©Copyright jvaughn, 2013, 2014. All rights reserved. Copyright violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
Note to readers: So, sorry for the long delay. This is the third time I'm submitting this.
Lit is no longer accepting .rtf format, so rejected my first submission. I was submitting in .rtf because I've had trouble with .doc losing characters. This story is in .doc format, so I hope it still looks okay.
Don't know what is going on with Lit, but when I resubmitted in .doc format, they published some random story that I've never seen before instead of mine. I didn't actually see the story or the comments, but I could see the comment titles. Not surprisingly, there seemed to be much confusion.
I've changed the name slightly because I don't want to inherit the ratings and comments from the random story that was published in place of mine. Hopefully this one will post very soon. Again, so sorry for the delay.
Chapter Twenty-One
The TV was on, broadcasting an early-season game between the Seahawks and the Saints, and it was a close one. Guy's attention normally would have been riveted to the game, but today he couldn't muster enough energy to care. He'd turned the sound off; it was annoying. He would have turned the TV off entirely, but he felt like he should care. He should want to watch the game and know the score.
He certainly didn't need the glow of the TV in order to see. He didn't even need the night vision feature of his bionic eye anymore. He could see clear as day regardless of the amount of light.
He sighed.
I'm more of a mutant now than ever.
His hearing had been enhanced to the point where he could hear a squirrel running up a tree outside, several hundred yards away. His sense of smell now was almost overwhelming. He could smell things that he'd never thought of as having a scent: the kitchen counter, his glass coffee table ... everything had its own scent.
It was confusing, all of these new sensations. He mainly just tried to block them out. They weren't of any use to him. His plan was to get well enough to be sent on another hunt, and then to fail. He was fairly convinced that, in his current state of mind, he couldn't succeed if he wanted to, but he didn't want to succeed. He just wanted to die. Suicide by vampire—a hell of a way to go.
However, he wasn't sure he'd ever get better to the point where he could hunt again. He might have to come up with a different plan for his demise. He really didn't want to commit suicide outright; the idea was repulsive. But he was in so much anguish, he would do almost anything to escape it.
The doctor had visited him earlier in the day and was confused by his lack of progress. He was a week out of the hospital, and not only was he not getting stronger, he seemed to be getting weaker. Making it to the bathroom was a monumental feat. He had no interest in eating. His arm was a useless appendage; he could barely wiggle a single finger. He wished they'd removed it.
But mostly, he just didn't care.
The doctor didn't understand what the problem was, but Guy knew: he was missing his heart. It had been ripped out of his chest and now there was a gaping hole there. The void left by Mel's absence was a chasm so deep and wide and depressing that he'd never be able to climb out of it. He just wanted to die.
He had failed Mel. He'd failed to protect him. He'd driven him away. He'd lost the only thing that gave his life meaning, and he would never get it back. He understood why Mel had left: he was a freak show. He was a grotesque cross between a vampire and a human, who was incapable of having a normal relationship. He wasn't even able to sit in the same room as Mel and have a conversation—the proximity would make the beast inside him go crazy. He would attack and rape his precious angel, and that would be a horror far worse than his own death.
He gave a bitter laugh.
At least I'm too weak to do that anymore.
He shifted on the leather couch, his muscles protesting every movement. A sharp pain slashed through his shoulder. He glanced at his bottle of painkillers on the table. Consuela had left the lid off because he was unable to open it one-handed.
Is it too soon to take another one?
He decided it didn't matter because he didn't have the energy to make the effort. He closed his eyes and escaped into sleep.
*****
Salvatore heard himself whimpering and tried to silence himself. Even standing still—or hanging limply from his chains as he had been doing—the pain was excruciating. Putting one foot in front of the other caused fire to flare across the sensitive nerves of his anus, even drowning out the agony of his empty eye socket.
He couldn't see. His remaining eye still worked, but it was so filled with tears of pain it blurred the world around him. He clutched his sister's thin waist to steady himself. She was cool—cooler than she should be. She was covered with volumes of fabric. A thick black cape hung from her shoulders, its hood covering her hair. Under the hood, she had covered her face completely with a thin crimson scarf.
Why?
he still had the presence of mind to wonder.
He had managed to stop whimpering, instead letting out little stuttering gasps as he shuffled slowly forward, leaning heavily on his sister for support. Her arm was wrapped comfortingly around his waist, and she urged him on in a low voice.
"Hurry, Sal. You need to get as far away as possible before nightfall."
Something about this sentence bothered Salvatore, and through the fog of pain and confusion, it took him a few moments to figure out what.
You?
"You're not coming with me?" he cried.
"Here, this way," she said, tugging him along through a wide arched doorway onto a massive stone porch. She paused on the porch, sucking in her breath in a hiss. Then, seeming to gather herself, she plunged forward down the steps and into the bright midday sunlight, dragging him along with her. A low cry, almost as if she were in pain, broke from her lips, but she didn't falter.
Salvatore squinted his eye against the brightness, tears streaming down his face as his pupil fought to adjust after so much time in the dark.
"Hurry Sal!" she said again, her voice tight. He could hear her panting behind her scarf.
He wanted nothing more but to lie down and die. He clung to her and struggled on, one foot in front of the other as they trundled down a grassy slope toward the water.
"Here," she said, pausing. "Watch your feet."
Salvatore blinked hard, trying to see through the blur. The green gave way with a sharp line to a dark brown. He smelled pitch. They were at the edge of the dock, he guessed. He picked his foot up and put it carefully on the darker area, then Eva was hauling him forward, their footsteps echoing hollowly on the wooden platform. He could hear the waves lapping at the shore, smell the fresh breeze that came off of the great lake.
We're free!
In spite of the blinding pain, he felt joy burst forth in his heart. He had given up hope, but somehow Eva had come out of her stupor to save them.
"The boat is here," Eva said. Pulling him down to his knees, she took his hand and placed it on the smooth wooden gunnel. It was the boat they had come in—the one he had stolen from his father to make his escape. It was one of his father's smaller, less ostentatious boats, a 17-foot 1948 Chris Craft Deluxe Runabout. It had a fast, new motor that ran almost soundlessly—one of the reasons he'd chosen it.
"Get in," Eva urged.
Salvatore squinted at the boat, trying to orient himself with it. They were even with the helm. He crawled into the boat, hissing as his sore ass came in contact with the red vinyl seats. Then he turned to help his sister in. She was kneeling on the dock, but didn't take his hand.
