1. Educating: The * (sign) marks a quote taken from a real resume I've encountered (the last sentence specifically, while the sentence preceding it basically summarizes the rest of the "experience/skills" the applicant put down).
2. Note: If anyone is still following this story, just let me know. I've got another chapter in the works. This particular chapter was written...two years or so ago? I rewrote it, completed it, and brought it back from the dead.
And, as with other stories, I know where the story's going, what's going to happen, etc. It just needs to get down on paper, somehow.
3. As always, the thoughts, opinions, and dialogue of the characters do not reflect my own thoughts, etc. Vlad and Anderson can be offensive. None of it is directed at you, the reader. Just a reminder.
I don't cuss at all myself, so... the words belong to the characters.
Have a nice day,
~death-in-the-orchard
"Certificate of Marriage," above "Alex Anderson and Vladimir Dracula." Vlad held the paper, stamping the words and image into his mind to convince himself that he was conscious, as he walked down the hall and then out into the bright afternoon light. Mr. Anderson was pulling out of the parking lot, leaving City Hall. He had been the only relative who had witnessed the marriage… more like an agreement or pledge, really.
Anderson strode over the black asphalt, keys imprinting their shape into his palm as his fist remained as clenched as his jaws, muscles flexed, as hardened as the loathing in his eyes. He stabbed the key, twisted, and wrenched the car door open, throwing his weight into the car. Damn old car. At the opposite door, Vlad stood looking into the reflection of himself in the window with the certificate in his hands. The engine growled at him and Vlad got into the passenger seat. It was a reflex he regretted as the closed quarters with the stony jock beside him was unpleasant. The aggression in Anderson's eyes did not lessen as he drove, cutting off a car that was too meek to protest. A phantom manifestation of his objections was fixed before Anderson, refusing to look at Vlad, speak to Vlad, or do anything to acknowledge Vlad was not dead. He wished the freak was dead, that he had died. They should have killed him. A bullet. They had guns, there's no reason they wouldn't have had guns. How hard was it to kill a person? A bullet, for god's sake. Twist his neck.
Throw him onto the highway. Anderson glared at the open lane to his left and then merged. Pressing the gas, his car passed a minivan. The exit ramp came twenty minutes later, within sight as they lurched through traffic. Neither had looked at one another, neither had made a sound, other than movements that were necessary for driving the car. Anderson did so to control his rage. Vlad concentrated on the volume of each breath to stifle any disturbance that might attract Anderson's attention. His heart beat out a sickening staccato, and the car felt hot and cramped. As Anderson imagined throwing Vlad onto the highway, Vlad imagined throwing himself.
A salient thought catapulted Vlad from the comforting monotony of emptiness and staring into the beige color of the certificate. His skull seemed to crunch in a way that was familiar, forgotten, and imagined, and the feeling continued to beat on him as his mind repeated: This wasn't how it was supposed to be. There was fear, regret, overwhelming his anger, as if he had been conned only to find himself in a position that wrung the essence of terrifying vulnerability from his spine.
Many voids seemed to separate Vlad from the rest of the world, but now for some reason fear seemed to compose the distance that separated Anderson from him. There was not supposed to be fear here, or distance. Anderson was supposed to be a bright, friendly, and comforting person. A friend, and then somehow destined to become more. But these were wisps of smoldering fairytales, burnt and now left to be ground into ash by Vlad's heel, wounding himself, grinding himself away.
The anger was there, but fear and the disorientation that descended when his fantasy had been dispelled, had it restrained for the present. And Vlad was in the position of wanting to be saved, not wanting to be saved, and believing that there was no one who could save him – then the doubts, that he was misunderstanding something, that he was misreading reality. Many good things had just been given to him, and yet he felt repelled – was he ungrateful and detestable? Or was he allowed to be afraid, to want to flee? What was he allowed to feel or want? What was right here? And what was real? Should he have died? Was he trapped in a comatose dream? Was he insane? The doubts never ceased to gnaw at his bones.
And they were driving through unknown streets, in an unknown town. Maybe Anderson was taking him to an obscure place to kill him and hide him. But that seemed insane, and the idea incited the wrath of self-reproach. Ever deepening misery had him bound mute and stiff in his seat.
