Blood Juniper A Vampire Tale - Volume 1 Chapter 73 Aftermath Part 2

I straighten my stance, saying his name again. It comes out shaky.

‘I’m fine, it’s fine, we’re fine.’ I repeat in my head like a song.

I get a good look at Sam. He’s just staring, frozen, peering into a face that isn’t there. His hands are getting drenched in her blood but he doesn’t seem to notice.

Oh no, he might be in shock.

I don’t know how to help him. I’ve never dealt with someone who’s seriously suffering from shock before. I have a better look at Betsy now, I think I see her head! I want to scream.

‘Calm down. First step is keeping calm.’

I cover my mouth with both hands and shut my eyes tight, collecting myself before approaching him. It’s not going to help anyone if I’m hysterical.

I peek over and my emotions shift from verging on a freak out to mesmerized. Betsy’s blood is looking quite incredible. It smells different, feels different. The way it catches the light in glossy white trails is entrancing, thick as wet nail polish.

I can taste her faintly, the rest is calling out to me to unite the liquid energy into one, take her.

My mouth is watering, I want to sate some forgein hunger that seems to start from the outside rather than at my core.

I like the way the human blood and her’s mix, clashing in the humid atmosphere. No beating, only a silent creeping as liquid devours every crevice. I can sense each pooling outward at the throat, seeping into the tough concrete. Two contrasting colors on an artist’s palette, blending into a rare, eye-popping creation. It’s making my head warm and fuzzy.

There’s a source of power coming from Betsy’s heart, but it won’t last forever. I recollect Juniper tearing the heart from the chest and taking in that essence, consuming it.

I find myself walking forward, tempted to lick the forming puddle. I should take her heart and eat it. Take Mine

‘What am I doing!’

I blow out a furious breath of air.

‘Forbidden.’ I recall Miles screaming, “Eating our own is forbidden!” Why is that and what the hell is wrong with me?

I wipe my hand across my forehead, shutting out the thoughts and focusing back on Sam. His eyes haven’t moved from that headless spot but his hand is fishing mindlessly around in his leather jacket. One of the sleeves is all ripped near his biceps, slashed like brand tires. That sucks, that jacket looked really nice on him. Still does, honestly.

A blood soaked hand pulls a long gold chain from his jacket and lassos it around his palm like snake skin rope. It’s his pocket watch.

He sits up, holding it close. Glazed eyes follow the dangling clock as it spins back and forth. It doesn’t look like anyone is home. His eyes are vacant.

I cautiously call for his attention again. He doesn’t even flinch, it’s like he can’t hear me.

He abruptly stands then stoops over. He reaches out into the nasty dark puddle, plucking a small sticky rectangle that appears to be a deck of cards drowning in sludge. It’s sopping wet.

I identify the item as his stache of cigarettes. He gathers up his lighter next, stuffing them back into his jacket. They must have fallen out of his pocket during commotion.

He shuffles over to the loose head, viewing it for a prolonged amount of time. He stretches out both hands for it, the clock dangles like a hypnotist prop still knotted around his palm.

“Wait, don’t do that,” I choke on the words as he lifts it, handling the disembodied member like a muddy basketball. He smooths the copper strands away from the slack-jawed face.

I turn away, I can hear the head dripping on the payment like a leaky storm drain and it’s making me sick. Blood is such a paradox of revulsion and intoxication. I don’t have the stomach for this.

‘Come on, get a grip!’ I empty my lungs in a full exhale.

I turn back as he places the head at the stumped neck, trying to put her back together. Her eyes are terrifying and huge like some replica at a wax museum. Her mouth and eyes stretched to horrifying proportions.

He adjusts the gaping jaw and smears blood getting the lids to close. He combs through the tangled waves of hair, fixing it absentmindedly before standing and going completely motionless and silent.

I have to pretend it’s not real to keep hold on my sanity. A Barbie doll whose head popped off And it’s oozing and it probably screamed until it’s lungs burst No, that’s not helping, best ignore it all together.

Without warning, Sam wobbles and basically collapses into the nearest wall, sliding his back down it. He’s still staring at Betsy’s dismembered head. He looks so lost.

“Hey, can you hear me?” I try again with no luck.

He’s clutching that watch chain so hard it looks like it might start cutting through his skin. He absent mindedly pulls a cigarette from the box with his teeth and lights it. His hand drops with the box and lighter like a lead weight.

