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The scent of blood isn’t unfamiliar to him.
He was only seven, running down the dirt road. Sharp pebbles in the dry, tawny ground, his shoes kicking up thin dust. Legs carrying him fast, dodging jaggedly cut boulders. Sprouts of cotton plant stuck to his socks, the wind drying out his hickory eyes, and he stretched out his arms to his sides to feel the softness of the cotton. Then he raised them up high to the cerulean sky, looking upward so the scorching sun could kiss his cheeks and cascade into his mouth, cracked open into the kind of grin brought only by childishness. It felt good to run.
It felt better to know he was not alone in his running. Elias was there too, close at his heels, catching up quickly. His brother was a good runner—fast and full of momentum, but he was no match for Elijah. Where Elias liked to hit the ground running, sparking off like a freshly shot bullet, Elijah was different. Elijah liked biding his time. He knew that the formula for victory was v = slow + steady. He knew that anything good in life required calculated patience, moves weighed out to an exact measurement.
After all, Hebrews 12:1 stated it plainly.
Therefore, seeing we also are compassed about by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us run with patience the race that is set before us.
Elijah often enjoyed racing with Elias for this reason. It was fun to watch his brother make the same mistake each time. It was something he could count on and it was something that made him smile. Not exactly the mistake, not exactly Elijah’s own impending victory, but rather the idea of having something he could depend on.
There was nothing else to depend on. There was nothing else he knew for sure. He didn’t know for sure if Ma would survive the night. She was sick. Her coughs echoed in the small space of their wooden house at night, over the chirp of the crickets. Elijah didn’t know for sure which face Daddy would decide to wear that day. He rotated them like masks, but somehow the one constant, the one thing that accented them all was his anger. He could be happy, and still, there would be a lingering kind of anger that made them all afraid to say the wrong thing. It was eerie. Their feet bled from the eggshells underneath them. Elijah picked the white shards from Ma’s, then Elias’, then his own. Somehow Daddy’s happiness only made him more sadistic. He couldn’t understand why they all looked uneasy. He wanted them to be as excited as he was.
Racing with Elias was the only constant. The only thing he could bet on. He could bet that Elias would go off full speed. He could bet that he’d look over his shoulder to blind Elijah with a bright, glowing smile, and he’d say, like he really believed it, “Got ya now!'“
He could bet that he’d run him down and Elias would be upset, each and every time.
“Only thing you got is a loss,” Elijah would say. “Better luck next time.”
Elijah enjoyed this routine very much, so it stood to reason that it would be torn away from him, even if only just once.
Perhaps he wasn’t looking. But, he knew this dirt road. He ran it every week, multiple times if he could. Sometimes by himself, when Elias couldn’t. When he had to stay inside because Ma didn’t want the neighbours to see his swollen eye. To see a slice on his cheekbone from the hard metal of Daddy’s ring. When Ma didn’t want him walking all weird because he had welts like coiled up slugs on his backside.
Normally, Elijah would be the one caged inside. He offered to take the brunt of it. He lied to take the brunt of it. It wasn’t him, it was me. Daddy had started to catch on. He couldn’t lie anymore. Elias started to take the brunt of it all then, even when it was rightfully for Elijah. Elijah’s punishments, plus his own, plus some just for fun.
Daddy’d said, one night, while Ma laid on the floor, clutching her injured arm from where she’d tried to break her fall but failed, “You gone learn not to let niggas know your weakness, Smoke.”
Elias’ shirt was balled up in his fist. His face was bruised and unrecognizable. The moon reflected on it from where it shined in through the window. Ma had tried to stop him. Elijah was weak. They both watched as he dragged Elias away. His body looked lifeless as he was tossed into the closet like a ragdoll. Blood made a dotted trail. It smeared some on Daddy’s shoes. The house smelled like brown liquor and pennies. Elias’ screams were muffled but deafening all the same.
