own dreams—so it was strange.” Myles blinks a few times.
“ Only. . .” He stares at the blanket for a second. “It wasn't really a dream. I was remembering something. From. . .before.”
I smile a little. “You remembered something from when you were human?”
Silence.
A car honks somewhere outside. A cartoon character laughs on the TV behind him, telling us to eat some kind of cereal.
“ Do you want to talk about it?” I ask after another moment.
Myles opens his mouth slightly, then shuts it. Finally, he nods.
“Okay.” I interlock our fingers. “You can tell me.”
His thumb grazes the top of my hand a few times before he speaks. “It was after I was attacked. Usually when I try to remember the night I was changed or anything before it, I come up empty.” He shrugs. “I only know what I've already told you.”
I think back to the night Myles told me everything he was hiding. A storm. Horses. He woke up alone in a field, not knowing how he got there.
He swallows. “I woke up on the wet grass. I could smell the mud. I felt like I was changing. ” One of his fists curls in his chest, the other hand tightens around mine.
“ It hurt.” Now his fingers touch the scar. He looks at me like he’s suddenly remembered I’m in the room. “Then the dream skipped ahead and I was walking home. My parents. . .” He pauses. His eyes are far away. “They were there, but they had no faces. I don't know what they looked like.” He doesn't sound saddened by this, it's just a fact. “I think they thought I caught a cold or something from being out in the rain. I spent the next few days in a bedroom in pain. . .dying.”
Taking in a deep breath, he continues. “The next thing I remember is trying to get up. I could barely stand. And then. . .” He blinks like he's replaying it all over again. “My fangs came in.”
I gulp, but I think I manage to keep it quiet enough so Myles doesn't notice.
“There was a lot of blood.” He pauses for a few seconds. “I was horrified. Then it gets a little fuzzy. I took something sharp. . .cut my arm. When it didn't bleed, I became even more frantic. I knew there was something wrong. I knew something was happening to me. I wanted to die. I thought I was supposed to be dead.”
“ But you had already changed?” I pipe up.
His eyes graze my face, momentarily broken from the memory. “No,” he whispers. “Not completely.” He shakes his head. “I didn't bleed because I had virtually no blood left.”
I nod like I understand, but this is obviously beyond my realm of comprehension.
“Finally, my arm started bleeding, but I didn't die. I passed out, woke up, and I was still alive—or so I thought.” Myles balls his fist under my palm. “No more than a few hours could have passed, but when I woke up, there was blood everywhere except my arms. There weren’t any marks at all.”
He untwists our hands to inspect his left wrist, like telling the story has raised the scars from the grave. He lowers his arm finally, placing it palm down on the comforter between us. “It's not the memory that's bothering me,” he says quietly. “It's what I felt.”
“ Well, yeah.” I have to stabilize my voice before I can go on. “You were scared. The dream probably scared you.”
“ It's not even that.” Myles glances at me, to the TV, then back to me. “Even if I hated what I was for the longest time, I never—not once—wished for death. I didn't think I was capable of feeling that way.”
We’re both quiet. He can’t say anything more about it because what use would it be, an immortal talking about killing himself? I don’t say anything because I can’t come up with any words that would make it feel better or hurt less.
I may not have words, but I have him, and he has me. I wrap my arm around Myles, using my free hand to cradle the arm he hasn’t looked away from since the conversation started.
And I can see them: a bunch of white, jagged, angry lines
“ Only. . .” He stares at the blanket for a second. “It wasn't really a dream. I was remembering something. From. . .before.”
I smile a little. “You remembered something from when you were human?”
Silence.
A car honks somewhere outside. A cartoon character laughs on the TV behind him, telling us to eat some kind of cereal.
“ Do you want to talk about it?” I ask after another moment.
Myles opens his mouth slightly, then shuts it. Finally, he nods.
“Okay.” I interlock our fingers. “You can tell me.”
His thumb grazes the top of my hand a few times before he speaks. “It was after I was attacked. Usually when I try to remember the night I was changed or anything before it, I come up empty.” He shrugs. “I only know what I've already told you.”
I think back to the night Myles told me everything he was hiding. A storm. Horses. He woke up alone in a field, not knowing how he got there.
He swallows. “I woke up on the wet grass. I could smell the mud. I felt like I was changing. ” One of his fists curls in his chest, the other hand tightens around mine.
“ It hurt.” Now his fingers touch the scar. He looks at me like he’s suddenly remembered I’m in the room. “Then the dream skipped ahead and I was walking home. My parents. . .” He pauses. His eyes are far away. “They were there, but they had no faces. I don't know what they looked like.” He doesn't sound saddened by this, it's just a fact. “I think they thought I caught a cold or something from being out in the rain. I spent the next few days in a bedroom in pain. . .dying.”
Taking in a deep breath, he continues. “The next thing I remember is trying to get up. I could barely stand. And then. . .” He blinks like he's replaying it all over again. “My fangs came in.”
I gulp, but I think I manage to keep it quiet enough so Myles doesn't notice.
“There was a lot of blood.” He pauses for a few seconds. “I was horrified. Then it gets a little fuzzy. I took something sharp. . .cut my arm. When it didn't bleed, I became even more frantic. I knew there was something wrong. I knew something was happening to me. I wanted to die. I thought I was supposed to be dead.”
“ But you had already changed?” I pipe up.
His eyes graze my face, momentarily broken from the memory. “No,” he whispers. “Not completely.” He shakes his head. “I didn't bleed because I had virtually no blood left.”
I nod like I understand, but this is obviously beyond my realm of comprehension.
“Finally, my arm started bleeding, but I didn't die. I passed out, woke up, and I was still alive—or so I thought.” Myles balls his fist under my palm. “No more than a few hours could have passed, but when I woke up, there was blood everywhere except my arms. There weren’t any marks at all.”
He untwists our hands to inspect his left wrist, like telling the story has raised the scars from the grave. He lowers his arm finally, placing it palm down on the comforter between us. “It's not the memory that's bothering me,” he says quietly. “It's what I felt.”
“ Well, yeah.” I have to stabilize my voice before I can go on. “You were scared. The dream probably scared you.”
“ It's not even that.” Myles glances at me, to the TV, then back to me. “Even if I hated what I was for the longest time, I never—not once—wished for death. I didn't think I was capable of feeling that way.”
We’re both quiet. He can’t say anything more about it because what use would it be, an immortal talking about killing himself? I don’t say anything because I can’t come up with any words that would make it feel better or hurt less.
I may not have words, but I have him, and he has me. I wrap my arm around Myles, using my free hand to cradle the arm he hasn’t looked away from since the conversation started.
And I can see them: a bunch of white, jagged, angry lines
Similar Books
