The passing of time eludes me as much as the blurred buildings that glide past the cab window. A muffled rumble of tires and the whip of wind outside just barely reach my ears.

My thoughts settle into a blank slate, suspended in a state of frozen shock. Each time I blink, panic tightens its grip on my heart. My gaze is glued out the window, but I can't register anything. My mind spins in circles and gets nowhere.

Even as I rattle off the address of my apartment complex to the cab driver, I search for a lurking form between buildings. He's out there. I know it. He knows it.

And it's all according to Lucien's sick game.

He could've chased me or followed the cab, he might even be waiting in my apartment right now, but somehow I know he'll be smarter than that. He's a tactician, eager to see what I'll do just so he can move his own pieces and corner me in the end.

Now I'm certain the bruise I saw on Kristi's neck was from him—his terrifying fangs. What a complete psycho.

Or could he really be some type of supernatural creature...? I swallow hard, favoring numbness over jumping to any conclusions.

I'm not thinking straight.

After a while, my breathing returns to a steady cycle and panic evolves into hyper focus. One thing I do know is that once I get home, I can't pretend this didn't happen. I have to figure out my next move. Try to outthink him.

"Sure you don't need a hospital?," the cab driver offers for the second time. "I know of one that won't ask too many questions if you want to stay under the radar." His eyes flick to the backseat, more apprehensive than concerned.

"No, thank you." I'm certain telling a doctor that I'm being stalked by a man with fangs and glowing red eyes will only get me temporarily sedated, or checked into a mental ward.

Traffic is lighter than normal due to the late hour, and it takes much less time than the train would've to get to my apartment. Once we pull up to the familiar ten story building, I hand the driver my credit card and physically wince as I read the bill.

At one point, cab fare wouldn't have mattered, but since I've been cut off from my family's funds, all I have to my name are the savings I've made on my own from the last few years. Besides, using borrowed money has always been my last resort, and this makes my decision to quit Transylvania all the more disheartening. The automatic tip alone could have been spent on groceries for a whole week.

The second I step out onto the sidewalk the cab driver is gone, speeding down the dark street without a glance back. I'm sure he wants nothing to do with the trouble I've gotten myself into. Honestly, I don't want anything to do with it either.

The streets here are vacant and forlorn, and that only makes my heart hammer faster. Too many corners, too many places he could be hiding. Fingers quivering, I punch in the key code at the entrance while wishing I had eyes in the back of my head. It finally clicks open, and I slam the door behind me.

No more than a step inside, my knees buckle. I grit my teeth and fight the sudden wave of exhaustion, staggering into the elevator. Metal doors grate together as they close, like they always do. I push the button for my floor and lean my shoulder into the wall, forming a fist to quiet the trembling in my fingers. I wish I could quiet my thoughts, too.

That look—the searing, red-hot embers of Lucien's eyes as he watched me drive away—won't leave. I understand now the most dangerous part of this man. He's a predator, in every sense of the word. It's not the kill that he enjoys, it's the hunt.

It doesn't matter if he'd chased after me, because now his red eyes and hypnotic voice will haunt even without his presence. It doesn't matter if I never come back to Transylvania, because his cold breath and frightening fascination with my scars will send shivers down my spine no matter where I am.

I can never be truly alone again.

I can never feel safe again.

Even if I run, there's nowhere to hide.

The police? They can't take away my memories. And it's obviously not his first rodeo, so why do I think I'll be the exception—the one that gets away? I did it once, and I'm not taking any more risks.

The elevator dings.

I jump. As I step out and shake off my jitters, I notice a drop of dark crimson speckled on the floor. A dull pain sharpens to a throb in the pad of my thumb. Inspecting it, I discover I've pressed into the point of my ring, a thin vein of blood curling around my finger and onto my wrist.

The flower decoration to cover the weapon is lost somewhere in the parking garage. Not that the ring was of any use. I'm fazed by the fact I got away at all.

Tears well in my eyes. Damn. When did I get so pathetic? When did I start believing Transylvania was going to be the one time I got it right?

