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Blood Bond
R. D. Winslow
(-prototype for the full-length novella-)
It's in my chest.
I look on, trying to contain this ache, but there's not much else for me to focus on. Sleek, raven hair falls over creamy white skin, obstructing my view. Such a fair complexion, such carefully sculpted features; my fingers twitch unconsciously, pulling an invisible thread that seems to reverberate all the way up my shoulder. The soft tips brush against your thin nose as you work, and all I can think about is what they feel like, tickling my skin.
Your breath is warm on my flesh, steady and audible, and I wonder if it's because of the silence that I noticed, or because each intake of air is perfectly timed with the pounding in my ears. Either way, I know everything is different by now, at least on my end.
I'm sure you feel it, too.
You're so gentle with me. You treat me like porcelain; precious, breakable. I never had any reason to be afraid, not since before we started... and then I knew what it really was. I was afraid I might resent you, afraid I might look at you differently when it was all over. But I feel more at home in your arms than I've ever felt before. It's as if you're calling me home...
I remember when I first made my offer, how you looked at me with horror. I saw the desperate struggle in your eyes, and I felt it deep in the pit of my stomach. I was afraid, too, but I knew that my sacrifice would help you keep the beast under control. There was something else there from the very beginning, but I was unable to acknowledge it until recently.
I wanted it to be me.
Sure, you probably could have lasted for a while on your own, but it could hardly have satisfied you. And I knew that if you were going to find a source, I couldn't bear to see you do such a thing with another. I was jealous even before I ventured to ask if you had taken from others, and relieved afterwards to hear that you hadn't. You told me never to let anyone else touch me, and ever since then, I've become even more possessive of you. That night I shocked myself, surprised at how quickly the defensive words came to me.
"I couldn't. It just wouldn't seem right..."
...Listen to me. It sounds like I want to make love to you.
But it is like that, isn't it? That's what it reminds me of. I get the same feeling, like there's something sacred between us, and I should never let anything get in its way or taint it with an unwelcome presence.
You're a fierce fire, and you spread through my heart just as quickly.
I remember how you waited, how you made me read everything there was to be found on the subject. You wouldn't let me go through with it until I was completely aware of the risks involved, and even then, you were so reluctant to take me on. When I look back on how reserved you were about it, I almost want to laugh. I want to laugh, and then I want to cry.
For as much thought as you put into some things, you can really be short-sighted. Nothing that you could have done could have ever prepared me for this. It was futile to even try, and a waste of our time.
Besides, I knew you would never let anything happen to me. In fact, I know that even more now than before we started this. Considering what I was expecting, that's saying a lot, because you're not at all what I thought you would be.
When I remember the first time, warmth floods my body. Something tells me that most others in my position can never hope to feel so lucky.
You feigned a methodical collectedness as you took me upstairs and sat me down on your bed; you told me to relax and wait there for a moment. I remember looking over at your nightstand, and the knot that grew in my stomach when I saw the lancets, the gauze, the alcohol, the thick glass cup and the bandages. There were also a couple of tubes of some application. And there, in the midst of those trinkets, was a butane lighter. I was beginning to feel more than a little frightened, but I kept telling myself that I could trust you, despite the nagging voice in the back of my head that even if you were trustworthy, it didn't mean it wasn't supposed to be a painful process.
I had expected much worse before you had brought me into your territory, but there was still a tremor coursing through my veins while I tried to figure out exactly what you were going to do with these instruments of yours.
I recall the pounding in my chest as your footsteps ascended the stairs and you made your way back to the room. You were carrying a china dish and a bottle of water. Apple slices in ice water; you'd brought me food, even though we'd eaten not too long ago. My hand trembled a bit as I accepted the items and set them down on the nightstand, and the knowing look you wore as you followed my movements told me that you'd noticed. Before I could say anything or offer up an excuse, you had slid down behind me on the sheets.
The warmth of your thin, pale fingers on my shoulders and the warmth at my back surprised me. Slowly you began your comforting motions, drawing the tension from my tightened muscles as you worked. There wasn't much to be said at the time that wouldn't be redundant, so you let the tips of your fingers speak for you.
I'm here...
You don't need to be afraid.
You're safe...
I'm here.