While running, Elijah tripped over a small rock. The kind that burrowed its way into the ground and made a home there. Elias hadn’t noticed. Elijah wasn’t the type to make his pain known. He hadn’t yelled. He hadn’t whimpered. He hadn’t called out. He hadn’t even tried to catch himself. He knew it was too late, even if it took him off guard. He hit the ground but it wasn’t as hard as it could’ve been. It could’ve truly been worse.
The hot, firm dirt road tore ribbons into his knees. He blinked into the dirt. He felt disoriented. Elias was still going in the distance. It was almost time for him to look backward and smile. Elijah didn’t want him to see him being weak. He righted himself. He drew his legs up to examine the damage. Brilliant cherry came forth first in miniature dots, then slits, until it was slipping out in rivulets, tearing a path through the dust on the surface of his skin.
It burned. He blinked again. Dirt got into his eye. It burned there too. He heard Elias’ quick steps coming. He saw him at his side. There were thorn-like balls stuck to his socks. He was out of breath. He looked at the cuts like they were lethal. He was so used to being the only one in pain that it disturbed him to see Elijah in any sort of suffering. It made Elijah’s heart seize up. It made him more impatient to grow up. He hated that he had to wait to be grown. He knew how many months it’d take to be able to leave here. He knew just how old he had to be to take Ma and take Elias. He knew how old he had to be to have a different kind of life. The kind they could all be happy in.
He knew there were some guys who wanted him to do some work. The kind that could help him to start saving money. He knew you needed money to get somewhere else. Even if the money was bloody.
It’s hot. Middle of June. A hot, balmy night. No kind of condition for two people to be close together. Especially not on no damn bed. The sheet itself is producing heat, even though Elijah was sure to strip the quilt off first. He’s sweating, a thin sheen of damp salt over his skin. He’s wearing a wife beater. It’s tucked into his trousers. He forgot to take his belt off, but he didn’t forget to take his shoes off. He didn’t forget to make sure the ashtray was there on the bedside table close enough for him to reach. He didn’t forget to make sure he had a smoke.
There’s only one light on. A dim, orange hued lamp there on the bedside table. The curtains are tightly pulled shut. They don’t move because the wind is long dead. Summer calls for complete abandonment. A vacation of sorts. The bedroom door’s shut. He’s sprawled out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The lamp casts a circular glow, vignetted by darkness. Tendrils of smoke draw upward, searching out that singular light.
He gets lost in it. He’s thinking about Annie. Her scent. Earthy, sweet and subtle. He’s thinking about the image of her swollen with his child. He’s thinking about what they could’ve had. The life he used to dream about on that dirt road.
The sudden, shooting pain in his neck reminds him that shit was just a dream. Even now, Elijah doesn’t make a sound. He doesn’t hiss, he doesn’t shout, even though the pain works like a lightning strike, down the length of the right side of his body. He just sucks harder on his cigarette.
It don’t smell like earthy sweetness no more. It smells like reality. Like metallic hopelessness.
“I told you don’t be goin’ up too high,” he chastises, but it’s only a murmur.
It don’t matter. Stack can hear him just fine. He’s right on top of him, his hand curled on Elijah’s bare shoulder, the other warmly cradling his jaw. He’s buried in his neck, his long, sharp teeth penetrating his jugular. His tongue rhythmically sliding over Elijah’s skin as he sucks the lifeforce right out of him. Elijah doesn’t even know how long they’ve been at it but he figures it’s been a while. He’s feeling weaker. His eyes are heavier. Stack’s moved up a little, wanting a fresh bite. He only does that at the mid-point, when he’s almost sated. Or at least, when he knows Elijah won’t be able to give any more without dying.
Stack shifts and his fangs detach. It stings. Not as much as it does when he rises up to look Elijah in the face and his eyes are glossed over, and the entire bottom half of his face is painted red. It’s all in his mustache. It’s spread out near his cheeks. It’s settled in the thin splits that separate his teeth. His grill shines even in the darkness.
It’s hard for Elijah to look at him but still he does. It’s like a punishment of sorts. An echo of his greatest failure. How hard was it? There was a single objective. Save Ma and Elias. Make sure they’re good by any means necessary.