Hope—stupid and overrated.

All I got was more pain.

Objects blur and swirl in a watery lens as I unlock my door and turn the handle. Spilling a few drops of blood on the floor, I make my way to the unlit bedroom and collapse in a heap on the bed. Stiff and scrutinizing walls offer no aid to my state of mind, silently witnessing my every move. As if everyone who had high expectations for me can see what a disappointment I've become.

A yet unspoken 'I told you so' from my father echoes in my ears.

The tears I thought would pour dry out. I want to sob, scream, anything but suffocate in these shadows that encase me. I won't become the puppet society wants me to be, but is the only other option to work at dead-end jobs or become a toy to a psychotic predator?

Reluctantly, I sit up and wipe my nose. The sleeve of my uniform is stained with a small blotch of blood, I'm sure Lucien would get a kick out of that.

Numbly I stand, then switch on the light and decide to change out of these clothes. Reaching around to untie the apron, sharp pain shoots through my thumb and I pull at the string behind my back. Even my own body hates me. Or I hate it, I can't tell anymore.

The cloth falls to the floor. Some sick part of my brain wonders the kind of twisted intentions Lucien had in mind. Biting my neck, with fangs, for one.

The thought I've tried to repress resurfaces with frightening force.

Fangs.

Bite.

Red eyes.

I fall on the edge of the bed and hold my head in my hands. Then I laugh.

My voice cracks and fades into the stifling silence. What am I thinking? He's a monster alright, but a vampire?

Ha—no, no that's not a thing. Psychopaths are still human beings. The stories grandma told aren't real, mother was right about that at least.

Shit. A shaky intake of air fills my lungs.

I'm not so certain. Not anymore.

In a flurry of panic, I rip the shirt off my body, tearing a few buttons in the process, and yank down my pants. I rush to the bathroom and stare grimly at my exposed skin. A small, dark red line runs along my rib cage. Several patterns clash in various stages of healing beneath it. A wide scar crosses my cleavage. Not to mention the thin white stripes that become more numerous as they climb up my forearms and down my thighs.

My finger passes over each one as I relive the painful memories. Experience the numbness I couldn't avoid. These are all mistakes that can't be taken back. Sins that can't be forgiven.

I've spent hours marveling at the sheen of scar tissue, at the effects of being cut off from the heart's blood supply. But now instead of using them as a distraction, I recall grandma's words.

All creatures are bound to a lifeline. Most of us rely on the bonds of our own blood, but there exist a few who can manipulate the true course of nature, who are a source of renewed life. They replace mortality with immortality, and their will becomes the lifeline of many.

Lifeline. That's the same word Lucien used when he referred to my blood.

Then an idea clicks, and everything shifts. If immortal beings do exist, if Lucien really is a vampire, what if he could sense my blood? My scars wouldn't have been visible through the uniform, but if he focused hard enough, could he read my blood flow—or the lack thereof, in scar tissue?

A thin line of crimson continues to seep out of my thumb before it smears across my skin. The same color and texture of the special wine I served Lucien and the others. I gasp. They were drinking...blood.

My fists clench, fingers trembling again. The way Lucien talked about me...that bastard enjoyed the thought of my injuries. That's what he wants. To use me.

Would he keep me as a human blood bag? Is that what he was using Krista for? Was it her blood in those wine bottles?

I can't stand the thought. I'd rather die than let them do that to me.

My psyche catches, snagged in mid-air from a racing train of thought and careens over a gap in the tracks.

I would rather die.

I can't trust that all of grandma's stories hold true. If there are people, or creatures, that can control vampires, then they certainly aren't on my side. And if death is my fate regardless, wouldn't it be better done at my hands? Hell, before Lucien even found me, I was okay with the thought. I'd much rather spill all of my blood than donate a single drop to him.

My head swims in a sea of numb clairvoyance, and my shaking fingers pry open the bathroom drawer.

I know where it is.

The blade.

I know how to do it.

To die.

Suicide is hard to discuss, but easy to contemplate. If only it were the other way around.

❤️‍🩹 Siberia