after what you’ve been through. We may need to run at any time.”
“I—I, uh,” she says looking everywhere but my face.
“You need to go to sleep.”
“Okay, alright, I will,” she hesitates, “After.”
“After what?”
“After I take care of something.”
“What? We’re out in the middle of nowhere—what could you possibly have to do?”
“I—I just need to do things.”
“What things, Ruby?”
“Private things.”
“Look, I know I hurt your feelings earlier, a
nd I’m sorry that that’s just the way it’s gotta be, but you have no idea how much danger you’re in. They could’ve followed us. Could be waiting out there—right in the darkness. Looking for the one moment that I fall asleep or let you out of my sight. You need to take this very serious—”
“Shut up! Shut up!”
Her voice is so urgent that I obey instantly.
“Personal things! Things most girls like to pretend they never do.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh. You jerk. Sure know how to embarrass a girl.” She looks so wounded. So humiliated. I feel miserable.
“I—I didn’t know.”
“What’d you think? We’ve been gone for twelve hours or more, and you haven’t let me outta your sight? What’d you expect?”
“Fine,” I say a lot more harshly than intended, “Head a few trees into the woods, and I’ll turn around.”
“No way, buddy. I need my space—maybe 100 feet or so.”
“Can’t do it. Not safe.”
“Look, this is happening whether you like it or not, and you need to get a grip.” Lowering her voice softly, “God knows I wish it weren’t happening.”
I look down at my boots, shake my head, and sigh.
Squatting down in a dark forest, I try to think of all the words to “Voices Carry.” I like the song and all—loved hearing it last night, but it’s not so much a subject that enthralls me as it’s something to keep my mind from imagining bugs crawling up my legs or a snake nipping at my bare butt.
Why is it that every other girl living some kind of a romantic fantasy gets to be “La Bella Principessa,” the perfect and adored swan among gangly geese, and I’m out here crouching in the bushes just forty feet from my dream guy desperately hoping I’m far enough away from him, and the only Bella I feel like is a Béla Lugosi monster? What could be more feminine and dainty than poppin’ a squat in the middle of the woods on the first date?