Ma’s dead. Stack’s…looking at him with eyes that ain’t his own. Stack’s gotta eat people to survive. Stack can’t walk in the sun. Stack can’t have a family. Stack can’t grow old.
He can hear Daddy’s voice clear. Quiet and mean, but his laugh hearty, from way down deep, like he really mean it.
You really fucked up, huh, son?
Elijah wonders what it all was for, if it turned out like this anyway.
“My bad,” Stack says. He’s smiling like it’s funny and it fucking ain’t. “Got carried away. You good, though?”
“How much more you trying to take?”
“As much as you wanna give me,” he replies.
Elijah wants so badly to look away. He can’t. He doesn’t like to look away. He likes to see it fully, what Stack is now, even if it makes him want to put one in his head. He knows it’d be easier if he let Stack turn him too, like Stack’s been wanting. They’d be together forever. Elijah could probably make this up to him that way. It’d represent an apology. It’d be a new beginning. Maybe this wouldn’t be his fault anymore. Maybe things could be right again.
But Elijah’s hooked on his own suffering. It’s a substance more alluring, more addictive than crack. It’s deteriorating, eating at him from the inside out daily. It’s unyielding, rearing it’s ugly head from the time he opens his eyes to sunlight straight down to when sleep takes him again at night. And even then, most times, he finds no reprieve. In his dreams, Stack’s unrelenting, gory wound bleeds until he’s lifeless in Elijah’s arms. In his dreams, Annie dies by his hand, a wooden stake in her chest. In his dreams, Ma’s cold and long gone, her unmoving body on the floor, taken by her illness. In his dreams, Daddy’s alive, laughing at him.
His mother is dead and his brother is some kind of undead creature that can never live a normal life again.
He failed.
He loves basking in his failure. He wants to reach out and swipe his thumb along Stack’s jaw and taste his own blood. Worse, he might like to reach out and cut his fingers on the serrated edges of Stack’s teeth. It might feel good to do so. It might help to do so. He doesn’t. He barely touches Stack at all. Perhaps because he has no reason to, or more honestly because he can’t bear it.
He did it once. Stack felt a bit cold. He hadn’t done it again.
Stack don’t mind touching him though. Not one bit. His hands are on Elijah now as he begins to descend, just partially, just enough for his face to be level with Elijah’s chest. The way he stares at him is ominous. Just this side of predatory. Elijah can’t tell if it’s on purpose or not. It probably is. Vampirism only injected Stack’s mischievous side with steroids. He’s different now. He’s not himself. Or maybe, too much of himself.
“I can stop if you can’t take no more, bro,” he says, his hands already pulling Elijah’s wife beater out of his waistband, pushing it up so he can get it bunched up underneath his arms. Watching it feels like an out of body experience. It’s like Stack’s playing with his food. “It’s all good.”
“Then what you gone do?” Elijah asks, just because he can. He already knows what Stack’s gonna do. He’s gonna go down out to the town and find a poor, unsuspecting person to feed on. He’s probably gonna carry Mary with him. They’ll make a real good night out of it. Elijah doesn’t particularly give a fuck about killing people. He never has. Him and Stack have done it before. Together. He can’t explain why this is any different except that it simply is.
“You jealous?” Stack questions him, positioning himself directly over the middle of Elijah’s chest, between his pectorals. There are faded indents there. It isn’t the first time. Elijah’s face grimaces, just so. It’s all so very visceral. Them here, in this house, in this bed, doing this together. Elijah’s heart is hammering in his chest for some reason. His fingers are unsteady where they hold the cigarette. Every second that goes by the chances of him dropping it on the pillow increase. Stack’s head tilts. In understanding? In amusement?
After all, it isn’t just Stack that’s changed. Elijah may still be human, but he’s changed all the same. He’s coltish now. Anxiety looms like a cloud. He can never fully shake his nerves. He withstands the weight of his regrets and his broken dreams, but it isn’t without repercussions.
Guilt is crushing. He doesn’t know how to fix this.
