Prequel

I put the key in the lock, but it wouldn't go in all the way. I cursed myself. I always tried the wrong of two identical keys first. You'd think after living in this place for almost two years, I would've figured it out. Nope.

The apartment was pitch black. I could see nothing down the long hallway to my right, but the kitchen was silver and grey from the moonlight that shone through the floor-to-ceiling window in the connected living room. I usually turned on the light, but I didn't feel like it this time.

I had three other roommates, but it was Thanksgiving break and they had all gone home. I told them I was going home too, but that was a lie. I have no family I want to talk to. When my mother re-married after my father's death, I only became a reminder of her most painful memory. She wanted to forget—and she did. I helped her by going away to college on the opposite coast of the country. We didn't say anything to eachother; we both knew that I would never come back.

I kept my promise; I didn't even tell my mom that I graduated college or that I was a first year law student now. She wouldn't want to know, it would mean that she would have to talk to me.

My room was right across from the main door to the apartment. I barely found the doorknob and when I finally entered, I almost tripped over the laundry basket I had left right in front of the door. Luckily, I had left my blinds open earlier in the day, allowing for the moon to illuminate most of my small bedroom.

I threw my coat on the bed and slipped my tennis shoes off simultaneously before dashing to the bathroom down the hall. Instead of turning on the light, my fingers traced along the wall until they stumbled across the bathroom door.

I hated the click of the lock whenever I came out of the bathroom; especially because it echoed in the silence. The rush of the heating system was even worse, like a persistent river of dry air being re-circulated for lip-chapping and choking purposes. The air was drowned out by the rush of water and the warmth felt good on my frozen hands. I splashed some water on my face and reached for the towel on my left. The scent of lavender filled my nose and I was happy that I had finally tried a different scent of dryer sheets.

I opened my eyes. My reflection was glowing orange from the only light in the hallway, coming through the cracked bathroom door. Suddenly, my heart quickened. I felt strange. Why did I think I had seen someone look back at me in that mirror? I looked again, but there was no one there. The goose bumps across my skin started receding and I walked back down the hall to my room.

It was closed. I thought I had left it open. There was a strange sensation again and I finally felt an ice-cold hand cover my mouth.

***

I couldn't scream and I couldn't bite the hand because their grip was so tight. The most awful scenes ran through my head: rape, murder, rape followed by a brutal murder. Tears began streaming down my face and collected at the juncture of his hand and my skin.

I could feel him move closer, his breath hit my ear, "I'm not going to hurt you. Please don't scream. I'll let go if you promise not to scream."

Yeah right, I thought, the minute you let go my voice will shake this building. I nodded.

His hand loosened but clasped my mouth again, "You promised."

How did he know I was going to scream? Whoever it was, must have some kind of psychic abilities.

"Now, let's try this one more time. When I let go, you don't scream." He removed his cold hand and I didn't make a noise. I wasn't dealing with a normal human being. No one who entered people's homes was normal in the first place. I tried to shove those horrendous thoughts about my certain doom to the side.

"I'm sorry I broke in like this." His voice was low and pained.

I flung around and beheld my intruder.

He collapsed in front of me, his body covered in gashes, clothes steeped in blood.

My own hand covered my mouth and it took all my might to keep myself from screaming.

My body reacted before my mind and I drug his heaving frame into my room, but wasn't strong enough to help him onto my bed.

"I'll call 911 immediately."

"No, don't!" He said as if every word he uttered was sucking more life energy from him.

"Why not? You're hurt, and I can't help you." I flipped my phone open.

His movements were so quick my eyes didn't register them until his hand gripped mine so tightly that the phone dropped to the ground. "I—will—be—fine—just—let—me—rest."

Before he fell again, I caught him and guided him to my bed. When I let go, his body plopped down as if it was already dead, the only thing distinguishing him from a corpse were slow, irregular heaves of his chest.

***

Place yourself in my position. It is past midnight, you're all alone in your dark apartment—most likely the only person in the entire apartment building—and there is a strange man covered in blood lying on your bed. He broke in and doesn't want you to call for help—you can't help him, but for some reason you feel you should listen to him.

I'm crazy, right? I should have ran out of the place and screamed for help on the street if he wasn't going to let me call anyone. But I knew that was not an option. Whoever he was, he was very quick; my cell phone still lay on my bedroom floor and I didn't want to try and pick it up again. I resolved to help him in any way I could—if I did, maybe he'd spare my life.

He was still lying face down on my bed. I made sure to make as little noise as possible when I opened the third drawer of my dresser which stood right next to the bed. I pulled several wash cloths out, how could I know where his wounds are if his whole body was covered in blood.

I poured some warm water in a small bucket and soaked a washcloth in it while walking back to the room. He had flipped over and was gasping for air, I ran to his side.

"Are you okay? What's wrong?" Even if he could tell me between the gulps for air, I don't think I could've done anything for him.

He didn't reply but collapsed onto the bed and was breathing normally again.

