A single tiny flurry drifted down from the sky, dancing and swirling in the air before landing on Stam’s cheek, where it stuck like the body of an insect caught in a spider’s web, neither melting nor escaping as the wind blew across her face. Beside her, David shivered from the icy breeze and seemed wrapped in thought as he stared at Stam, who in turn, was staring off across the football field shared between Saint Elia’s and David’s own school. She had indulged David and allowed him to coax her to the bleachers; Ashley would no doubt be laughing about the whole situation if he knew.
“It’s snowing,” David commented, brushing a few flakes from the cold metal where they sat.
“Yes,” Stam replied, taking note of a dot of ice which had landed on her wrist.
Silence persisted between them, as it had for a few minutes now, until David shifted uncomfortably and spoke again. “Listen, Stam,” he started. “I’m sorry about, you know, in the bathroom the other day.”
“It’s fine,” she replied. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do it again.”
It wasn’t exactly what he was hoping to hear. He took an audible breath. “Why not? Don’t tell me it’s because of that old bitch. She was talking to my dad like you and I were fucking in there.”
Stam was quiet, and considered that if she explained her reasoning to David, he would only then attempt to mislead her—convince her she was wrong. That was what Ashley had said, anyway, and she instead decided to try what he had suggested.
“I’m not ready,” she replied, hardly even sure what it meant.
“Oh,” David responded as though he had heard it a thousand times. He too, was silent in thought before he continued, “But you said, like… that you’ve done stuff before….”
“It wasn’t by choice,” Stam explained, watching the snowflakes fluttering around them.
David was uncomfortable. “So, wait, you mean like….” He waited to see if Stam would clarify. When she didn’t, he continued, “You mean like, somebody forced you?”
“I suppose that’s accurate enough,” she replied, turning to him. “I don’t understand. Why do you want to have sex with me?”
David just about choked with shock at the accusation. He stumbled over his words. “Whoa, whoa, it’s not like… I mean, I like you, but… like….”
Stam raised an eyebrow at his fumbling.
“I just really like you. Do you think that’s all I want?” He paused. “I mean, that’s not it.”
“What is it, then?”
“I want to go out with you and hang out and stuff, and like, I dunno, like I said the other day: your personality and stuff… I just like you.”
“You also said you find me physically appealing.”
David laughed, trying to mask his nervousness. “Physically appealing….” He repeated Stam’s words. “Even the way you talk is like, so weird. It’s cool.” Stam was silent, and so David continued. “I mean yeah, I think you’re really beautiful, but that’s not why I like you. It’s not like, about sex….”
He took her hand. “Jeez, you’re always so freezing,” he remarked at her icy skin. He played with it idly and then added, “I guess we don’t have to do anything. I mean, I want to, but I’d really be okay if we could just be friends.”
Stam looked down at her hand in his, and then at his face. He smiled meekly at her, but neither of them said anything until David shook his head. “You have the craziest eyes. They’re so beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she replied, out of habit more than genuine appreciation. She was unsure of how genuine David was being, but her mind had ceased to focus on that; it had become preoccupied with a sick sensation she was feeling—something small pervading her thoughts.
“What color are they without the contacts?” he asked, still examining her eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without them—everyone was joking when you first came to the church that you had like, monster eyes and stuff.”
Stam’s attention was still distracted. Her reply was cursory, “They’re real.”
David laughed. “Uh-huh.”
She placed her free hand on her stomach and looked down. David was oblivious.
“Okay, okay.” He still chuckled. “You have red eyes—whatever. I guess it’s like, a Goth thing?”
“What?”
“Your whole like, thing you do, it’s like, Goth, right? Being all sad and wearing black shirts and stuff?”
“I don’t understand,” Stam replied as she glanced at him, failing even to feign that he still held her attention.
“No, like, I’m not making fun of it—I think it’s cool. Like, I’m a Jock or whatever, and you’re Goth.”
Stam said nothing; her focus was captured by what she was trying discretely to fight.
“Nevermind.” He laughed, “It’s not important,” and then he trailed off, unsure what to say next.
Stam had no reply on the matter. She lifted her head, watching the snow, and then turned to David.
“I’m cold.” Her voice was weaker than her usual whisper.
“Oh,” David sighed, “yeah, I guess it is cold. We can go in….”
Stam stood up abruptly. Her hand slipped from his and took hold of her stomach, while David remained on the metal seat, totally unaware of her preoccupations.
“Could we just like, kiss once?” he asked.
“You already did that,” Stam replied, taking a step down to the next row of seats to pass him.
He reached out to her. “Can I try, like, just one more time?”
She broke away. “No.” She hurried down from the bleachers. Her shoes clanked loudly on the metal with each step, steadily growing more rapid until she was almost running as she hit the gravel path leading back to the church.