The lower half of his face is covered with a thick coat of crimson and possibly chunks of flesh. Not that his hands look much better, like a matching pair of glossy red gloves and a face mask.

“Um, you’re starting to scare me,” I walk over and wave my hand around, “Talk to me, what can I do?”

He looks shell-shocked. I’m afraid to touch him, I don’t want to freak him out.

I get closer, crouching down and gently nudging his shoulder. His eyes startle me with their responsiveness, flicking my way. I flinch briefly before placing my palm flat against him again and whisper in a soothing tone, “Sam, are you”

His head cranks to get a better look as if I appeared out of midair. The smoke falls from his mouth, he doesn’t try to catch it or pick it up again.

He stares at me for a long time like I’m a ghost before intently searching and scanning me, “How badly did she hurt you?”

“Barely at all,” I lie.

He doesn’t buy it. He evaluates the bite on my neck, feeling my arms and legs for any breaks. He pushes my sleeves back, his brows knit together as he examines my arms attentively. Then he gently pulls the destroyed neckline of my sweater aside.

I clench my teeth expecting that wound to be particularly bad. He runs his thumb across healthy, smooth skin. The bite mark is gone! I try to hide the surprise in my face. It’s fully healed.

He looks perplexed, “How did you..?” he pauses, his expression softens and he swallows, “I’m glad you’re alright.”

I take notice of some pretty deep injuries that haven’t entirely mended on Sam’s face and neck. I may heal faster than him. Does that mean something?

He’s staring blankly back at the corpse sprawled on the ground again.

He says quietly, perhaps more to himself than to me, “I can’t seem to stop myself from causing others pain.”

He takes another cigarette out of the stained box, grimacing, “Women especially.”

“It’s not like you had a choice. You didn’t start this. You saved my life, you know?”

He snorts bitterly, snapping the zippo shut as he gets the end started. He eyes me sadly from the side, “If it weren’t for me, none of this would have happened at all. I didn’t save you, you were injured *because* of me.”

“But I’m not hurt, see?”

He shakes his head, “I don’t know how you recovered so fast but I know she did. I failed to protect you.”

I blink at him, “But you did protect me”

He ignores that last statement. The embers sizzle as he quickly burns that cigarette down to the nub.

‘This happened because of me?’ Are the vampires I’m associating with prone to violence, more unbridled than your average undead?

I watch him as he disdainfully flicks the blackened filter away and goes for another. Sam looks miserable as he holds it out, eyeing the stick with hatred. The flesh on his other hand bulges with discoloration as the watch chain strains in his grip. He squeezes and twists it rhythmically.

I hear him mutter something to himself so faintly I likely would have missed it if I didn’t catch his lips move, “I destroy everything I touch.”

I glance at Betsy and feel sorry for Sam. He had a connection to her, *knew* her for better or worse. Sure, she was a scary bitch that tried to murder me but maybe she wasn’t always like that. What an awful choice he had to make.

And he picked me.

I look back at him. He saved me even though it cost him.

I ponder his reasoning for smoking those horrid things. It would make sense after something so stressful but he doesn’t smoke to relieve stress, he told me so. He’s also admitted to not liking it or having an addiction

I’m hit with a sudden epiphany with that look of torment swimming in his tired eyes.

Sam is punishing himself. I don’t know exactly why, but this is his form of self punishment.

But really, *why*? He didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t have much of a choice.

I get up and stand in front of him, he’s going through this one just as fast, already wearing that little white stick to ash. The end is flaring hot as he puffs, taking it in like a chimney.

I glance down the alley. We’re almost at the end, I see trees swaying across a road so shoddy it doesn’t even have traffic lines painted down the middle.

I gnaw on my bottom lip for a second, debating if I should do what I’m about to do. Probably shouldn’t, I’m going to anyway.

I hold my hand out for the small carton sitting on his thigh and ask, “May I?”

He hesitates, glancing at me suspiciously for a few heartbeats before passing the damp box. He locates the lighter to lend me next.

I take the box and crumple it up into a sloppy ball with extreme prejudice. It’s as easy as bunching up flimsy note paper.

He stares at me as I crush his property, not knowing whether to be angry or dumbfounded. Bafflement seems to be the dominating emotion.

I huck the scrap of cardboard like a football, sending it over the trees.