…
…
He felt light and faded, like he was in a drug induced stupor, similar to what he had experienced in the hospital, taken to a haven removed from his mind as his body lay in motionless agony. Broken ribs, a punctured lung, broken arms, fingers, a wrist, both legs – a cracked femur, a sprained neck, a broken jaw, scars galore that would have honored a gladiator in more savage times, and a fractured skull. Concussions, concussions, concussions. He had burn marks, gashes, slices, linked bruises that wrapped nightmares around his thin biceps and back. The teeth, most were missing – fluids sustained him for more time than he could track in that state – in his shock, his anguish, turmoil, relief, and suffering. Mr. Anderson had been there, and though Vlad was still unsettled by the man and felt that he was cold in his actions of kindness which in turn made him disturbing, Vlad also connected the man with his survival – and as described by Mr. Anderson himself – his second chance at life. It was a cliché term that Vlad did not identify with. His mind was on escape and survival, never to meet the ones who had failed to kill him, and to avoid wasting the life he was fortunate enough to have. There was no new beginning. There was only continuation.
Where he was torn, he would be sown up. Where he was broken, he would be mended. Where he was empty, he would be filled. A home, money, another chance to finish his education and get a job and do as he liked with his life…he had been handed a tomorrow to look forward to. The hands of a stolid mortal man had given Vlad a miracle that blinded him, the radiance that overwhelmed him, like the devil torn up from his crypt and brought to bask in the brilliance of his holy Creator. He had done wrong and did not deserve this great privilege.
And Mr. Anderson seemed to be honest. Medicine and treatment were present. Money was never brought into question, though it made Vlad anxious, and he lost sleep staring at the ceiling, mortified as his mind calculated imagined numbers which towered up into the sky and threatened to topple over and crush him. He didn't have health insurance, and no one would insure him, though Mr. Anderson put time and effort into looking and researching, and he had called up his nephew – who was studying law – to ask him if anything could be done. (After this, Mr. Anderson had had no desire to waste more money by contacting his own lawyer – paying the full bill would be cheaper, Vlad supposed.) So the numbers were huge… And Vlad's debt to the man was bottomless.
Once his mouth had been painfully drilled, cemented, refilled and his jaw had healed, a psychiatrist was introduced, a man Vlad tolerated numbly, at first, saying little that amounted to nothing, which is what he also gave the police when they asked questions.
"Got a busted head. Can't remember a damned thing," about summed it up.
They knew it was a lie, and Vlad knew it was a lie. He told it like it was a lie and never tried to make them believe it. He wanted peace, and the officers knew this. It frustrated them, but they could do nothing. If Vlad ratted the perpetrators out, the gang would be reminded of him and have all the more reason to hunt him down and finish the job. Snitches get stiches, and wind up in ditches – regardless of their sexuality. Being a homosexual just meant the body would be in an especially ruinous condition before it was discarded as fodder for the scavengers – the insects and the animals.
The psychiatrist did his part and prescribed medication that was monitored, distributed by a nurse on a neat little tray that somehow managed to annoy Vlad. Rehabilitation commenced, for the addictions and the crippled body that was made whole but remained weak. Vlad stayed in the hospital during this time, pained as June approached and he knew he would never walk at the graduation ceremony and show everyone who had doubted him that they had been wrong. They would always think of him as a failure, the definition of a worthless fuck up, what a person could descend to. A fuck up. He'd always been a fuck up. What would be different now? He couldn't imagine himself changing – he couldn't grasp who or what he was. There was nothing to touch so there was nothing to shape.
Help was offered by a pretty little hand – a girl, one of many sweet-smelling volunteers prancing down the corridors of the hospital, providing 'support.' Her lines were scripted, memorized as was mandated, and a smile was worn for pity, for elation at doing good, and for the beautiful sparkle it would add to her college applications. "…volunteering at the hospital opened my eyes to human suffering, and I learned how to care for the less fortunate and improve their lives. I was richly rewarded by smiles on otherwise sad faces*…" Vlad saw all of it. He felt the false front, and watched the girl, a life sized plastic doll sitting in a chair some distance from where he was confined to bed in the early stages of his recovery. She was the image of perfection and adoration – sexually alluring to the male gender, yet respected, and appreciated by the rest of the world as they praised the honor and pride she brought to her generation. "What a smart girl." "What a polite and well-spoken young woman." "Oh, I wish my daughter was like her. She's so kind-" that bitch. He heard the voices that had followed her progress through life, always climbing upwards, taking enjoyment and satisfaction at every opportunity, and wasting nothing.