“Wait, Stam.” David hurried after. “I’m sorry.”
She trudged through the tiny stones, feet dragging as she stumbled to a stop. Her hand came to her face as she struggled to endure and restrain the sensation that had overcome her. Her lips parted, tiny fangs peeking out as she strained to breathe normally while standing half buckled over. Unlike the nearly opaque steam bursting from David’s mouth as he hurried after, Stam’s breath was invisible, no different in temperature from the cold air around them.
David slowed to a stop. “Stam?” He put an arm on her hunched back. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
She was unable or unwilling to explain.
“Should I get somebody?” he asked urgently.
Stam struggled to lift her head. She looked David over, and soon, her eyes came to rest on his neck.
“Stam?” he asked, kneeling down so he was staring up at her.
She shuddered and shook with each breath, but finally conjured the strength needed to ask, “May I borrow your phone?”
* * *
July.
There had been screams all day—far worse than usual. When Josef came to check on him, Gunther heard a little boy’s voice calling, begging and pleading through tears. Josef hurriedly shut the door behind himself, muffling the cries, and was quick to start digging through the instruments on the table near Gunther.
“What is that?” he asked.
“What’s what?” Josef replied, annoyed, not looking up.
“Screaming….” Gunther coughed out.
“A particularly bad case. Poor kid,” Josef explained. “You really don’t need to know the details.”
After more digging, he turned to Gunther. “We’ve got a new experiment to try today. I’ve got a good feeling about this one.” Josef brought a thick, long needle to Gunther’s chest. “But it’s probably going to hurt.”
Gunther groaned. He was used to it all now.
Josef drove the needle in under his sternum, carefully angling it directly into Gunther’s heart. He shook in pain.
“Careful, careful….” Josef put a hand on his chest in an attempt to sooth him. He had made no effort to anesthetize anything, as it had always proved futile in the past. Gunther struggled a bit longer, before settling into his typical quiet, obedient anguish. Josef often worked this way now: quickly and without any consultation with his patient beforehand.
Gunther lay motionless, while in the other room, the cries of the little boy grew weaker and weaker. When they fell silent, Josef excused himself. “I’ll return in a moment,” he said and disappeared, leaving Gunther to lie there with the needle in his chest. His eyes followed a long tube which ran from the end of it and hooked to a small reservoir.
A few minutes passed and Josef returned. Two doctors in aprons and masks splattered with blood were carrying a large vat which they sat on one of the tables near the container at the end of the needle. The two men looked like butchers.
He could hear some urgency in Josef’s voice. “Come on, now.”
The two doctors stepped aside as Josef took the container and attached a small pump hose to it. He flipped a switch and the pump began to vibrate and hum as he donned thick rubber gloves. With that, he dipped his whole project into the vat.
Gunther watched, feeling ill as a thick red liquid began to work its way up the tube and toward the needle in his chest. Josef, on the other hand, watched with wild fascination as he excitedly scribbled in his notepad.
Gunther’s chest felt heavy; he could almost feel the liquid settling inside him. It felt awful. He groaned and began to writhe.
“Just another moment, Gunther,” Josef assured him. “Just hold on.”
For another agonizing minute, the machine hummed, until finally, it fell silent. Josef hurried to remove the needle from Gunther’s chest and then moved to the opposite side of the table where a large machine was waiting. He pulled a pad away from it, attached to a thick cord, and flipped another switch. It buzzed loudly.
“This may hurt a bit,” Josef explained, “but we need to get your heart pumping.”
Gunther whimpered unintelligibly in response. With that, Josef pushed the pad onto Gunther’s chest. An electric shock ripped through him; his body lurched and flailed where it lay, burning and stinging all over. He let out a harsh but stunted scream while Josef watched, seeming dissatisfied.
He tried again… again… and again.
August.
Gunther thought it must be August by now. Josef had stormed away after the last failed experiment and the calendar had gone unmarked for some length of time.
In desperation, at some point, Gunther had writhed and flung himself from the table. All the while, the thought remained that maybe he could escape—run away—or at least kill himself. Now he lay on the dirt ground, not far from the metal door. Over several brutal hours, he had crawled toward the exit, only to find upon reaching it that it had been locked tight. He pounded on it as best as he could, crying out to Josef—to anyone—but there was nothing.
He had no idea to where he would possibly run away, or what he could possibly do to end his suffering. There hadn’t been anything outside but rows and rows of dismal brick shelters. He tried to remember back to the night they had arrived: he’d been brought into one particular building and wheeled through a few rooms not vastly dissimilar from the one he was in now that had become his prison. He pictured himself inside a labyrinth of cold, empty rooms filled with nothing but stale air and the echoes of distant screams. It was a prison from which even death seemed unable release him, and he was all alone.
* * *
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