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*-* Erik VII – After the kiss
He watched her go to her car, open the door, and with a final look back to him, and a small wave of her hand, she drove away.
The woods around his property turned silent, the sky heavier, the sun deadlier.
He came back inside, shivering from how terribly burnt he was. But it had been worthwhile, to see her off. And he'd seen a lot worse, in earlier days. This was almost nothing.
Things hadn't changed, though. Despite how much he'd wanted to believe he was something else, he was only ever a vampire. Undead, and unable to walk under the sun. This seemed like a constant curse, no matter what form he took. The light hated and hurt him.
She would come back tomorrow, she had said. But would she? Or would she just come back to hear the precious voice of the monster who'd hypnotized her?
He should stop caring. At this point, he'd take anything from her. Or so he believed. He hadn't let her kiss him, though. That was a torture he'd never inflict on anyone.
He made his way over to the bathroom, where he took the mask and the rest of his clothes off, and started applying his scented cream on the worst of the burns. His hands had badly liked even the smallest reflections of the light. They would hurt for a while, even if he treated them well.
His face hadn't suffered too much, though. It was a small mercy, but after all, what could happen to it to make it worse? After so long, he still hadn't gotten used to his reflection, and mirrors had been banned from his house, the only flaw in his otherwise beautiful, well-designed home.
But was it truly a flaw, when that sight had been the source of so many torments, most of them self-inflicted? He knew that now. His Christine had showed him that. Every hurt he'd taken out on the world had been a mistake, one he wouldn't be making anymore.
Silence kept ringing around him, thirst growing once more inside of him. Would he ever be able to master it, the way he did everything else? It felt like a lost battle.
He sighed.
Self-pity had gotten him nowhere.
He put the mask back on, feeling the light finally leave the earth, and set out again, outside, looking for his next meal. If he was to spend another day with her tomorrow, he would need all the sustenance he could get. She wouldn't try and kiss him again, he hoped. Once had been hard enough not to lash out or succumb to his urges. But twice? He couldn't be sure of the results.
He came back, and strode to the bathroom. The scent of her blood still filled his nose, despite having drunk more than his fill of a stranger's. His pure, clean water would perhaps help driving away her ghost.
They were both there, in front of his eyes, his old Christine, in the beautiful dress she'd worn when she'd left him, her blue eyes filled with quiet pity and understanding. Her blond curls free on her shoulders. He'd never looked for her, afterwards. Never saw how she grew old, how her hair thinned, how her voice had sounded, in her last days. Could she still sing, even frail and grey? Were there wrinkles on her cheeks, on her brow, from how much joy and life she'd had?
His heart was breaking all over again, her voice softly whispering in his ears. What would she think of him, now, trying to seduce another young woman, deceiving her as he'd done before?
He could almost feel her hand on his brow, where she'd kissed him, for the first time in his life, no more the only time. His young, new Christine had kissed him, too. On his lips, what little skin he had there, too thin and pale. Why had she done that? How had she felt so attracted to him? The question obsessed him.
Perhaps that was another lesson: never underestimate the appeal of vampires, and how much power it had on impressionable young women.
Her eyes grew fierce and severe. She had never liked when he succumbed to generalizations.
"Don't ever say that again." Her voice rang in his ears, as soft as a breeze, but with the strength of a raging fire. "Don't underestimate yourself, or her. There is more to you than a drinking undead man."
None of it made sense. Had he fallen so far down he was having hallucinations now? Were they possible, as his headaches had been, for his kind?
Stepping inside the tub, he sat down, arms around his frail body. The water fell down on his head, wetting what little hair he had, tracing tears on cheeks that hadn't seen their salty traces in more than a century. He was always cold, and the hottest water could never warm enough and drive out the chill from his bones. He was always careful not to burrow his face into his knees and against his arms, to avoid tearing the delicate skin.
Long ago, from hate and despair and rage, he'd torn his face apart, and it'd hurt nearly as much as his own interior heartbreak. However, that wasn't an experience he wished to duplicate.
How long did he stay there, under the soft, soothing sound of the water falling down over his skin? He didn't know.
He felt lost, so at odds with how thrilled with music he'd been the previous night, or even earlier with her singing. Their singing. Now he was a deflated balloon, shriveled on the ground, where he'd soared the skies not a day ago.
The soft sound of knocking on his door, followed by an elderly voice drove him out of his introspection. The old shopping lady had come? He hadn't been expecting her…
"It's me, dear. I'm sorry to come by so quickly after yesterday morning, but I must speak to you."
He growled in his thoughts, got up and prepared himself. What an unbelievably bad timing. Why had she come here in the early morning hours?
"Did your young lady like the pastries I brought you? Would you like some more for today? I didn't receive an email, so I thought you might have forgotten."
What was she talking about? What was this unusual cheerful behavior? She would come, bring him his bags and leave, no words, no questions asked. Sometimes, her daughter would come, silent and efficient, as he'd asked, and all was well. Why had she become such a chatterbox?
He approached the door, while she kept on talking.
"Is she gone? Her car has disappeared. I'm surprised she spent the night with you, but well, you've been so very lonely, I'm glad you found someone to share a bit of time with…"
"What do you want?" he hissed.
"Oh, dear, no need to use that tone with me. I might be younger than you, but I'm afraid I've seen far more than you have in all your years."
Great. That was just what he needed. Another woman to tell him how badly he'd reacted. Why had he chosen to trust her, he couldn't remember…
"Now, you listen to me, dear. Does she know where she spent the night? With whom?"
"No. She knows nothing."
"You will have to tell her."
"How does that concern you? It is absolutely none of your business."
"It is. When you met my grandmother, when you arrived and we helped you settle down here, you promised you would do no harm on these lands. She trusted you, because she saw something in you. I've met that girl myself, two days ago. You will have to tell her, because she won't let you go until you do."
That was why. They were seers, great benevolent witches, and nearly all dead now, their power almost gone. Only for small, unpredictable bursts of insight were they used.
"You have seen that?" he whispered.
"Indeed I have. Now, tell me. Will she be coming back today, and shall I bring some food for her?"
"Yes. Please."
"Good. Now, be a good boy for her, there is hope yet."
And on these words, he heard her feet on the alley, and then the rolling of wheels: despite her age, she still rode a bicycle on these sinuous roads.
Long after she'd gone, her words still echoed in his mind.
There is hope yet.