I had come to take care of you, but you were taking care of me first, assuring me that I wouldn't be harmed as long as I was in your hands. I was shocked, and grateful, and before I knew what I was doing, I had melted into your touch. You stayed there for a long time, but it still seemed an abrupt end when I felt your soft hair come to rest on my shoulder, and your breathy words made their home in my ear.
"...Are you ready?"
I nodded almost imperceptibly, but you never miss a beat. You gently pulled me around so that we were both sitting side by side on the edge of the bed, and your furthest arm slid from my shoulders almost reluctantly. I think that's when I began feeling it; I know something was there before, but that small gesture sparked a tiny flame of hope that maybe you felt it too.
You reached for the thin metal by your side, and, with it grasped in one hand, you tentatively rolled up my sleeve. Your eyes flicked to my face when you heard me swallow hard, I'm sure, because when I looked up from where your hand was holding me, your steady gaze was already drilling through me. Slowly, you gathered the words to yourself, wary lips parting to speak.
"Will you be alright?"
I could tell you were having second thoughts about it, but you were trying to appear confident, so that you wouldn't frighten me. So that I knew that you were in control, and that you knew what you were doing. I bit my lip and nodded my head, preparing myself for the sting. It didn't seem fair that I should offer, and then unintentionally guilt you from taking. It didn't seem fair that you couldn't bring anyone into your world, that you shouldn't have anyone who accepted who you were and what you did. I rationed that it was worth a bit of pain if I could be the one person who could meet all your needs.
Oh, I had already fallen so hard and so deeply.
With the small lance weaved tightly over your thumb and far finger and across the palm of your hand, you reached again for the alcohol, dampening the gauze and cleansing my skin. It tingled fresh in my pores and nearly acted as a balm for my nerves, but I was a bit resentful of its erasure of your touch that lingered there. You set the astringent back down and soon enough, the sharp point of the cold surgical steel was pressing into my arm, threatening to break my barriers, a stark contrast to your warm fist tightly wound around the piece and resting against the same skin.
In and out. One, two. You pulled back and jabbed down in a mechanical rhythm, not slow about it, not drawing it out longer than it needed to be.
I winced at the first puncture in the soft flesh of my forearm, lip still clenched inbetween my teeth to stave off the metallic bite. You did it again, once more before setting down the small rod and picking up another one. Dark eyes hooded by long lashes trailed my arm, a pleasant distraction as you worked. I felt your gaze flitting up every now and then to check on me as I watched your hands, the potential for a iron-like grip gently relaxed around delicate bones as you cradled my arm. The weight of your gaze was heavier then, prompting me to raise my head and look at you.
Your eyes met mine for a moment, and though we both knew what we were doing, there was a slight trace of hidden apology there. You didn't need to be sorry; I had given this of myself and freely, and I didn't want you berating yourself for it.
You turned towards the nightstand again, grabbing for the alcohol and the glass. I chanced another look at my arm; five puncture wounds, just under an inch apart in star formation. I watched your face turn in the fading light, skin muted as dusk began to creep through the window, marvelling at surreal features, but then again, you were always beautiful to me.
I watched you fill the glass with a small amount of the stuff and swish it around, coating the inside. You spoke to me in soothing tones as you grabbed the lighter off the wood and turned back to me. "I am going to ignite the glass..." you said. My eyes widened, but you were quick to dispel my fears. "Do not be frightened. The flame will not hurt you."
You lit the inside of the glass on fire, and before I had the chance to jerk away, before the glass was even hot enough from the sudden flame, you pressed it over my cluster of tiny wounds. Your hand was tight around me, and I winced in expectation of a terrible burning, but it never came. I felt your touch relax, and when I opened my eyes, I found the cup still pressed to my skin, but the fire was gone.
"Your skin...cuts off the oxygen to the glass." You spoke softly, easing me into my new role, helping me to understand what was happening to me. Comforting, even as I was marred, be it ever so slightly. "The fire burns up the remaining oxygen and dies out before it can burn you. In doing this, it creates a suction." Your voice was slow and heavy, your expression somber, as you held the glass upright beneath my arm, your hand still cradling the other. You were feeling guilty for the sudden fear you had stirred in me earlier, but there was something behind your eyes, some naked satisfaction of the grateful sort, in being able to share this with someone. I wasn't completely sure then what I felt concerning that; I suppose it was a wealth of mixed emotions; excitement, fear, awe, and desire. I tried to empathize, but I had never been there before.
