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Spooks
by
Collapsible
Part One
I stare hard into thick darkness, holding my breath, all senses on edge. My fingers are cold, clutching the wool blanket shakily, but there's no way I can bring myself to tuck them inside the mock safety of my own body warmth. I feel like I'm six all over again, kept awake by creaks of the hardwood floor and angry footsteps somewhere else in the house. My youth's paralyzing cocktail of irrational and rational fear. It's a good thing I didn't know back then that the monsters under my bed might have been just as real as the family threat outside my door. I wasn't sure which was scarier.
Having since grown up on hell itself, I am now perfectly aware that the noise I just heard might very well be those long forgotten monsters coming back to tug at my bedspread. I listen intently, filtering out usual house-noises, but hearing nothing else. I exhale slowly, trying to keep my body from moving at all, just in case. I close my eyes again, but this time they squeeze shut with a desperate attempt at making the uglies go away, whatever they might be tonight. Tomorrow. Think of tomorrow, when all of this will seem absurd, and the basement, bathed in dirty sunlight, will look like nothing more than an uninviting hovel.
I fall asleep. Under the narrow window, hidden behind the faint shaft of grey moonlight, one of the monsters creaks his Zippo open again, compulsive, and wishes he could be the one tugging at the bedspread. Instead, he leaves, unnoticed. Maybe another night.
Part Two
The razor blade scratches against his skin, digging sharply into his stubble through the too-white cream. It comes loudly to my ears, and interrupts my quiet monitoring of his heartbeat. Steady. The bathroom light glares at me as I hide, so close, in the security of the darkness outside the door. The lingering steam warms my face and I dare take a step closer, watching, mesmerized. It's a luxury I often indulge in. The boy is so bent on the notion that he's worth nothing, he makes it absurdly easy for me to foster a fixation.
I lean against the door frame, and he stops mid-movement, razor against his throat. The sudden stench of fear floods my senses and I smirk listlessly, waiting. He doesn't move. Gulps once, and there's a little blood where the blade slices delicately into the skin. He doesn't feel it. Me, it drives me wild. I bite the inside of my cheek; gotta stay still. Just a little while longer.
I can see the short hair rising in the back of his neck. His heartbeat is going at a hundred miles an hour. His breathing is panicked. I drink it all in, going crazy at the feeling, at how sharply I can taste him. Then I'm at his throat.
He stares at me, eyes wide and unblinking, his breath coming in short panicked gasps as my hand crushes his windpipe, not too much, just enough. He can't move, trapped between the ceramic tiles of the wall and the very immediate threat of a recently dechipped nasty at his throat. Razor in hand, it doesn't occur to him to use it on me. Drunk on the ripples of fear coming off him, I lean in, demon doned, until our faces are a mere inch apart. He's trembling. I forgot how good this felt.
I peer down at his throat, where blood mixes lazily with shaving cream. Mmm. With a thumb I wipe the pink stuff away in one sure swipe, and there it is, the little nick amidst dark stubble. A pearl of thick, rich blood lingers there, tantalizing. My hand tightens its grip under his jaw and he stifles a whimper. Brave boy. Scared witless. I bend down and put my lips to the tiny wound, tongue darting at the sweet nectar. So little of it. I can feel the thuds of his struggling heart in his jugular against my palm. His whole body shakes, expecting fangs to puncture skin at any moment, perhaps anticipating the release of death. But that would be too easy. No. Not yet.
Instead I trail a sharp tooth against the cut, first just scratching, then slicing as the skin gives. A fine trail of blood comes pouring, but I catch it with a moist bottom lip and lick the wound closed. There. Marked. For everyone to see. A crescent-shaped scar gently cupping the healing jab. I peer back up at his eyes, and he stares back, finding a thread of defiance through the jumbled mess of fright and pain. I hold his gaze for a moment and the next I'm gone. I don't hunt for three days, his taste rolling still on my tongue.
The End
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