"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.
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