He follows the arc as it disappears over the canopy then stares hard at me.

“A-”

He’s not able to get one word out before I snatch the lit cigarette right out of under him, flicking it over the rooftop. I stare down into his stupefied face with an innocent grin.

He’s speechless, eyebrows rising higher and higher as his mouth slopes into deeper confusion. Then his thick eyebrows dip.

“Ashlen, Wha *What the hell*?”

I give him an animated shrug, “Those things aren’t doing you any good. And they were totally ruined and wet!”

“So” he shakes his head trying to grasp what I just did, “You decided to throw my smokes away while I was using them?”

“Yes.”

He scoffs, not sure if he should be upset with me, “I don’t know if you’re aware. But I can’t exactly get a day job. It’s a literal impossibility.”

I roll my eyes, “If you’re really torn up about it, I’ll replace them,” I look down at him on a more serious note, “but I know why you’re smoking. You don’t need to do that to yourself.”

The slight humor disappears as coldness replaces it, “You think so, do you?”

He looks away from me and locks his attention on that decapitated head. His eyes are going dead again.

“I do,” I affirm, tearing a strip from my ruined sweater and kneeling down to him.

I take his hand in mine and clean it off the best I can. Once I finish with that one and move to the other.

I glance up to see him focused on me. He’s not fighting me by trying to draw away, in fact, there’s an unearthly stillness about him. The only signs of life are his vibrant eyes studying mine, deep in thought and Mournful.

I rip another piece from my sleeve and attempt to wipe the grime from his face, careful around the deep slashes that are slowly sealing. He might have broken his nose, there’s a little discoloration and scabbing but it doesn’t look swollen or misshapen. This healing enhancement we have is quite astounding.

He watches me as I tend to him, an intense and questioning look from within. I can’t keep eye contact. I don’t know how it’s possible for someone to be so attractive with blood all over their face but he manages to do it somehow.

He has such a beautiful face. I brush the piece of fabric against his lips, soft and just the right amount of fullness. The perfect proportion for his finely shaped face.

I have the urge to run my fingers through his hair, push aside a strand getting in his eye. I doubt he does his hair but he doesn’t need to, it frames his handsome features so naturally.

Some people don’t even have to try. Lucky.

Just as I finish up he places his hand over mine, I didn’t see it move for me. Sometimes I forget that Sam, in actuality, is very dangerous. Maybe it’s so easily forgotten because I’ve never felt directly threatened by him. He has frightened me before but ultimately, I feel safest with him.

His thumb strokes the back of my hand in earnest, soothing caress. I lock eyes with his amazing green ones, moonlight through perfect gemstones.

I want to kiss him but the timing is all wrong… There are two dead bodies lying with us. Not exactly romantic and besides he’s constantly confusing me with mixed signals.

Still, the world seems to disappear and I almost don’t care. I just want him.

I drop the rag aside and wrap my arms around his neck in compromise.

I curl into his arms, realizing I really need to be held. I’m trying hard to be strong, but I haven’t felt strong through any of this, only lost. He seems to know what I lack, holding me close.

“I’m sorry about her, Sam,” I whisper. Words are cheap but I don’t know how else to express my genuine sympathy, “I’m so sorry.”

He doesn’t say anything. I feel his thick eyelashes flutter across my cheek as they close.

“Thank you for not letting her take me,” I lightly peck his cheek and murmur, “Thank you.”

He cradles me tighter, curling his fingers into my hair. Sam’s arms are strong yet gentle as he gathers me around the waist, lifting me onto his lap. I feel like a child as he tenderly rocks us, taking a deep tranquil breath as he clutches me to him.

I feel content, secure like I used to before all the madness. I close my eyes resting my chin against his shoulder.

If I could do this day over and not be with Sam, I wouldn’t take it. Granted, I’d definitely try to change some things that happened, but being with him isn’t one of them.

Despite everything, he keeps me going, makes me hopeful. I don’t know if anyone has ever affected me the way he does.

He makes me feel good. Whole.

At this very moment, I can close my eyes and pretend everything is normal again. Will it ever be truly peaceful like this? Peace and stability with the ones I’ve come to care for.

Sam feels like home.

Do either Sam or June want that? To be able to breathe in freedom and repose. Who wouldn’t want that?

Is it a pipe dream? Is my wish for that kind of existence obtainable with the way things are now? I hope so. I really hope so.