I was amazed when the red streams began to trickle into the glass, the slight pressure over them tugging my blood from beneath the skin. A dull shade in the absence of light, but I was transfixed nonetheless. There was something about the thought of you pressing it to your lips and taking it in that gave me this twisted sense of intimacy. How much closer could we get, really?
It didn't hurt at all. Not even a little.
It wasn't long before you broke the vacuum and pulled the glass away, setting it on the nightstand. I don't know where my boldness came from, but I can clearly remember the alien desire that propelled me to voice my request. I did it for you, and you couldn't just take it and walk away, to hide yourself from my view. If you were ashamed of it, you shouldn't have let me give you the access in the first place. After what I'd let you do, I wasn't going to let you brush me off and shut yourself away.
I wanted to watch.
When I was done rationalizing my demands, my fear of abandonment barely giving me a moment to breathe, I watched you raise your soft eyebrow at me. Your eyes flicked to the arm I had resting in my lap, and then back up to my own eyes; an almost sad half-smile ghosted its way across your mouth.
"...I was going to patch you up first."
And just like that, you brushed aside my cruel assumption like it was nothing. Wet another pad with alcohol and rubbed my skin down with it. You reached for the first tube, squeezing some of the clear substance onto the tiny holes in my arm. And then your thumb was on me, rubbing in circles, soothing the skin and pressing the ointment into the cuts, spreading it over the area gently and reassuringly. When you had finished, you picked the other tube from the tabletop and applied it to your fingers before mixing it in with the other contents spread out over my flesh.
"To prevent scarring," you said, mouth barely moving as you spoke, another silent apology.
I nodded, eyes fluttering with a sudden dizziness as you wrapped the bandage around my arm, and I slumped forward slightly, my face colliding with your chest. That I was throwing myself at you was the last thing I wanted you to think - we were both aware of the attachment that would no doubt result from this, whether we acknowledged it or not - but in my weakened state I didn't allow myself to care about that. I just wanted somewhere warm to rest...
"My ears are ringing."
It's all I said, but it was all you needed to hear. Without even having tensed at my slight vaulting into your embrace - maybe you just didn't have it in you tonight - you gathered me up in your arms and laid me down against your pillows, resting beside me. You took the dish and the water from the small table and set them next to me, and I began to eat. Slowly, the pulse left my ears and I was able to hear your breathing beside me. I shot a sideways glance at you, finding you propped up against the headboard, left knee up and the same arm rested against it. In your right hand was the glass, and you absently swirled the blood - my blood - around, eyes lost in a faraway place, as if you were off contemplating whether or not to drink from it.
I wonder what was going through your mind then. Were you thinking about what it might taste like? Were you afraid you would like it? Did you not want me to see you enjoying it? So self-conscious, though I might think about it if I wanted, even if you did leave the room. Whether I watched or not, it wasn't like I didn't know what you were about to do.
You looked down at me, curled up at your side. I'm not sure where the courage came from, but I pulled myself closer on my arms, and leaned into you, my face almost flush with your hip bone. I smiled at you, my eyes probably telling you how tired I was, but I didn't mind. Let that be my excuse, if you want.
"Aren't you going to drink it?"
I tried my best to shoot you a look that said, 'After all that trouble, you'd better.' But it really wasn't any trouble. It didn't even hurt. In fact, I'd let you do it every day, if it would give you some relief. Instead, I'm sure I looked almost hopeful, something I'd bet you thought was very unnerving. But a lot hinged on this, and what you did would be an integral part of our foundation, our trust.
You tore your eyes from me to look back to the glass hanging carelessly from your hand, blank stare not saying much. Your eyebrows raised in resignation, you brought the glass to your mouth and hesitated a moment before pressing it to your lips. I thought then that the silence in the room must have been killing you, so I let out a relaxed sigh next to you as you drank, hoping that it would cover your fears, if only for a moment. My breath, however, shuddered in my surprise that you'd actually done so in front of me, and I hoped you hadn't thought it was out of fear or disgust.
