Chapter 60
It happens without me knowing it’s happening, without a quiver of my lip, without the smell of rust. But now tears are rolling down my cheeks and I can’t stop them.
Panic washes over me like a wave as he stares at me, his face a little pale now, his heart beating fast. And I know what he’s seeing: a monster crying blood.
His eyes are wide, his feet fixed to the spot. I stare back at him, frantically wiping the blood from my face. Because I don’t know what happens now, but I know it’ll be bad. How can it not be? That nanny cam is probably still recording. Watching me cry blood.
All I can do is try to reason with him.
‘But Jonathan,’ I say quickly, sniffing and wiping the blood off my hands, onto my jeans, ‘you dated me. You’re linked to me . . . If something happens to me, people will know it was you.’
His voice comes out monotone, like he’s in shock, like even though he suspected this, now that I’m here before him, crying blood, it’s a bit much. ‘We had a brief fling and broke up,’ he says.
‘No. I didn’t tell anyone we broke up,’ I say. ‘I said we were on a break. And I told my friend Es I was coming here tonight,’ I continue.
He swallows hard, shaking his head. And then it’s like he snaps out of it, whatever shock-trance he was in.
‘I have your phone,’ he says, blinking hard.
‘I’ve read your messages. I know you told everyone we broke up.
Yes, your friend Es is an issue, but I’ve dealt with it.
’ He turns and rushes to the door and I can’t let him go, what happens to me then?
‘Well, what about your Instagram? You have pictures of me up there. I follow you. And what about the messages you sent me,’ I say through a tight throat, ‘you clearly wanted to see me. People will figure out where I went missing if you do anything to me . . .’
He looks back at me, holding onto the door frame, and with the same contempt I’ve seen in the mirror many times, he says, ‘That Instagram was bogus, just for you. Mainly paid bots follow it. I never contacted you with my real number. Besides, I have three witnesses who will swear that I was here all night with them, that we never saw you. That I did nothing wrong. In the morning, Riley will Uber around town with your phone. Drop “you” off somewhere—maybe a train station, maybe in someone’s bag.
But Aubrey, nobody is coming for you. Nobody will even care when you’re gone.
So just relax and give into it. It’ll all be over soon.
’ And there is this look on his face, like he’s proud of himself.
Like he wants me to know that he won. Again.
Like even if he doesn’t remember what he did to me in his past life, his soul knows, and it wants to do it again.
Like a circle that needs to complete itself.
Then he rushes outside and I hear him say to the others, ‘Where were you guys, sleeping? She tried to motherfucking eat me . . . did you see? Did you see? Let’s watch the clip back.’
The bag of blood is still right there near me, and I’m never getting out of here, I know that now.
They’re going to kill me. I crawl over to it, and as I lift it up, my gums tingle and my little fangs come out and I don’t even use the straw.
I bite right into it. I do it even though I know that camera is still watching me.
And there, despite the grow lights, as I drink, there’s heat in my stomach—a shimmering fury—a sensation I’ve felt many times and always feared, always pushed down.
But not this time. This time, I let it pulse and burn.
Because I think I finally understand. I understand why my darkness wins whenever a child, a woman, anyone vulnerable is being harmed.
Why a rage takes hold that I can’t push down.
It’s because I was hurt. I was murdered.
My mind might not remember, but my soul does. My soul remembers everything. It wants to protect others, the way nobody protected me.
As I drain the bag and look around at the cage I’m stuck in, it almost seems funny.
Because I’ve spent my whole life trying to be good, putting myself in a cage. Watching the world through screens and the bars of windows. Closeting myself away. Pushing down my rage, my darkness, telling myself to never-ever-ever lose control, because then I’d be a monster.
I’ve spent my whole life wanting to die.
Because that was better than being me.
But now, now that I’m most likely going to die soon—at the hand of the same man who killed me last time—all I want is to live.
To get out of here and see the moon another 55,026 times; to feel the breeze on my skin; to see the world as it really is.
Because sure, it’s cruel and unfair and lonely as fuck at times, but it’s also beautiful and poetic and surprising.
This last week showed me that—it was chaotic and unpredictable and ugly and messy, and full of big emotions I couldn’t push down and people I couldn’t control.
But it was the first time that I knew I could die at any moment, and it was magic. I felt . . . alive.
And I could have lived the last 150 years like that.
I could have danced all night and slept all day and worn beautiful clothes and watched the years come and go and met a million people and smoked cigarettes with breakfast and fallen in and out of love.
I could have lived by my own rules. But more than that, I might not have always been good, but I could have done good.
I could have dealt with guys like Red Flannel Jeff years ago.
I could have been so much more than I was if I’d just hated myself a little less.
Stopped trying so hard to be everything I wasn’t, stopped pushing down that darkness.
Stopped trying so hard to stay human, to be the complete opposite of who I am, and let myself just . . . be.
Now that I think about it, why have I been so desperate to become human-me again?
She clearly wasn’t perfect. She cheated.
She probably did other bad things too. And humans aren’t exactly angelic.
I mean, I love Daphne and Es and they’re good, but not every human is good .
. . look at the ones in this house. I’ve always thought that deep down, despite their fallibility, humans were better than vampires.
But I’m starting to realise we’re all monsters, in our own way.
So maybe I’ve had it wrong all along.
Maybe my darkness isn’t so bad. Maybe I’m fine, as I am.
For all the pain Oscar brought me, he showed me that.
He lied and manipulated and was brutal and callous, but he was also unapologetically real.
And he let me be real too. He showed me that life didn’t have to be perfect and in soft-focus to be worth something.
It just had to be lived. Really lived. I see that now.
He did a lot wrong, but he did that right.
I finish the bag of blood and look around. I’m still tired and weak from the grow lights, but there is something inside me now, and it whispers, I need to get out of here.
And I don’t want to do it for Jonathan or Oscar, or anyone else.
I want to do it for me.
I want to live for me.
I want to fight for me. The me I am now, the me that Jonathan murdered, and the me I haven’t become yet.
So, when the door handle begins to turn again, I think, Bring it on.