The Anti-Vampire

rip me to pieces.

Snapping and crash. A loud thud. Just ahead of me—maybe 50 feet or so.

Heart goes wild. Terror trembles through my veins.

Eyes strain to see anything in the darkness. Darkness there—nothing more, but something crashed in it.

Maxine—did one of the hunters looking for me grab her? I start walking in the direction of the sound, trying to be quiet and not give myself away. Must be quiet—can’t help her if they kill me before I get there.

Simon—was it Simon coming back to me, and the beasts grabbed him?

I sprint into the pitch, branches scraping at my arms and legs, dragging over my skin like demon claws trying to pull me down into hell.

None of it matters. Not until I know it’s not him. Not until I know he’s not hurt.

How far have I run? Where was the sound? So hard to tell. My breath sounds like thunder. As I look around while running at full speed, I can almost feel the air moving past my straining eyes.

Feet hit something and snag—body keeps moving forward, falling into the brush. Hands fling out to break my fall—they are first to feel the scrape of the prickly bush I’m smashing into. Tuck my head into my forearms, trying to block the harsh scratching of the branches and pointed leaves. Its tear finds my cheeks and slashes my right ear. Burn radiates through me.

Knees hit the ground. Force myself out the thorn-filled brier torture I’ve fallen into.

I spin around to see what I tripped over. I hear its breathing—deep and desperate like the sick.

Boots. Face down against the ground. Simon—my God, it’s Simon!

I crawl up the side of him as fast as I can—shove his shoulder to turn him over.

Fear still swirls in my heart—imagining Simon wounded or worse. An echoing panic hits me that I’ll roll him over not to see his handsome face but one of the nightmares in my head.

Finally lift his large shoulder off the ground and turn him over.

His face—beautiful and faded. His features more pale—eyes shut and sunken. Lips look blue—even in the moonlight.

Try to pick him up by his arm. Straining my skinny muscles. Feet struggle to grip ground. He doesn’t move. Foolish—waste of precious time.

“Help!” I shout into the darkness. “Help! Someone, please, help!”

My eyes leave his face and scan the black. No answer.

My hand holds his tightly. Motionless. Eyes hot with anger, I scream, “You can have me—you hear me, you filthy beasts! You want me—come and take me! You can have me! Just help him. Help him!”

His hand barely squeezes mine. Eyes remain shut—barely breathing.

“Shut your mouth, drama queen,” sharp voice obliterates my hope, “Death isn’t the end.”

“Ha-Wh-o’s th-ere?” comes choppily out my mouth.

“Who’s there? Who’s there?” it mocks me, high–pitched and unnatural—sounding like it comes out the tree branches above.

Glaring at the trees around me—still grasping Simon’s hand, “Help him! Help him now, or so help me—”

Thud lands behind me. The branches in the tree above me rustle as my head spins round to see what is upon me.

A nightmare in pretty makeup—fangs exposed and a smile on her face.

“Maxine! Help him—he’s dying!”

She raises her head to the treetops, laughing heartily, giving me a hideous view of the underside of her fangs.

I scream at her, “Said you loved him—help him! Help him, you sick bi—”

“Settle down, little princess. Don’t go and say nasty things like one of us beasts.”

“You—”

“He’s not dying, love.”

“What?”

“He’s just dry.”

“Dry?”

“Needs blood. Soon.”

“What-d’we-do?”

“You,” she says pointing a sharp nail at the space between my eyes, “Give me your finger.”

I offer her my hand. Grabs it in a snatch. Holds my index finger in front of her face like she’s trying to read some hidden writing on it. In a white blur, she flings her head at my finger, slicing her right fang into it.

Blood runs down my hand toward my wrist from the skinny, shallow laceration she’s made.

My panicked eyes are on her face that stares strangely at my running wound.

“Put it in his mouth.”

I look at my bleeding hand and to his still, emotionless face.

“Do it! Now!” she says, suddenly becoming frightened as she gets a better look at his face.

Drop to my knees before him. Press my lips tightly against his. Cold—sparks have left him.

Slide my clean hand over his lips, pulling them open. Place my crimson finger into his mouth.

Nothing.

Look over my shoulder to Maxine. Her hand on her heart. Face in pain.

Back to Simon. His lips become deep red.

Tears run onto my neck. Didn’t notice them till now.

His face so lifeless. So sad.

My eyes wrench shut. My breaths come choppy and weak—all I can hear. Mind empty. Chest so cold.

Then I feel it. Pressure on my finger. His cheeks taught. Eyes beginning to stir.

Pull my finger out.

His eyes barely open, smile forms, “What’s up, Bright Eyes?”

“Simon!” I squeal.

“Don’t stop—don’t stop! He’ll go out again,” demands Maxine over my shoulder.

Place my finger back in his mouth. His tongue slides over it, sending tingles up my arm and into my chest. Know the feeling is so wrong—so inappropriate, but it lingers.

Color returns to him—the little color that keeps his pale face from looking like death.

Maxine leans over me, her eyes intent on him. Death over my shoulder, life spilling from my finger before me, and I’m caught somewhere in- between.

Maxine sits off to the side, eyes closed, breeze blowing over her golden hair. I sit next to her. So late. Don’t know what time it is, but the sun must be about to break through the darkness any minute now.

I say, “Scary few minutes there.”

Looking straight ahead as if I’m not even here, she says, “Sorry—had no idea he was so far gone. Never seen anyone so dry. Never heard of a vamp dying of being dry—never even seen anybody try to hold out this long before.”

I look back to Simon, who sleeps soundly after having his fill. His color has returned, and his breathing is strong and steady.

She asks, “He never fed on you? The two nights you were together—he never fed at all?”

“No, he didn’t even try.”

Shaking her head, “Must’ve thought you were too delicate—too pristine to feed on. I wouldn’t have fed on him earlier as payment for keeping an eye on you if I knew he was that dry.”

Pause while her words sting the air around us.

“Why didn’t you let him feed off you? I mean, why give him my finger when you could’ve done it yourself?” I ask the question that’s been on my mind.

“Nothing special about it when he doesn’t want it, princess.”

She stares forward, still only acknowledging I’m here with words, not bringing herself to look at me.

I start, “90 degrees just two days ago—where is this breeze coming from?”