…His loathing of girls surfaced, reminded of the shallow, cut-throat ways of women, going to any length to get what they wanted, bleeding men dry. Goddamn leeches, totally dependent on men. Taking and taking and taking- Fuck. She'd bleed him to feel good about herself and to be praised and to be further rewarded when she was accepted by some university – one that praised her for her attendance to the unfortunate Vlad, but would throw that same Vlad out its doors as if he were coated in kerosene, wrapped in explosives, and holding a lit match. Oh yes, praise the little whore who parroted her lines with that false ugly smile, make-up caked on her face to make men believe they found her fugly little mug sexually alluring, eyelashes sharpened like black spear points – aiming for the heart with each glance and nauseating flutter. Ugh. Her slimy lips, lathered with thick gloss– All of it disgusted him and twisted his shriveled stomach and battered soul – only creating the desire to get her out of his sight.
So after she had greeted him and had prattled on for a few minutes, he set his eyes upon her, a crimson glare that snapped her jaw shut and made her stiffen in her chair. He read the disgust in her mind, the judgment – that she had no tolerance for "his kind," that he was sad and despicable – that he had brought this suffering upon himself, so on and so forth. So he smiled, a wicked, malicious, and mutilated grin that made her eyes grow. Teeth were missing still; she turned away to not see just how many. And Vlad let out a strangled, hollow chuckle – still watching her as she glanced back and then recoiled, looking away. "Get tha fuck outta 'ere before ah take one o' these damn needles outta mah arm and cut yer throat out."
She was scrambling for the door before he had finished the threat. She reported this, but of course, as Vlad had predicted, nothing was done. He'd been through a violent trauma – he was unbalanced and needed help. Poor, poor Vlad. His only punishment was that the psychiatrist's visits became more frequent. And he was prescribed more medication. More fucking pills. They tasted terrible, melting quickly against his tongue as he waited for the nurse to help him drink his water. The long, 'plastic' capsules were the worst. They'd stick to his tongue and it would be difficult to detach – forcing him to gulp more water than he wanted. On one occasion, a nurse had to help him swallow. The humiliation was still there in the memory…when he had been forced to ask…what was basically a stranger…to reach inside his mouth- Oh how he hated those 'plastic' pills!
One of the medications made him twitch and shake at times, and his heart would pump and make him feel nervous. Another was prescribed to deal with his anxiety, perhaps remedying some of the effects of the first drug. One was supposed to make him feel nothing in regards to the betrayal he had experienced – he wasn't supposed to feel depressed by the fact that his friends, who had been his family for so many years, as well as his best and closest friend who Vlad had confessed his feelings to, had hunted him like an animal, had tortured him, and then had tried to drown him. They had carved into his body, stuck blades into his mind, and shot holes through the core of his humanity.
It amused him when he thought about his self-medicated crack and cocaine addiction – Magic Smoke, which he had discovered on his own, and Magic Powder he had breathed in so many years ago - and how these drugs were looked down upon while all of the drugs that were being pumped into him now (which were meant to address basically the same issues) were acceptable. His drugs were bad drugs and these new ones were good drugs. One was called substance abuse and another was called medication. One was damaging, one was restorative. He didn't see the difference, in the end. One drug or another. They'd all be Magic Powder if he ground them up and snorted them.