"Do you mind if I clean some of the blood off from your face?" He turned his head toward me, but didn't speak. Was that a "no, I don't mind" or a "no, don't do it". I prefered the former and pressed the warm, wet towel to his bloodied cheek.

The dark-red, crusty residue stained the baby blue cloth and I dipped it in the bucket again. I was actually cleaning blood from this stranger's face—it was like a scene from a horror movie, but I kept at my task like it was nothing.

Each wipe revealed pale, smooth skin so cold to the touch, it penetrated the warmth of the cloth. His complexion was like freshly fallen snow, no blemish nor wound lay beneath the formerly bloodied façade. His eyes had been closed while I had cleaned him, but suddenly opened and he stared directly at me. His irieses were the color of deep, yellow flames and shone with equal intensity.

"Why are you doing this?" His eyes remained fixated on mine.

I didn't have any logical explanation for it, I just felt compelled to help him, to do anything I could, "I don't know, but you looked like you were in pain. I thought I could figure out where your wounds are if I cleaned the blood off—but..."

"They've healed already." He said it so matter-of-factly, like it was normal that he had collapsed bloody, and injured on my bed less than half an hour ago and now was miraculously cured. I stepped back, "were you hurt in the first place?" My old fears of rape and murder resurfaced—what if it wasn't his blood? What if he had killed someone else, smeared their blood on himself, and come to claim his next victim? I took another step back.

He swung his legs off the edge of my bed, but didn't take his eyes off me, "Yes, I was injured, but..." Once again, he moved with frighting speed and I found my face even with his chest, "I can heal very quickly." His index finger lifted up my chin, forcing me to look him in the eyes, "Are you afraid of me?"

I gulped, but spoke the truth, "No."

He grinned, revealing bright white teeth that only seemed brighter in contrast to his blood-red lips, "I could hurt you." His voice was barely a whisper.

"You won't, you haven't hurt me thus far, and you won't hurt me now." I was officially going crazy. My argument sounded logical, but my intuition was far beyond logic—I just knew he wouldn't hurt me.

His eyes disconnected from my own as he drew me into an embrace. It was cold, but strangely comforting. My body moved further toward his as he inhaled deeply, "Your scent—it's intoxicating." I was suddenly an arms-length away from him, but he was still gripping my shoulders, "I must leave now."

I came back to my senses, "Like that? You're still covered in blood, what will people think?" Why did I care? What did I think? Why wasn't I happy that this potential murderer/rapist was leaving?

"I move too fast for them to notice me." I ran to the door and blocked his exit, arms outstreched on either side of me.

"You're still covered in blood, no matter how quick you are, someone's going to notice." Would this make me an accomplice in the crime if he had murdered someone?

He didn't move, but smiled again, "The only one who could notice is someone else like me, but I already took care of him."

Took care of? Like him? Were there other super-fast, deathly pale, blood-covered people in this world? "Wait, just one more second." I scurried past him and opened the chest that lay at the bottom of my bed, taking out a size XL rain jacket that I had gotten for free in a marathon relay I participated in four years ago. Why did I keep it? Just in case there was a great flood—it's the packrat in me.

I shoved the navy, rustly monstrosity in his hands, "That should cover most of it. Keep it."

That cocked grin marked his otherwise perfectly symmetrical features again, "So you don't want to see me again?"

"What?" He was the one who was trying to leave out of nowhere.

"You said I could keep it, if I had to return it..." He took a step toward me, "...we could see eachother again."

Why in the world was my face burning at the prospect of seeing this strange potential murderer again? "You can return it—if you want to."

He took another step toward me and reached out his hand. I took it. I felt like one of those ladies in the disgustingly mushy period dramas on Lifetime as I watched him bow gracefully in front of me before kissing the top of my outstreched hand. In perfectly accented French—this didn't help the Lifetime comparison—he spoke softly, "Au revoir, Bella."

"How do you know my na..." He disappeared, and the only indication that he had left was the sudden slam of my apartment door.

My heart beat faster from excitement and an excrutiating sense of loss. Who was he? What was he?

***

I turned over again in my bed and looked out the window which aligned with the side of my bed. The city skyscrape was bathed in the orange hues of the early morning sun. The bloodied sheets lay on my floor.

I had spent the hours after he had left on the internet. Researching is a hobby of mine. His behavior, the way his wounds healed so fast, his speed, cold skin, yellow eyes, it all made sense in a senseless world. Every continent had its own myth with the same connecting characteristics. They just had different names for the same creature. The Vetalas in India, Marigny of ancient Persia, Patasola from Colombia, or Asanbosam in West Africa are all synonyms for the Vampire. I told myself it wasn't real, I wanted to believe it was all an obsurd tall tale, but I had come face-to-face with him. He had been here, on the same bed I wasn't able to fall asleep in.

To me, it doesn't matter what he is.

I closed my eyes, feeling the heavy pressure of exhaustion lull me into sleep. I dreamt of his eyes upon me and felt my heart beat faster.