Brook wiped blood from his lips and looked out at the rolling storm coming over the countryside. He nursed the green bottle in his hands and pressed the side of his face against his bedroom window. He shut his eyes, focusing on the sound of the rain and somewhere far in the distance the dimming signal of his blood mixed with Fern’s.
He concentrated and followed the red line that bonded them together. In his mind’s eye he flew over patchworks of farmland, stark trees, houses and other buildings. He realised, he was following the road back the way the taxi had first brought them. Then miles away, he spotted a half-hidden turn off and jutting out from the tops of the trees were roof tiles.
His eyes snapped open, his head banging gently against the window. She was there. Wherever that house was, she was there and with other vampires. Brook looked down at the bottle and took another sip from the dusty mouth. He winced, but swallowed anyway because he had no other choice then to drink the old blood.
He put the bottle between his legs and looked out again. He had pulled a chair to the window and only the flicking light of the black liquorice scented candled filled the room. He opened the window, latching it and allowing the wind to drive the rain inside. He smelt the air, but couldn’t catch any more of Fern’s scent. Instead came the smell of farm animals, wet earth and turning autumn trees.
‘I’m not going after her,’ he muttered to the wind, ‘she made her choice.’
Brook trailed his fingers up and down the neck of the bottle. The wind howled in response and splatted some rain on his clean jeans. He shook his head and took a mouthful of cold blood. It was her choice, he repeated.
Swallowing, he shut the window and the curtains. Getting up, he put the CD player on and looked through the stacked CDs. Nothing interested him, so he choice an old Iron Maiden album and stuck that on. As the soft notes cascaded upwards, he grabbed his cigs. Juggling the bottle and his lighter he lit up and sank into his bed.
Blowing the first mouthful of smoke out, he looked up at the ceiling. Once he remembered there’s been posters and photos up there. He shut his eyes and thought about the eighties rock bands he liked. Then the faces of family and friends, joining those bands and staring back at him.
He swirled the bottle and thought about all those nights when as a lonely teenage he’d get drunk. How many times had his parents and the staff caught him stealing or throwing up? He took a drink then other, talking himself into believing it was wine or whisky. He dragged on the cig and shut his eyes. He let himself drifted back and for a few moments he could hear the distant voices of his parents.
What where they saying? Was it about his behaviour again? About his going off with Rose the cleaner’s daughter? The rumour of this ‘lurking’ male friend of his?
He shook his head, toasted the dead and finished the bottle off. Blood gathered at the corners of his mouth and dripped down. He didn’t bother to wipe it away this time. He placed the bottle on the bedside table, feeling the sway of the blood and the music in his veins. He flicked ash and took two long breaths to finish the cig off.
‘Fuck you, Fern,’ he hissed.
He stubbed the cig out and flung himself across his bed.
‘I knew I couldn’t trust you. That Daican probably got you…yeah, he had eyes for you the second he saw you….why did I even bother?’ he muttered.
Rolling over, he looked at the blank wall next to his bed. Something had been scratched into the wall and he reached over and traced it with his finger. Seconds later, he completed the heart shape and moved to touch the two letters that had once been at the centre.
To Be Continued…
The Story Files 