Chapter 3 Denial is a River
DENIAL IS A RIVER
We've been at this for hours.
The raging, screaming, and thrashing of Angel coming to terms with what's happening to him is only occasionally punctuated by a few moments of blissful silent disbelief. When those moments come, I cherish them.
He's torn into his feather pillows, and the insides litter the bed like the last remnants of a dove massacre. The soft white fluff clings to his sweat-soaked hair and body as he breathlessly pounds his fists into the mattress.
"What the fuck is happening to me?" he roars toward the ceiling, fists clenched and raised. "Who did this to me?"
"I already told you," I say without looking up from my book. "Enemies of your father. Enemies of your family. People who want you dead. I guess being an asshole has consequences."
"I don't remember anything. I don't know how I got here," he cries. "I was at my house. I heard a noise outside, then...it's dark. It's all dark. Was I in…a helicopter?"
He'll wear himself out eventually. He has to. I roll my eyes and go back to my book, skimming it for more information on day three symptoms.
By day three the neophyte should be exhibiting the first signs of the thirst. Concurrently the body's demand for mortal sustenance abates, as the digestive organs purge the last traces of the final human meal.
You should expect sickness, but do not be deterred.
Continue to feed lacrimae at the appropriate dilution.
The fever should settle as the skin cools. ..
I steal a glance at Angel, who lets out a final, punishing wail and slumps onto the bed.
His labored breaths rattle through his chest like the last gasps of his human life leaving his body.
He's still burning up. His waxy skin is proof positive of that, but we have time for that to change.
It's still early in the day. At least I think it's day?
Without the moon to guide us, it's hard to tell and I’m not decoding the hours on the digital clock. Math was never my strong suit.
Then he's on his feet, wobbling but upright.
At first, I think he's going to try and kill me again, which would be stupid, but then I realize he's examining the walls with a manic look in his eyes, his face inches from the brick as he runs his hands along the bumpy surfaces looking for. ..what exactly?
He mutters to himself as he sways. "There has to be a way out of here. There has to be."
"Easy there, cowboy," I say, setting my book down on the coffee table and watching him bolster himself against the wall. "I left the restraints off so you'd be more comfortable, but I'm serious about you getting hurt."
The red telephone in the corner catches his eye, and for a fleeting moment he looks hopeful.
He picks up the receiver and jabs at the buttons frantically, a small smile threatening to break through on his face.
A few attempts later, when he's met with nothing but static, he throws the thing at the wall and gives up.
I replace the handset and let out a heavy sigh. "Stop trying to destroy everything, please. There's no point. You're in this for the long haul. There's no exit, and that phone only dials one number, and it's not the one you want right now."
He ignores me, moving along the perimeter of the room with his hand trailing the exposed brick wall.
When he reaches the kitchenette, he opens up the drawers and cabinets one by one.
Grasping for the contents, pulling them out and examining them before letting them clatter to the ground.
A chrome soup ladle, an unused potato ricer, a pair of unblemished ceramic salt and pepper shakers trail behind him.
It strikes me as odd that these very human items should be in a place for vampires, but perhaps the folks that built and decorated this place were mortal, adding flourishes of home comforts without ever knowing the true intention of what would happen in these four walls.
I pick up a spatula and jab it toward him. "You're wasting your very limited energy. Trust me, you're going to need it for what comes next."
"There's always a way out," he says, his voice tight. "Every prison has an exit."
"This isn't a prison. It's a—"
"It's a fucking prison if I can't leave!"
He's got me on that one.
He shoves past me to the bathroom and starts banging around in there, tearing into cabinets and making a mess I'll no doubt have to clean up later.
He's getting more agitated, which means another fever spike is coming.
I can see it in the flush creeping up his neck, the way his movements are becoming jerky and awkward.
He's in there for about a minute, and when he's exhausted all his options, he stumbles out and turns his attention upward. That's when he spots it—the small air vent near the ceiling, with a grate covering it.
His eyes lock onto it like he's found the Holy Grail.
"No," I say.
"I could fit through that."
"You absolutely could not fit through that."
He's already dragging a leather armchair toward the wall, determination overriding the weakness in his limbs.
