I woke up on Christmas ravenous. I went to the kitchen and washed off an apple. I bit into it while I looked around for something more filling. Cereal did not appeal to me today. I rummaged around my kitchen looking for something that might satisfy, finally pulling out some hamburger to thaw for lunch. Then I accepted there was nothing to better to eat in the meantime and poured some cereal into a bowl with some milk and sat down to eat.

After I was finished I went back to my bedroom and lay down on the bed. I could feel my heart beating harder than it should have been. I did not sleep. I just lay there, trying to think of something pleasant to think about. There was nothing. It did not matter. I tried to think of something to do with my day. Nothing came to mind. I did not feel like I had energy to do anything anyway. I was so tired.

After enough time had passed, I hauled myself up and went and cooked the hamburger with some packaged hamburger spices and noodles. When it was finished, I sat on the floor by the coffee table I had picked up used for two dollars and began to eat.

The meat tasted delicious and raised my spirits considerably. So what if I was by myself at Christmas with nothing to do because my mother was distant and my father was a control freak? I was a strong independent woman; I would find something to do. Something like sit on the floor eating hamburger. Both my parents would have hated that; I smiled bitterly.

An echo from the past ran through my mind. "You're going to die."

"Shut up, Paul," I said out loud. My voice sounded annoyingly lonely to my ears. It was the very height of pathetic; sitting alone at Christmas and talking out loud to a character from a dream.

I had to go somewhere and do something, before I really did lose my mind. I went straight to the bathroom and showered. I got dressed and dried my hair. Then I went to the door and put on my jacket, mitts and hat, and then I grabbed my keys and wallet. I shut the door firmly behind me.

I did not have a planned destination. I just wandered around. There was not very much traffic. I assumed most people were staying home with their families. I shrugged and kept walking. Eventually I saw a couple of kids playing in the newly fallen snow. They reminded me of my sister and I did not want to think about her at all.

I kept walking for a long time, paying no attention to the time. I thought about work and I thought about school. I considered taking a full course load the next semester to keep myself more occupied. I must have too much free time if I could sleep and mope so much. I wished I had the foresight to buy my textbooks ahead of time, because then I could have spent the whole vacation reading them. At the very least I should have went to the library and borrowed something.

I was starting to feel weary, so I turned towards home. I noticed my heart was starting to beat frantically and I was glad I was not far from my apartment. The walk back went without incident, other than a near slip on the ice.

I unlocked my door. My head was starting to hurt again and my heart was still beating disturbingly hard. I was just tired.

Or maybe I really was going to die. Maybe it had all been real.

Maybe that creepy stranger really had put his blood on an open wound on my neck; maybe he had some awful disease. Maybe I should have gone and seen a doctor, because wanting a horrible incident to be a dream did not really stop it from being reality.

Yet there had been no wound. What doctor would believe me?

I felt like crying.

Instead I went to my bed and fell asleep.

I do not know what woke me up. Perhaps it was a sound. I only recall I was jerked roughly from my sleep.

"Merry Christmas," said a sardonic voice.

My mind flew backwards through the last stressful weeks to place the voice. It was the voice. It was my attacker. It was the stranger who had infected me with some disease. My heart beat frantically. I opened my eyes.

And I saw him. He was tall, and muscular, and irritatingly handsome, if I had been in the state to appreciate such things. He was standing by the window in my room.

For long moments I could not reconcile him with the picture I had formed in my mind of the bearer of the voice. In my mind he was a pale and horrible man whose appearance showed the very weight of his deeds; he had beady shrunken little eyes and thinning grey hair. He did not have messy, but healthy looking blond hair, nor did he have bright blue eyes that shone with a sardonic curiosity and a well shaped, clean shaven face. People who did things like what he had done to me did not look like this; I remember thinking stupidly, as if appearances could not be deceiving.

He smiled and I jerked up into a seated crouch. I wanted to run, or to say something, or ask one of the millions of thoughts shooting through my mind, but I found myself rendered completely mute. I was frozen. It was supposed to be fight or flight, not freeze in place until the predator eats you at his convenience.

He spoke again, "So, I see you're alive."

A sudden and furious rage flushed through me and swept away all my stupid thoughts. My anger loosened my tongue. "Who the hell are you?" I snapped.

"I'm Michael," he said simply.