And now here he was in a car with Alex Anderson, Mr. Anderson's son – the man's only child. Mr. Anderson had been encouraging on this topic, and had said his son was "a nice boy," painting him up to be a perfect, welcoming, and understanding friend whom Vlad would grow close to and find comfort in – in some magical, mythical way… in a dimension outside of reality, perhaps. Vlad had been confused. What little time he had spent with Anderson had not matched up with what Mr. Anderson was telling him. But, hungry for this comfort, this friend, this life-long companion, the answer to a life-time of need…Vlad swallowed the falsehoods and exaggerations and began to feel attached and eager to meet this person. He wanted genuine kindness and empathy. He was starving for it. He would get down on his hands and knees and weep for it if that would bring it to him – and he despised tears.
The only thing he did not want was pity.
But Mr. Anderson was half ignorant of the extent of his fabrications. He believed that his son was kind, that he was generous and compassionate - that he had of all these good traits. Mr. Anderson did not think, for a moment, that the boys would get along. He expected Vlad to teach his son what Mr. Anderson himself had borne for nearly twenty years, in the form of an empty placeholder in his life, where his lover should have been. He did not consider the possibility that Vlad would accept Anderson, that Vlad would be desperate to earn reciprocal approvable and acceptance - wanting to make another person happy so that they might enjoy his existence. He didn't quite know what to think when Vlad showed interest and asked questions, and would brighten up (subtly) at the exaggerations – when the boy would, on occasion, smile and look faintly cheerful for a moment…
They hammered out Vlad's tongue, straightening his speech, trimming his foul language so that he would be sufferable. One curse word a day was permitted. A tally was kept on a daily calendar that hung from the wall in the hospital room. One mark for each curse word that exceeded the limit. The marks were not as overwhelming as what might've been expected, because the boy generally did not speak to others. He had no visitors besides his benefactor, his nurses, and his doctors. He had no family or friends. And he did not want to talk to any of the people who were available for conversation, first because he was suspicious and had never trusted what he viewed to be the wealthy class – he himself was unable to explain what he meant by 'wealthy class' – and second because they were not there for him to talk to. He might be able to exchange a few words with a nurse if he tried, a word with the doctor on the very rare occasions that he showed his face – the marks fluctuated on days the psychiatrist visited. When on other days a page on the calendar might be ripped off unmarked, on the days the psychiatrist made a visit, the page would be covered in black or blue slashes.
"Vladimir, please try to cooperate. We have thirty more minutes until I leave. Do you want to spend that time staring at each other? Or can we do something more productive?"
"You're the one that needs to cooperate. I told you not to ask- I gave you a fucking list of shit not to ask questions about. If you want to keep asking those questions, I'm gonna keep on telling you to go fuck yourself."
"I only want to talk about your mother."
"Go. Fuck. Yourself. … You. Stupid. Bastard." Vlad's head had turned as he lay in the hospital bed, watching the psychiatrist count out the number of fingers he had used to keep track of the curse words. Then the tallies were added to the calendar. They were growing smaller to save more room. That meant the man's expectations were also shrinking. But who gives a fuck? Don't mention my mother. Period. …Stupid fuck. Don't make me waste Mr. Anderson's goddamn money. And what? I didn't say that many- Oh come on! Come on! Learn to count, you dumbass! Learn to fucking count!
On his 18th birthday, Vlad was given some clothes, which he mentally rejected with all his being – finding the dark green 'college' sweatshirt (it had "some goddamn fancy school's" name on it), blue shirt with the same name on it, white tennis shoes, and light blue Levi jeans to be incompatible with his body – and he was sent, dressed thus, to the County Clerk's office to get his marriage license and be married before the state changed its mind, for the umpteenth time, about whether or not same sex marriage was legal. If it had changed before his birthday, there had been plans to either fly across the country to a state where it was legal, or make a shorter trip up to good old Canada. …Vlad had kinda looked forward to the moose and maple syrup, which was all he knew about Canada. That and their funny accents. …Aboot.
And healthcare stuff, he supposed.
Vlad had never thought any of this was normal, but it had been explained that Mr. Anderson was concerned about his son's habit of frequently 'falling in love' with multiple young men, and he feared Anderson would contract some disease – which Vlad immediately (and arbitrarily) labeled 'AIDS' – and so everything sort of made sense to him. Anderson is a slut – errrm, I don't want a slut as a husband but then again I never thought I was gonna get married… -but, yeah, so his dad's scared he's gonna get AIDS and die because he's out fucking too many fags. Got it. That's simple enough.