It’s all so very monstrous, the sight of his blood-soaked, hungry brother at his chest, preparing to feed from the very center of him. It’s…
“Don’t worry. You’ll always be my favorite. Ain’t no flavor like you.”
His head rears back, taking Elijah’s silence, his unwillingness to reject his brother’s needs, as a green light. He sweeps back downward, his speed gracious. Elijah’s found that the penetration of teeth is easier to bear when it’s all at once, rather than when Stack tries to ease him into it. Again, Elijah makes no sound, though he ought to. He just shuts his eyes up tight.
He just lays there and listens. Crickets chirp in the bushes. Night birds trill. Stack’s throat is working, the wet clicks resounding, echoing in Elijah’s ears. He’s holding him down by the shoulders again, like Elijah’s going to try to get away. It don’t hurt bad for long which Elijah considers the worst part about it all. The bites are only largely painful for the first few seconds. Then they change. Pain doesn’t leave, but it’s like an afterthought. It’s like a faraway memory. A mosquito bite left to linger. It parts to give way to something far more sinister.
Warm, comforting, sensual pleasure. The kind that curls toes. The kind that melts bones, cooks ‘em from the inside out. The kind that elicits inappropriate sounds. That demands them to come forth. Elijah is powerless to stop it, though he wishes he could. Every time, moans tear through his throat, ripping up his delicate insides like a ball of thorns, because it hurts to do it, and to know that he’s doing it, and every time, he wishes he could stop it.
He can’t.
It’s something he can count on. Every time.
He’s moaning. They’re quiet. They’re not controlled but they come in an even tempo. He struggles not to forget his cigarette. He clutches it tight. Pleasure washes over his body like the slow roll of the ocean’s water. It’s a feeling one must behold themselves in order to understand. His eyes flutter open only to roll back in his skull, only the whites of them visible. It’s more intense here, within the chest.
He knows it. Stack knows it too. They pretend that they don’t because the alternative would mean something neither of them are particularly interested in breaching. Or maybe that’s just Elijah’s own thought. Like he said, Stack’s changed. They both have.
In the midst of it, when it feels like Elijah’s body is molding into the bed, seeking to join it as one, or to fall through it, down through the earth until he’s there in the hell Daddy used to talk so much about—his rightful place, he might add—, Elijah gets a harrowing thought.
Could this, this moment that hangs in the balance, this moment that can’t be avoided, be his addiction too?
When Stack’s own moan, a deep, reverberating thing that vibrates in Elijah’s chest, breaks through, one of his hands seeking out Elijah’s empty hand to link their fingers, Elijah wonders if it’s Stack’s addiction too.
His head’s growing light.
He ought to let death take him.
Just like this.
Stack won’t let him do that shit. He dislodges with a wet pop. A string of saliva and blood connect them. From Stack’s mouth to Elijah’s wounded chest. Stack’s drunk on it. Satiated. His grin’s all crooked. His eyes are all lidded. So are Elijah’s. He’s so tired.
“Nuh-uh,” Stack says, rising back up to tap Elijah on the cheek so he stays conscious. The move’s too sudden. When he does it, his thigh slips between Elijah’s. They ignore what’s there. They ignore what’s pressing up on Elijah’s thigh too. “Wake your ass up.”
Elijah’s hand falls. The cigarette burns a tiny hole in the sheet before Stack grabs it, pushing it into the wall above the bedhead to kill the flame.
“Hey,” he says. “Wake up.”
“‘M fine,” Elijah answers, but his eyes are closed and he’s half asleep. Dreading it.
“I didn’t take that much.”
“Yes,” Elijah's words are slurring. “Yes, the fuck you did.”
“You didn’t tell me to stop,” Elijah hears Stack say. But it sounds far away even though he’s right there. Elijah’s already starting to dream. He’s already seeing Sammie’s scarred face. He’s already hearing rhythmic, soulful flow of the blues. He’s already seeing Daddy’s dead body. He’s already seeing him and Stack, running out on that dirt road. He’s seeing his family.
He says, “Ain’t you was hungry?”