The shock that he so easily told me his name muted my anger. I had expected him to refuse, or to change the subject. I wondered if it meant that he meant me no further harm or if it meant he was going to kill me so it no longer mattered if I knew. Had he no shame? He had done quite enough already. I could feel myself shaking.

Maybe Paul had been hinting that Michael would be coming back to finish me later when he had said that I would die. The thought made me want to run but he would probably catch me as easily as he had in the park. Especially if I considered the unfortunate fact that my body was foolishly refusing to move, unless one counted shaking with fear.

"And you are?" he asked.

"What?" I said stupidly. My mind was racing, trying to come up with some way to escape this situation.

"Your name is?" he rephrased.

My first thought was to tell him where he could stick it, but instead I answered slowly and stupidly, "Dylan."

"Dylan? There's a masculine name," he commented, looking at me carefully.

"It goes either way," I corrected frostily. His observation annoyed me. He made my father look sensitive in comparison.

"Pardon me," he said with a smile that still looked sardonic. I didn't answer, so he spoke again. "Well, I am glad you are alive."

"What, you weren't trying to kill me?" I asked acidly.

"No. Did you run into Paul?" he wondered out loud, completely ignoring my questions.

"That's none of your business," I said, barely managing to mask my anger.

He observed me for a few seconds then said, "I apologize for what happened first we met. It was unfair of me to do that without your permission." His words rang hollow.

I wanted to demand what it was exactly he had done to me, but then he continued, "No doubt you are feeling hostile towards me right now, but I would like to make it up to you. I shall make you a proposition."

He paused, apparently waiting for a response from me. I said nothing, so he continued again, "I propose we both answer each other's questions. No doubt you have many."

"I have a few," I agreed grudgingly. I wanted answers but at the same time I wanted to tell him he could take his proposition and stick it.

"As do I. Answer mine and I shall answer yours."

I finally nodded, my curiosity overcoming even my fear and resentment. I did want to know.

"So did Paul find you?" he repeated his earlier question.

"Yes. Who is Paul to you?" I shot back.

"I'll explain in a second. First, have you been feeling ill lately?" he asked.

"Yes, I've been exhausted. Ever since you did that, that, whatever, to me. What the hell did you really do?" I wanted my answers.

"How about I start at the beginning, after you tell me what Paul said to you?" he asked.

I wanted him to explain everything, so I nodded. What choice did I have but to trust he would tell me after? "Paul told me his name and he asked me who dragged me out into the forest and what he did to me. He wanted to know if you'd put your blood in me."

"What did you tell him?"

"I didn't know anything. You attacked me," I accused.

"Again, I apologize profusely," he said, meeting my gaze with sardonic eyes.

I broke eye contact and continued, "But he seemed sure you had and he told me I would die."

"He was ever one for the melodrama. He takes life too seriously," Michael said dismissively.

"So I'm not going to die?" I demanded.

Michael grinned, "Apparently not. If you were going to die from what I did, you would be dead already."

I could not help but feel relief cut through my resentment and anger. I hated that it was he who put it there.

Since I did not say anything, Michael continued speaking. "Paul and I were friends when we were children. One day a traveler took us and did the same thing to us that I did to you. We became so much more than what we were. However, Paul eventually began to hate our nature and he began trying to kill me. He's being tracking me around ever since."

"Your nature? So what are you?" I asked.

"I am the same as you," he said simply. "Or rather, you are the same as me." I felt like a mouse being toyed with by a cat.

"Then what do you say that I am?"

He smiled and for all the world it appeared devoid of malice. "I know you are angry about what I did to you, but I have made you more than what you were. When I gave you my blood, I gave you time. You will never die, now. You are much more than human. I am much more than human. We are gods."

I was not buying that. "Gods? Then why did Paul say I would die?"

He shrugged. "You might have. Sometimes my blood just kills the recipient. Other times it makes the person go mad. But, as in your case, sometimes it grants immortality."

"So now you're saying I'm never going to die?" I asked, although my mind was racing. I was beginning to suspect he was mad and his strange follower Paul along with him. The two were caught in some sort of unhealthy delusion and I had been dragged into it simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Perhaps his blood contained a virus that made one infected insane. I had not been healthy since our first encounter. I had never been so exhausted, nor had I fainted before. Or was he suggesting he had granted me immortal life without immortal health? Why was I even considering his nonsense so seriously?