He knew nothing of the blackmail. Anderson on the other hand, assumed that the two were working together – that Vlad and his father were a team hell bent on destroying his life – which didn't help him feel particularly compassionate towards the pale freak when they were reunited. One glimpse and Anderson loathed the boy. He was ugly, stupid, and disgusting – everything that he remembered and thought he remembered about the gangster he had known for a week over half a year ago.
He did not see the little improvements, the eleven or so pounds Vlad had gained (not adding to the weight of the baggy clothes he had worn when he had been assessed in his school's weight room), bringing him in at a total of ninety-two and a half pounds. The dark circles under his eyes had lessened, though they would not fade more. And a quarter of an inch in height had been added to the boy, with the doctor's promise that a "growth spurt" was to be expected, mentioning something about a stunted or partial 'somethingorothertechnicalmedicalshit.' Vlad still couldn't (or didn't need to) shave, but if he had developed the ability to grow facial hair, he would've been a bearded, long haired man who looked twice his actual age. Bare faced, Vlad still looked between six and ten years older than he should, with lines of wear and disenchantment concerning the world and his self-worth. His face, his eyes, his expressions, and his way of speaking brought on this illusion, aided by his inclination to take a pessimistic approach when he was put in an uncomfortable position. He didn't have youthful excitement and optimism, no frivolity, but a hard determination that moved his feet forward, as always. Anderson failed to notice that, now with his speech mended, Vlad's deep voice was more fluid, that it flowed smoothly, and that it had grown deeper since their last meeting. But Anderson wasn't fond of deep voices in any case.
He hated Vlad's voice because it was Vlad's voice, and if Anderson could hear it then the freak was standing about a hundred miles too close to him.
Seven months had changed Vlad a good deal. This time had done a little 'less' to Anderson, adding an inch to his ridiculous height, more mass to his muscled body, and the ability to wear a colder and more distant expression that his father could not interpret, and which made Vlad squirm with dread. It was a familiar look in some ways, and then it was familiar in other ways that Vlad did not fully understand. Standing beside this teen for twenty minutes, had dashed all of Vlad's hopes for companionship and dropped him on a cold, empty plain that was filled with acres upon acres of stretching loneliness. As for the immediate dread… he carried it with him – intimidated, disappointed and confused – nervous and unable to comprehend how he was now joined forever with this person. The fact that Vlad thought Anderson was 'pretty' made the blonde more intimidating, it made Vlad feel the weight of the conviction that he did not belong with this person, that he did not fit him, that he was forever lesser and below Anderson's feet looking up. Anderson was still the ideal image Vlad wished he could have been. Dark skin, while Vlad's was colorless and allowed his veins to be seen, like ugly blue webs all over his body. A muscled physique where Vlad was skinny and weak-looking. Intelligence in subjects Vlad knew others held in high esteem, while what he knew still left others believing he was stupid. His eyes, green and beautiful, while Vlad's were red, strange, and ugly – in his mind…. And so much more. It was an endless list of contrasting traits that weighed on Vlad, slowly crushing him…down, and down, and down…it buried him.
And he hated 'pretty,' girly faces. He didn't like looking Anderson in the eye just like he didn't like to look at the faces of models. His face was too perfect. His body and voice and everything – all too perfect, all too 'girly.' Vlad didn't like it at all.
…Where he had hoped for happiness, he found unhappiness, which brought him low and depressed his spirits so that when Mr. Anderson left them he noticed the hanging head and slumped shoulders, though he had not looked for them nor cared (much) about Vlad's feelings.
But things improved when they reached the condo. Anderson was still the man of stone, but when he was in another room, Vlad marveled at the place he could now call home. It was amazing…he could only stare and slowly walk, dragging his feet across carpet or 'plastic' tiles when he felt that this great gift would disappear, that it had never existed…but it remained. He felt the shelter the walls provided, the heat the roof kept in. He loved the nearness of other people living around them, which made this a home, not an isolated chamber full of doors – though he had no desire to interact with these neighbors. It was the atmosphere that he loved. A feeling that filled him with emotions, hope that was not happiness, but a great gratitude for what he now possessed. It was blessed, and dear, and wonderful…beyond description.