When you took the glass from your mouth and set it on the small table next to you, I couldn't help but stare at the traces of red liquid pooling in the corners of your mouth, fascinated by the perfect match they made your eyes. But you didn't take notice of my stare. No, you were occupied with trying not to look at me, a difficult task after what had just taken place, I can admit. I'm sure you felt my eyes on you, but it would have pained you to acknowledge it for even a second, afraid of what you might find there.
Your hand was at your chin, thumb running idly back and forth along your lower lip as if at any moment you might take it into your mouth. But you didn't; you just kept on, back and forth, as you sorted out your thoughts. And then it seemed you even forgot that you were trying not to look at me, and you honestly became lost in reverie.
I wasn't going to force you to make eye contact with me, so I climbed somewhat into your lap, resting my head beneath your chin. You were still for a moment, but eventually your arms came around to hold me. Your head rested against mine, and we sat like that until I fell asleep.
And ever since then, you have always taken the time to clean and bandage my wounds properly before you even touched what I had given you. You've always taken care of me, and you've always put that first.
But lately, you've started to drink right from my skin. And, lately, you've just let me fall asleep next to you in your bed whenever I've felt like it, just like that first time. I don't even have to ask; it's getting to be routine, and so comfortable. We just sort of fell into it, and it seems so natural now to us, but to an outsider, this would be more than strange, especially considering our arrangements.
I look at you now, concentrated on my tiny cuts, lips tinged a perfect blush like they've been worried by a lover's kiss. The color reminds me of flushed, fair skin, just in from walking the streets at noon in the hot summer when you should have been indoors. I remember the feeling of lying next to you under the fan, clutching a wet cloth by my side.
Dark lashes hood gentle eyes. Fixing me, treasuring me, doing everything you can to make sure I know where I belong. Your fingers are soft and steady, and there's something written on your face. It might just give away what I hope you're feeling now, what I think I've known for a while. Such loving care you've given me. Every time we do this, you treat me as if it's the first time. Slow, soft, steady, and your voice soothes me through it all. I'd never thought of you as much of a talker, but when I need you, you are there for me, as I am there for you.
You raise those eyes to look at me as you run your fingers over the bandage, pressing it into place just under my collarbone, above my left breast. I can feel a small throbbing beneath the tiny fissure, and your movements become slow and meaningful. For a moment I'm afraid my eyes betray my thoughts, but there is no surprise on your face. I wonder what you're thinking, and you are looking at me with such a relaxed, familiar expression. There is no glass this time, and by now I am trying to figure out if I should rethink slipping between your sheets as I always do, or if I should steal away to my own room.
It's then that I notice your hand, walking on soft padded fingers to my shoulder, grazing my skin. You brush my hair back and a shiver runs down my spine, but I try my best to suppress it. Suddenly the air around me seems so cold, and yourself so inviting. How you ever managed to live for so long, all alone in such a dark place, is a mystery to me. But I'm here now, and I'm reminded how much you've taken notice of that when you trail the freckles on my shoulder, kisses left by a sun you've not enjoyed in years, a sun I've nearly forgotten. But I don't miss it, not really. An almost inaudible sigh passes your lips.
You close your eyes for a second, and when they open they are studying my mouth. Your expression is soft, but unreadable as you meet my eyes, and for a moment I imagine there are so many thoughts running through your head that you wouldn't know what sort of face to make even if you did grasp one or two emotions firmly.
And then you kiss me.
Your mouth is soft and lenient, and you taste like silverware. I give in, and fall under your spell as you weave your hands into my hair, and when I finally break away for air, you're looking at me with amazement, like you've discovered something you didn't even know could happen for you. But I was waiting for this. And you pull me down with you and hold me close, nudging my chin up with your nose, burying your face in the skin beneath. You whisper, "I love you," before pulling the covers over us and curling into my chest. And I tell you that I love you too, and that I have for a long time. And I tell you not to doubt my intentions, because...
Don't you see? I made my offer because of my feelings for you; not the other way around. Should I have to assure you of my sincerity one day, should you get it into your head that it was because of your doing, that you've twisted me this way, I will remind you of that.
As we fall asleep in each other's arms, I have never been more sure.
This is where I belong.
Rachel