He shrugged, "Well, you would die if someone cut off your head, or crushed your most important organs, or if you suffocated," he said, but then shrugged. "But you won't age. Oh, you'll also die if you go without blood for an extended period of time, I believe, although I've hardly tested that. That would be why you've been feeling ill of late."

"Blood?" I repeated dumbly. "I need blood? That's crazy."

"Isn't it?" he said mockingly. "Imagine a mammal needing blood to live."

"Yes, their own blood," I emphasized.

He grinned again. I was annoyed he seemed to find such amusement in my plight. My plight which he had inflicted on me. I was beginning to suspect he had dragged me into those bushes for nothing more than his wicked amusement. I scowled.

He said, "Well, your own blood might need a little bit of help now. I'll be back." He slipped out of the window and I was left in utter silence.

My first instinct was to run and lock the window, but when I tried to get up a feeling of fatigue hit me. It slowed me down long enough to consider that if I did lock it, he might not come back and I might not get my answers, although I had strong doubts that his answers had any relation to reality.

I also had a strong suspicion that a simple lock might not keep a madman like him out. It might only enrage him or amuse him. I really wanted to know what he was thinking and what he had done, even if I was merely being drawn into his mad fantasies. I also wanted to understand where Paul fit into the whole convoluted picture. His simple story was just that: simple. There had to be more to the story than what he was telling me. Surely I would be safe enough if I did not challenge his delusions too far.

So I lay back and waited there because it was the simplest thing to do. It may also have been the most wise or the least wise option. Maybe there was no choice because I could not find the energy to do anything else.

Michael was as good as his word. He returned through the window a few hours later.

"Ho ho ho!" he said cheerily. I raised my eyebrow but did not comment. "What does Santa have in his sac for the good little girl? Why it's full of blood! She must have been very, very good this year!" I noticed he had one of those plastic bags that blood donor clinics used. It was indeed full of blood. Lovely, I thought with disgusted sarcasm.

"What do you expect me to do with that?" I asked skeptically, although I feared I knew the answer all too well. He was mad.

"Why," he said; mock coyly, "You drink it, little girl."

"I drink it. Just like that?" There was no way I was going to drink blood. It was disgusting and unsanitary.

"Of course. I would cook it for you, but then the blood would be ruined. Heat would denature the proteins and then it would do you no good. I could try to find you a straw though, if you want."

"That's disgusting. It's a biohazard," I pointed out dryly.

"A biohazard?" he asked and then sighed, as if I were a bother. "Just wait here." He walked out my bedroom towards the rest of my apartment. I could hear something bang and then he returned with a glass in hand. It was clearly full of sloshing blood. My stomach turned.

"I am not drinking that." Not to mention putting it in a glass did not magically transform it from a biohazardous fluid into something palatable.

"Come on now, it's festive and cheery," he said, sloshing the glass around a little bit so the liquid inside nearly splashed up over the rim. Apparently he thought it would make it more appealing. He was wrong.

"No."

"It's Christmas colored," he said in a cajoling voice like he was talking to a toddler.

"I'm not drinking that," I reiterated.

"Okay. Die then," he said coldly. His face looked suddenly looked indifferent. It scared me.

I swallowed past the sudden restriction in my throat. "You're seriously saying that I'll die if I don't drink that?"

"Well, I could get you a person to drink straight from if you'd prefer," he suggested, watching my reaction.

"Of course not," I snapped. That idea was even more unappealing than the first.

He frowned, as if the cat was growing weary of the game. "You have but two choices. You can either drink the blood from this glass to survive or you can continue to be stubborn and die. It's your choice."

I absolutely did not want to drink the disgusting red liquid, nor did I wish to die. What I wanted was answers. "Fine," I said. "I'll drink it. Once you answer my questions."

He sighed, "I would have answered you in any event. We had something of a deal as you'll recall. You don't need to hold your health hostage." The words were pretty rich coming from the person who had caused my poor health in the first place. He handed me the glass. It smelled awful, it smelled metallic. I took the glass, but kept it far from my face.

"You'll have to forgive me if I don't know what to believe when it comes to you," I said coolly. He grinned at my observation, looking completely unrepentant.

"Very well, ask away."

"What were you doing that night?"

"I was turning you into someone like myself. I believe I already explained that."

I frowned. "I meant before that. Were you out looking for a victim?"