It was beyond anything he thought he was capable of feeling. Not him. Not this sort of feeling.
Vlad would take care of this place and protect it and love it. It was home. A home he could return to, a home he could reference and recognized and look to… His disappointment with Anderson became insignificant for a time – but even this wore off, dampened by the cold blonde. Vlad shrunk into the background and tried to stay out of the boy's way. The look in those green eyes…he didn't like it. It made him uncomfortable…he felt stricken by something internally…but still, he could not name it.
Hatred. But indifference? Cold. But also blazing? Or could he not interpret what he was seeing because he was trying to avoid Anderson's eyes? He knew for certain that Anderson's presence prickled his skin with cool goosebumps and he felt the cold dampness of sweat that usually formed a film over his flesh when he started out of a nightmare.
He was scared of Anderson. And he didn't want to be in the same room with him. His meds would suddenly kick in and make his nerves quiver, tremble, and his heart would be pumping with all its might even though he knew he wasn't that disturbed by Anderson. Vlad sat on a couch that was placed in front of a LCD screen he would have loved to get his hands on eight months ago. It looked really, really expensive. But Vlad was staring at the blank, black screen, eventually drawing in his legs and holding them in place, setting his chin on his knees, and then pressing his face against them to avoid looking at his reflection in the TV. Yeah, all he needed to do right now was stare at his ugly face… Ugh... Vlad wished he could fall asleep. Anything to take him away from this nauseating feeling, this dread that was something lighter and yet more permanent than dread. He wasn't imagining the years he would be spending with the cold, intimidating…and creepy guy in the other room…but he was experiencing the same emotions his imagination would have inspired.
The sun was setting, taking longer due to the season. Anderson had closed the door to his room – their room – and he hadn't emerged for a few hours. Vlad was used to doing nothing, and didn't mind sitting in the quiet living room, with a wide sliding glass door to his right and the medium-sized kitchen to his left. There was a low coffee table in front of him. The place felt as if it had been lived in for some time. Maybe Anderson had already moved in? But Vlad couldn't tell for sure. It was so clean, yet full of stuff. Food stuff. Furniture stuff. Electronic stuff. And stuff stuff.
He would need some stuff too. Clothes – those would be important. Vlad pressed his brow against the round surfaces of his knees, thinking, and then listening to the silence as time crept onward. In his mind, he imagined the ticking of a clock, and had a faint yearning for an actual clock to provide the sound on the wall.
Tic, tock. Tic, tock. I'm a clock. Tickity, tock. Mock a sock. Tickity, tock. Knock a lock. Tickity-
A door opened in the stubby hallway Vlad could not see, jarring him as he returned to the present - a jolt of electricity zapping him back into reality. And Vlad began to feel that this was real, as he watched Anderson glance in his direction as he appeared in the kitchen and then tried to ignore Vlad as he fixed a quick meal for himself. Vlad noticed his stomach grunt at the suggestion, considering the risks, the benefits. But he remained silent, and spied on Anderson's activity in the kitchen, sitting with his chin on his knees.
Red eyes drifted away from Anderson when Vlad decided it wasn't worth it to get caught spying, and he began to observe the darkening 'entrance' that contained the front door, and which was just beyond the kitchen. It was empty, completely empty. But it had a fireplace that was small and covered by glass. Anderson would probably put a couch in there, or something. But with the living room set up on the other side of the kitchen, what was the point of all that space by the door? What could you possibly put there? Who would have enough crap to actually need the space? And then Vlad's eyes moved to the stair that rose behind the TV. Vlad guessed, as he followed the path of the stairs, that they led to some sort of loft. It would be kinda cool to live up there. But, Vlad craned his neck and then scooted to the end of the couch and leaned over the armrest to peer up at the ceiling, it didn't look like there were any lights up in the loft. He would need to get some lamps to brighten it up…
Vlad's chin met his chest so that he could look at the kitchen and see that Anderson was watching him – the extremely tall, buff, tan, blonde haired stranger with a flat expression that told Vlad the guy hated his guts. It was easy to tell when a guy like Anderson hated his guts. He could feel it. He didn't even need to be looking at the guy. The emotion was so strong it was like the room was pulsating green with cartoonish radiation that was being emitted by the creepy, immensely tall guy standing in the kitchen, looking at him over the counter that barely reached his hip. Well. Vlad had seen taller guys, bigger guys… But Jake had never been creepy. Anderson was fucking disturbing-creepy, he was oh-my-god-get-the-fuck-away-from-me-right-now creepy.
