An old friend of mine replied to one of my messages. It was worth a try.

He was one of those seamless, hierarchical students. The ones you would see standing on a platform, delivering an innovative speech as class officer, tall and charming and venerated, the school poster boy. He has been in one of those bloodletting programs and charity marathon events running in a track jersey pair plastered with a number on his chest.

I asked him where to get blood packets, not the fresh ones, just the ones doomed to be disposed of, for research purposes.

What research? He asked.

I paused, then typed in, “So I could summon Marcy’s soul and ask her to lead me to her grave.”

A pending notification at the bottom of the chat box, as though he was dumbfounded and couldn’t manage to type a reply.

A message appeared at the bottom. “You’re fucking crazy LOL.”

I typed in a smiley.

A message appeared. “LOL ok, don’t tell me. I could send you a number from someone at the blood bank. Just get a 6-liter cooler and about 5 grand ready.”

I appeared at Sin’s front door with a cooler at hand, while I hunched from the bulk of my own backpack.  Sin stepped back and welcomed me, while I laid down the cooler on her center table and drew out a bottle from my bag.

“Absinthe?” she uttered as she perched on her couch with legs gathered.

I grinned from ear to ear. “I’m curious about the green fairy.”

“Absinthe has been banned, Cal,” Sin rejoined, “What the man in the liquor store has sold you is only a mockery of it.”

I headed to the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards for a pair of glasses. I cradled a pair of tall wine glasses with a single arm while I pulled a chair towards the disarray on the center table. “Let’s say we experiment with a concoction of red and green,” I asked, flipping open the red cooler. Six blood packets lay inside, flat and neatly on top of each other, emanating cool wafts of air.

“It’s cold,” said Sin dejectedly, “How much trouble did you get into for just acquiring these?”

“Not much. If you know who to talk to.”

She filled half her glass with the blood from one of the packets, along with a shot of absinthe. Her lips crinkled from a sip, but she didn’t utter a word. We talked for hours while it’s still dark, our youth unraveling from deep-seated memories, Sin dreary yet smiling as blood gathered themselves at the gaps and creases around her teeth. She despised those times, though she found pleasure in it. The ache and sorrow scraped and marred, yet then, delicate as she was, she was alive.

“I remember drinking,” she reflected, “the more I drink, the more the giddiness lasts. It was overwhelming, despite being temporary. The vulnerability, the slight taste of mortality, but it didn’t kill me. I’m already dead.”

Then I looked at her, Marcy’s own specter sculpted and thrived to a grown woman, a question burned my throat. “What happened to you?” I asked, “You’re not a fourteen-year old girl. You’ve grown, somewhere in between. When have you been turned?”

Sin’s smile vanished, then she leaned back, as though her own warm petals slowly shriveled and enclosed around her. 

“Fine,” I said, “I won’t force you on that.”

“Forgive me, Cal,” she said dismally, “those days, this isn’t the time to relive them.”

I glanced down at the bottle, the level of spritely green liquor an inch from the bottom. I was reeling, despite Sin consuming twice more than what I’ve drunk. She must be feeling something. Despite the cruel vacancy of her senses, she must have pain and pleasure. Even from those men groping her breasts like ravenous jackals, even if she stood still and languid.

“Sleep with me, Sin.” I said.

Sins eyes widened, her brows tensed. “What?” she managed to say.

“Sleep with me,” I repeated, “no, fuck me.”

She fell silent, then let out a terse chuckled as she scratched her head. “Cal,” she uttered, “the idea that promiscuity could fill your life, don’t drag me into it.”

“No, not that,” I shook my head, “not promiscuity. I’m very selective. I drift in contrast to conventionalism. And women, they only make me feel empty. I want you.”

I laid back a little, laced my fingers behind my neck, and waited. Not a word came from her lips, but she stooped forward, eyes glowering and teeth clenched. “You’re relentless,” she snarled, “you once lived in a world where everyone is beneath you, and must receive your every whim. You’ve changed. You’ve emptied yourself of guilt and remorse. You’ve shut yourself from everyone, and still, despite those days that you revel in everyone's favor, you haven’t learned from any of it.”

Her fingers clenched. The wineglass, trembling in her enclosing wrath, burst to fragments from her tightened fist. Blood and liquor spewed, rivets trickled, the wailing soul of her wineglass crawling down her wrist. “Shit!” I exclaimed. She shut her eyes, saved me from perceiving their reflected rage.

I stared at her fist, tightly clenched despite the spiteful stabs of glass fragments squirming from her grip. When she freed them, they stuck like leeches, burrowing themselves to the bone. I threw my arms, tried to touch them as she gratingly, painfully writhed.

“Leave it!” she cried, “Sleep on the couch if you want! Just leave me alone!” With that, she stormed off and shut her bedroom door.

I slumped on the couch, curled and flung my arms around my head. My breath trembled. My shoulders shuddered on the tattered leather. For a long while, I was livid even sleep won’t approach me.