"No, I noticed you in passing as you left the library and decided to do it. It was totally spur of the moment, little girl," he said. I was not sure what angered me more, the fact he altered my entire life on a moment's whim, or that he kept calling me "little girl".

"Will you stop calling me that?" I snapped, filled with annoyance.

"No, little girl. You should finish your glass while I'm answering or you might pass out and miss my answers, little girl. I'm not answering anything else until you're drinking, little girl." He looked like he meant the part about me drinking. It also appeared he was planning to call me whatever annoyed me the most. I sighed.

I really did not want to drink that vile red liquid. I could think of a multitude of reasons why I did not want to without difficulty. The entire idea offended me. It was appalling. It was technically cannibalism. It was probably illegal, or would be if any lawmakers had thought someone might be vile enough to actually try it.

Then Paul's voice rang through my head. "You're going to die." I did not want to die. I wanted to live. It was clear this Michael had done something that changed me in some way. I ignored my nausea and took a drink. I wondered what masochistic part of me kept shoving the most unpleasant parts of the past into the forefront of my mind.

It tasted sharp and metallic and felt disgusting in my mouth. I did not enjoy it, I was at least able to keep it down, but somewhere under all my disgust it was as if I was satisfying some hunger I was not aware I had. Like breathing, it was something one only truly appreciated when there was a lack of oxygen.

"Very good," Michael said, looking satisfied. I resisted the urge to throw the remaining contents of the glass at his smug expression. I did not only because I wanted him to continue answering me, not because I felt grateful or afraid, I told myself. Instead I took a drink and I asked my next question. "So what am I now, really?"

"A god, as I told you before. You've ascended from human to a greater, immortal being." It was said without a trace of irony.

I sighed. He seemed sincere in his belief. There was no point in pursuing it. I changed the subject instead. "So, why'd you pick me?

"A whim," he repeated. I scowled at the idea he had risked my life on a whim.

"Like, you would have done this to someone else if they had been coming out of the library at that exact same time?"

He smiled and looked striking, though I tried not to notice. "No, not just anyone. You looked particularly..." He paused, as if searching for a word. He continued, "Interesting. It's been quite a long time since anyone looked interesting to me."

I took another drink of blood. "Then why did you come back?"

"To see if you survived."

"Then why did you leave?" I shot at him. It was not really that I had been feeling abandoned I told myself, but rather that I wanted to argue him into a corner.

"Because I didn't know if you would," he answered with simple apathy.

I was becoming frustrated with him. I glared, and stood up. I drained the glass and took it to the kitchen to rinse it out. No one would be coming to my apartment, but in the very unlikely case someone did, I did not want a glass with dried blood lying around.

A part of me hoped he would be gone when I returned. Another, admittedly stupider part of me hoped he would still be there. I told myself it was because I was bored and curious. I assured myself that it had nothing to do with me feeling lonely on this family holiday, or even worse being intrigued with him in spite of everything that he had done to me. I was not that pathetic. I was independent and driven. I just wanted the facts and then I wanted him gone.

"So, was it that bad?" he asked. I had not heard him follow me out.

"It was awful." There was no way I was going to admit I had in any way not hated the experience and that I was already feeling just a little bit better.

He seemed amused. I was about to think of something brilliantly witty to say when he completely changed the subject in a direction I would have never guessed. "So, would you like to go out for dinner?"

"Dinner?" He did not mean to go find victims, did he?

"Yes, you know? That thing people do when they go out and obtain and eat food?" He mimed raising a fork to his mouth, as if I was too stupid to understand what he meant.

"I know what dinner is," I muttered, my mind racing. What was his game now?

"You don't have to over think everything so much. I've got no plans to harm you."

I doubted that.

He must have read my thoughts on my face. "I know that you have not forgiven me for the incident in the woods, but I've really got no further motivation to harm you. Even if I did bite you now that you are like me, your blood would not fulfill my needs. It would be weak and unpalatable. You're quite safe."

There was something about the strange yet compelling Michael which simply rubbed me the wrong way. Normally someone should be pleased to know someone was not going to bite them, but I could not help but be a little bit offended about being called 'weak and unpalatable'. I reminded myself it was a good thing and I was thinking like an idiot.

"Now don't be offended. There's not much point. Now how about dinner? I'm hungry."

"It's Christmas. Nothing will be open."

"Well, there's hardly any food here. I'm sure we'll find something," he said musingly, and I was quite disconcerted by his casual attitude.