Vlad knew his posture was awkward – it was also uncomfortable – so he moved to sit normally on the couch, mostly hoping this would cause Anderson to stop staring at him. But the stare continued, and gradually the red eyes didn't care about how awkward staring back at Anderson was. Vlad met the stare with feigned indifference. The silence was chilling.
"I was checking the ceiling. There's a loft. And no lights." Vlad maintained eye-contact, though it felt like an ice-pack had been applied to the back of his head, and the cold was chilling his brain.
"There's stairs." Anderson's unfamiliar voice returned, in a full blunt monotone that basically spat in Vlad's mouth and made him want to gag.
The 'icepack' was dripping icy water down Vlad's back as he fought to maintain the stare. But HOLY FUCK was this guy creepy! Jesus H. Christ. Vlad realized that Anderson actually made him fear for his own safety. This guy had a cold-blooded I-don't-care-I'll -kill-you-and-won't-even-bat-an-eye look to his unchanging face. God. I want to run away.
But then Anderson took the bowl of soup, and a half of a sandwich he had taken out of the fridge, with him when he left the kitchen and made a right in the hallway, entered his room, unloaded his food onto his desk, and then went back to shut and lock the door.
Shit. Vlad filled his lungs to their maximum capacity and then emptied them in one go. He didn't care that this made him feel lightheaded. Though his lungs didn't work too well now – at least one was pretty messed up - what was really making him feel lightheaded was that creepy guy staring at him like that, and talking to him with that tone. This guy loathed his guts. He wanted Vlad to keel over and die, right then and there. And Hell. Vlad silenced his thoughts, sitting on the couch and watching the long fibers of the light tan carpet. He didn't want these thoughts, but they trickled out eventually. This guy…Vlad was married to this guy…he would spend the rest of his life with him…and he was fucking creepy…and he wanted Vlad to die.
Fuck this shit! Anger suddenly twisted Vlad's mouth and scrunched his brow, and he glared all about the room – as if it were filled with people – before sending the glare into the carpet. His hands were fists in his lap, until Vlad used one to smash down on the cushioned armrest of the coach. If I wanted to live with people who wanted to fucking kill me, or wanted something as goddamn stupid as fucking wanting me dead, I would've stayed where I was! I don't have to live here with this son-of-a-bitch! I don't have to take this shit! What the fuck is this crap? What – The – Fuck!
The muscle in his right forearm cramped and his wrist hurt, so Vlad relaxed his hands. Now he felt sick. He felt cramped and shut up, and stiff and claustrophobic. He tried stretching his arms and rolling his head to crack his neck, but it didn't help. So Vlad stood up and gave the stretches another go. Then it occurred to him that walking around would make him feel better. He didn't want to walk outside – he didn't have a key and if he stepped out the door it was likely Anderson would lock it and never let him in again. And Vlad didn't want other people to see him. This new city wasn't far enough from his old school, from people he knew… Someone might recognize him…they might find him…
So Vlad climbed the stairs Anderson had pointed out to him – ugh, remembering that guy's voice made Vlad cringe, and he stumbled when he shut his eyes reflexively. But as he caught himself on the steps, the softness brought the tan carpet to his attention, and Vlad spent a moment observing the carpeted stairs and even petting them as his curiosity moved his hand. If Anderson saw this, he'd get that "you're such a freak" look again. Disturbed once more by the mental imprint Anderson had made, Vlad grimaced and got to his feet in order to climb up the last few steps. It was pretty dark up in the loft. And there was not much to it. It was empty, like the room by the door, and the walls were white, like the rest of the condo – or what Vlad had seen so far.
