I'm alone in the room.
My head is pounding and my body feels like it's on fire. I don't dare move a muscle yet, eyes trailing the ceiling fan as it spins around and around, blowing a hint of cool air on my sweaty face.
I'm weak—so fucking weak it hurts to blink, taking every ounce of energy I have left to keep breathing. It would be too easy for someone to end my life today. I'm vulnerable, and susceptible, still alive for the moment but feeling like I've already got one foot in the grave.
I've felt that way for a long time, actually.
I wonder when the other foot will finally join it.
I'm still tired, but I need to stay awake, so I close my eyes to steel myself, gritting my teeth as I force myself out of the bed. Time waits for no man. The world won't just roll over and take it. I have to face it head on, pick myself up and trudge forward as long as I can.
I can't be weak.
I have to be strong.
My legs feel heavy but my footsteps are light, slow and measured, as I make my way downstairs. I head for the kitchen, the light on in that room, my mouth as dry as sand, my throat raw like scratched with sandpaper. Stepping in the doorway, I pause when I see Karissa standing at the counter beside the sink, haphazardly chopping some vegetables and throwing them in a pot on the stove.
She struggles with the knife as she massacres a carrot, the sections uneven, pieces flying all around. Shaking my head, I stroll into the kitchen, watching her with a morbid sort of amusement. "Nobody ever taught you how to use a knife?"
My voice seems magnified by the silence. Karissa jumps, the sound of it catching her off guard. The knife slips as she brings it down on the carrot, slicing right into her pointer finger. Cursing, she instantly lets go of the knife and it clatters to the floor.
"Shit, shit, shit!" she chants as she hops around. "Jesus, Naz! You scared me!"
I say nothing, pausing beside her, grabbing her wrist and pulling her hand toward me to see the cut. Before I can get a good look, she yanks away, plunging the wounded finger into her mouth, wrapping her lips around it with a scowl on her face.
Nausea swims through me. I can almost taste the blood myself. Disgusting.
I brush by her to open up the drawer closest to the refrigerator. It's full of this and that, a little bit of everything, one of the only drawers in the kitchen that doesn't sit empty. I search around inside, pulling out a small first-aide kit. I set it on the counter and pop it open, grabbing a Band-Aid.
I take her hand again, pulling her finger out from between her lips. I stare at it for a moment as a bead of blood surfaces from the small wound. The cut isn't too deep, she doesn't need stitches, but it obviously stings by the look on her face.
For years I sought this blood—hunted it down so I could drain it, to stop the heart that beats it, to rid the world of that disgraceful bloodline. I never imagined one tiny drop would have such an affect, how her pain, no matter how trivial, would inflict that same sort of ache in me.
Karissa doesn't fight me, watching silently as I open the bandage. "You know, there should be some rule that says only one of us is allowed to bleed per day."
"It's after midnight," she whispers. "You haven't bled yet today."
Yet.
Laughing dryly, I wrap the bandage around her finger, covering the wound. Bringing her finger to my lips, I lightly kiss it before letting go of her hand. "It's kind of late to be cooking."
"Your, uh... that doctor stopped by and he dropped off some prescriptions, and gave some instructions... you know, rest and drink fluids and stuff like that. He said you should try to eat something but that you probably couldn't handle much yet, so I just thought..."
She trails off, still not answering my question. "You thought?"
"I thought I'd make you some broth."
"Broth?"
"Uh, yeah, I guess it's more like soup since it's got chicken and carrots and celery and—" Her voice stumbles as she turns away from me to stir whatever's in the pot. She cuts her eyes my way after a second and frowns at my expression. "It's just that stuff, and some water and seasonings. That's it. Nothing else."
I want to believe her.
I really do.
"We didn't have any broth in the cabinet? I thought I saw a carton of it somewhere."
She grimaces. "There are certain things you shouldn't ever drink out of a box, and chicken broth is one of them."
"I'm guessing wine is another?" I ask, leaning back against the counter.
"I like boxed wine," she says. "It's cheap and does the trick."
"Well, I don't mind chicken broth out of a carton," I say, shrugging as I push away from the counter. "It hasn't killed me yet."
I start to walk out when I hear her voice, quiet as she mutters, "I won't kill you, either."
I don't hang around, shuffling my way to the den. The scent of bleach reaches my nose as soon as I step in the doorway. My eyes trail the floor and along the couch, surveying the area, before turning around and glancing toward the front door.
All of the blood is gone.
Everything looks back in order, scrubbed and sanitized, every reminder of what happened here completely wiped away while I slept upstairs. A feeling stirs in the pit of my stomach that I instinctively try to shove back, but I'm too exhausted for pretenses, too drained to put on a mask.
Gratitude.
She cleaned up the mess I made, wiped up the spilled blood caused by her mother's hands. She didn't have to do it, but she did.
Sighing, I step into the den and settle on the couch, leaning my head back and closing my eyes, trying to breathe through the twinges of pain. I should go back to bed but I feel disconnected up there, trapped in a void where time doesn't exist.
I haven't been sitting here for more than a few minutes, nearly dozing off already again, my body on the verge of shutting down as it tries to process, when I feel something cover me. The material rubs against my skin, soft but startling. My eyes open, instantly meeting Karissa's as she drapes a blanket over my body.
That gratitude swells up again, but I shove it back down. "Why are you doing this?"
She smoothes the blanket before sitting gently down on the small table right in front of the couch, so close her knees rub against mine. It's a startling change from just the last time we sat in this room together, when she did everything in her power not to have any part of her touch any part of me. Hours feel like weeks, days like an eternity, but I know it was less than forty-eight hours ago.
Two days, and such a drastic difference.
"You had goose bumps," she says quietly. "I figured you were cold."