Had he looked in my cupboards? My mind was whirling through a list of the bizarre violations he had inflicted on me, when he interrupted my train of thought.

"Oh, crap!" he snarled loudly and I was confused at the sudden change in his manner for a few seconds. I froze again. I clearly had the worst survival instincts.

"Returned to the scene of the crime, Michael?" asked another voice I instantly recognized, possibly because it had been reverberating through my head with the same ominous warning since the last time I had actually heard it. For the first few seconds I might have imagined it really was in my mind.

Paul must have let himself in through my bedroom window, I realized. I scolded myself for not locking it after Michael came back in, but I imagined he would probably have gotten in regardless. Like Michael, he too seemed like the type who would not be easily stopped by mere locks.

I turned and looked at him. He had the build of an athlete. He close to Michael's height, but his hair was black and his eyes were nearly as dark. He was standing in my hallway, staring at Michael. Michael was glaring at the newest intruder. As they bore holes in each other with their eyes, I was given a chance to observe them both. They looked like the perfect picture of opposites, like the personification of the endless battle between good and evil. Except there was probably no one good at all in this fight.

If I had been smart, I should have been running away, instead of standing there gawking. I was not smart. I did not even think of it, but rather stood their gawking as if my feet had grown roots into the linoleum.

Michael's voice brought me back to the strange reality unfolding before me. "What are you doing here, Paul?" Michael asked in what was almost a sulky voice. I watched Paul's unreadable face.

"As always, I am trying to put an end this nightmare," he said in a voice that could almost be considered casual.

"I am not in the mood for your games today. Leave us in peace," said Michael coldly.

"You'll be at peace when I am done," Paul promised. I felt chilled. His face remained emotionless.

"What about her?" Michael asked, gesturing towards me. I was annoyed. I did not want Paul noting my presence any more than he already had.

Paul looked at me and for the first time a trace of emotion touched his face. He looked conflicted. "I don't know." He shook his head. "I have to end it all, Michael. This is not the order of things."

Since he was staring at me, I felt I was well within my rights to speak up and give my opinion of the situation. "Listen, this all has nothing to do with me. Why don't you two take this outside?" I suggested, trying to sound more firm and unshaken than I was. I did not need their fight in my sanctuary. I was tired of being afraid.

"You've drank blood," he commented, still watching me. For some reason his expression made me feel ashamed.

"Not because I wanted to," I said, wondering how he knew. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand in case there was any left on me.

He replied in a voice which almost sounded sad, "You will again."

I did not answer because I knew he was probably right. I was already feeling slightly healthier and more energetic. Better than I had in weeks. It was too much to be coincidence my decline began after Michael's attack and my improvement began immediately after I had partook of his cure. I still did not want to drink it, yet, I wanted to live.

"I don't want to die," I said.

"Not many do," Paul agreed, finally looking away from me. He turned towards Michael.

It happened so quickly I could hardly fathom what had happened. One second Paul had turned his eyes towards Michael, the second he was in motion. He slammed his hand at Michael's face. Michael blocked him with his arm, the sound a reverberating smack. Michael was a touch too slow to block the other hand, which hit Michael's face with a sickening crunch. He then turned towards me.

I shrunk backwards. "Why didn't you just kill me that night?" I squeaked.

"I did," Paul said.

"What?" I asked stupidly; his answer made no sense.

He shook his head as if clearing it. "No. Never mind. It doesn't matter."

"Please don't hurt me," I begged.

"I'm sorry," he told me. Even through my fear, I believed that he was sorry, just as I believed that his regret would not stop him.

"Not sorry enough," said Michael as he kicked Paul, and I watched in shock as Paul went flying away from me, and crashed into my wall. I could see the wall was dented where he hit, as he slid to the floor.

He seemed to be unconscious. I just stood there, feeling stunned and trying to process what was happening, when Michael grabbed me by the wrist.

"We've got to get out of here," he said, dragging me along.

"Wait! I need my jacket," I said.

He growled unintelligibly but released my wrist long enough for me to grab my jacket, hat and shoes and then he started pulling me along again. There was a fresh light blanket of snow on the ground and our footsteps stood out glaringly against the white. "He'll be able to follow us," I pointed out.

"It's fine, just hurry."

As we rounded the corner I could not help but glance backwards at the place which had been my home for so many months, my hard but independently won bit of stability. I could not help but fear it was lost to me forever.