The pale teen walked about with thoughts filling his head and disrupting his vision from time to time, walking in a square to slightly mimic the shape of the rectangular loft. He stopped and leaned against the wall that went up to his stomach, and Vlad examined the color of the light that was coming through the partially drawn blinds that covered the glass door below him, and then the red eyes flicked up to the blind-covered window that was as high as the loft. The light was orangish-pinkish or something. It took a long time for the sun to set during the summer…and holy fuck, it's my birthday. Happy birthday Vlad, you son-of-a-bitch. You actually have a birthday, just like everybody else. Wow. I actually forgot… Well, as usual it doesn't feel like my birthday.
Vlad resumed his stroll about the loft, but he froze instinctively and held his breath so that he wouldn't make an involuntary sound, and he listened with all his might to track Anderson's movements below. The door had opened without warning, the sound stopping Vlad's heart. Red eyes were wide and seeing nothing as Vlad imagined Anderson entering the kitchen, placing his bowl and plate in the sink. There was the sound of the spoon sliding along the rim of the bowl, and then water gushed and Vlad saw Anderson scrubbing the dishes clean in his mind – but Vlad didn't know what color his mental sponge should be. He didn't know what color the sponge in the kitchen was. He hadn't looked at it yet. But it was a good thing he hadn't gone down to look right now. Or else he'd have had to run into Anderson, and god did he not want to be anywhere near Anderson-
"Hey." The sink was shut off after Anderson's voice was heard. Vlad's vision refocused and he saw the white wall. He didn't want to imagine where Anderson was below the loft, he didn't want Anderson to exist. But Vlad swallowed and hoped his voice sounded normal.
"I'm up above. Looking at the loft."
Anderson didn't say anything else, but Vlad waited for him to speak. The pale teen was surprised when the door to the bedroom opened and shut, and the tink of the lock being pushed on the door handle was heard. God. Fuzznugget, ugh. Like I can get by without cussing twenty four-seven living with this guy. But, ugh… he's so damn creepy. Vlad nearly sat down, so strong was his desire to stay up in the loft forever. This was his little island, and everything downstairs was in the ocean, and Anderson was the great giant shark that would rip him to bloody shreds with his hundreds of razor sharp teeth. With this mental image of being torn apart, Vlad began to seriously consider settling down and living in this loft for the rest of his life.
But then he was bored, and Anderson was a stupid rich-ass faggot, who was just a spoiled brat and couldn't do anything to him because his mom was a friggen cop. And, although Vlad could picture Anderson pushing him off of the balcony beyond the glass door, he couldn't picture Anderson in a prison cell. Nah, he didn't have the balls- er…no he could kill me. He'd definitely kill me if it was legal. So long as the law protects me, I'll be just fine and dandy… Yeah. Fine and dandy.
Vlad bit his lip and looked down at the carpet, resisting his sudden urge to curl up into a ball and take comfort from the floor, and soak in the safety of the loft. However, Vlad resisted all of these stupid, cowardly urges by walking down the steps and going into the kitchen to have a look around. Vlad found the sponge by the sink. The rough top part was dark green – like his stupid sweatshirt – and the main body of the sponge was bright yellow. …At least my sweatshirt isn't that color. Vlad's eyes traveled along the counter, not once remembering that he was hungry. He turned around to look at the fridge, saw something that had a door and was built into the wall and probably had something to do with the heating – and to the left of the refrigerator Vlad was shocked to see a strange washer-drier combination. The washer was on the bottom and the drier was above it, set up like a stove that has the ventilation above it, or whatever. It was weird, but it was friggen cool and he liked it. He was excited to wash his clothes in it, and actually be able to wash his clothes whenever he wanted to.
He rummaged through the drawers and cabinets, went up to the loft, came back down, rummaged some more, built up the courage to check the fridge, sat on the couch, laid down on the couch, sat upright on the couch… Went back to the kitchen for a while…
Then Vlad wanted to know what time it was, and was shocked again to find that it was 8:20 PM.
Red flew to the glass door and found the darkened silhouettes of the other condos, deeply contrasting with the violent flame of the sunset that was fading into the Pacific Ocean a few miles off.