I should stop him, but honestly? Let him try and fail.
Maybe it'll tire him out and he'll sleep for the rest of the day.
Watching him has become like babysitting an over-stimulated toddler raised on a diet of red M&Ms and banned video games.
His attention span is nonexistent, and I'm desperate for some peace.
"Angel, that vent is like eight inches wide."
"I'm very flexible." He climbs onto the chair, swaying dangerously.
"You're very delusional."
He reaches up, fingers scrabbling at the grate. It's screwed in tight, and even if he could remove it, even if he could somehow dislocate every bone in his body and squeeze through—
"What are you going to do?" I ask, genuinely curious. "Squeeze your way out of there? Crawl through the ventilation system like you're John McClane?"
"If I have to." He's pulling at the grate now, nails scraping metal.
"And go...where? You're deep underground. Far away from home. And you're turning into a vampire, so you know, sunlight's going to be an issue in a few days."
"I'll figure it out," he grumbles.
"Besides, if you get hurt, I don't get paid." I stand behind him and awkwardly hover my hands around his waist to steady him. "So I'm going to do everything within my power to stop you from doing anything stupid. Including this."
He flinches at my touch and freezes, but after a very brief standoff he nods and lets me help him down from the chair.
He slings an arm over my shoulder to steady himself but mutters a string of curses under his breath as he limps back toward the bed.
Even through our clothes I can feel the raging fire under his skin.
He's somehow even hotter than he was yesterday.
Shit.
"I don't believe your vampire bullshit," he says, easing down onto the bed with a groan.
"Oh yeah? That's funny. Your new itty-bitty baby teeth say otherwise."
His hand flies to his mouth, fingers probing his gums where the fangs are budding. He winces but stays defiant. "That's just...the drugs. Whatever they injected me with."
I fold my arms. "The famous fang-growing drugs. That classic recreational high that everyone knows about and the kids go crazy for."
He narrows his eyes. "I still don't believe you, but if it's true, I'll find a cure. I'll get out of here and see the best doctors in the world. I'll find a way to reverse whatever nasty shit you put in my veins. I don't care what it costs."
"Yeah, we get it. You're a big deal, money's no object, blah blah blah. Now lie down and get some rest." I clear a spot for him to lie in and send a flurry of feathers into the air. "I'm going to fix you something to eat. You haven't had anything in days, and you're getting weaker."
As I stroll toward the kitchen, his voice calls out from behind me, "I am not weak."
I toss my hair as I wink over my shoulder. "Good boy."
I balance the book I stole from my sister on the counter, holding the pages open with one hand whilst I work. I weigh a chilled blood pouch in my other hand, squeezing at the sides of the plastic like a delicious little stress ball.
According to the instructions, I should dilute one part warm blood to seven parts milk and, if well tolerated, up the concentration every twelve hours or so.
I know it works, but why does it need to be so gross?
The Old Ones called this mixture lacrimae. Or if your ancient Latin is rusty, tears. I never understood it, but when you're forced to make it for a bratty, ungrateful man-child who's been screaming at you for hours, it makes a whole lotta sense.
Beside the pot of foaming milk, a saucepan of water warms on the stove.
Tiny bubbles climb the sides, signaling it's time.
I test the temperature with my finger—just warm enough to heat the blood without cooking it—and lower a pouch in.
It bobs on the surface, the red inside swirling as warmth spreads through the plastic.
I drop a second pouch in for myself. Might as well eat while he's sleeping.
There's no mention in the text of a special receptacle for the lacrimae, so I find a couple of oversized mugs in the cupboard and line them up on the counter.
Two stark, ceramic monstrosities with no decorations or fun slogans on the outside.
If I'd have been more organized, I'd have brought my favorite one from home.
Not that it gets much use these days. I drink mostly from donors, and there's no shortage of willing volunteers, but every once in a while, it's a nice change of pace.
I'm not always in the mood for the intensity of a live feed, so sometimes I like to take a bag of blood and decant it into my old "competitive napper" coffee mug and sip it like I'm in a Folgers ad from the 80s.
Both hands clasped around the sides as steam rises from the rim.
Sometimes I really, really miss coffee.