“I can’t fake it with you, Henri,” you said at last, razing me with your glare. “I won’t pretend nothing’s wrong.” You sighed and dragged one hand through your thick hair. “God, I’m so pissed at you right now, but I love you so much.”
I said nothing. You were far braver than I, to declare your feelings so openly and without reservation. I envied your courage. I always had.
“I’ll call you every Sunday,” I said like the coward I was. “And I’ll be back before you know it.”
12
Vincent
My hunger always started the same—not in my stomach but in my skin. It was a fever that spiked when I caught a scent in the air. Blood or perspiration, a sweat-soaked shirt or a whiff of perfumed skin. A fury of heat would overtake me, rushing through my veins and making my body throb from the marrow of my bones to the surface of my skin. And when the craving passed—if it passed—it left me with an emptiness nothing else could fill.
I was so, so hungry.
I’d doubled my intake of blood bags, but even when my stomach was full, my hunger lingered. I’d begun sneaking raw steaks into my bedroom and biting into them over and over until they were unrecognizable, bloody pulps. Then I’d sit in a secluded corner of the yard and feed them to my cats. I never actually ate the meat; I just needed to feel it against my teeth. Still, it felt wrong, like I’d further desecrated the animal by abusing its flesh.
My hunger made me irritable too. I blew up at my dad all the time—he was such a pain in my ass—and a couple of times, I think I even scared Papa. Mater was getting fed up with my bad attitude. Valentina got a boyfriend who was a total dick, so I didn’t see as much of her either. I was even bored with my powers. I’d been seducing my friends and classmates since middle school. The novelty was wearing off.
There was no escape, not even in my dreams, where more often than not, I wasn’t even myself, but a dancer named Orlando, the man you’d loved so dearly, the one who’d ruined you for me. And why was I having so many sex dreams about my father? I considered asking to see a therapist—or at least telling Papa—but I was too embarrassed to confess.
The only time I felt at peace was lying in the grass with Spooky purring on my chest and my other cats surrounding me.
Your calls came every Sunday and were about as interesting as a standardized test. You asked the same set of questions—how was school, how were my parents, was I getting enough to eat? When I asked when you were coming home, there was always some excuse for the delay.
So, I started sending you pictures—a kissy face here, a shirtless selfie there. Whenever I tried to get something real out of you, you texted things like, “looks like fun” and “don’t forget the sunscreen.”
Ugh.
Your absence stretched on. I didn’t care to listen to anecdotes about your travels or the customs of whatever country you happened to be visiting in your quest to avoid me indefinitely. You never talked about your work—still a lie, Henri, even by omission—and you made sure all of our topics were “safe.”
“I’m bored,” I finally said to you one day. You’d been gone four months. “I don’t care about Chilean wine or the capital’s jazz roots. Your stories bore me, Henri, and so do these conversations.”
There was a long pause. I was being an ass, but I didn’t care. I waited so long for you to speak, I thought you must have hung up on me.
“I’d prefer to hear what’s going on in your life, Vincent, if you’d care to tell me.”
You were forever the diplomat. Why wouldn’t you just fight back for once? Put me in my place, tell me I was being rude. Something. Anything.
“School sucks, Dad’s a dick, Papa’s mad at me, and you were supposed to be back two months ago.” I’d set a calendar alert on my phone. I got a daily reminder that our appointment needed to be rescheduled.
“I’m sorry, Vincent.”
Sure, you are.
“Listen,” I said quietly. “What if I stopped asking questions? What if I… behaved myself? Would you come back then?”
A long sigh and then, “It’s complicated, cucciolo.”
“It doesn’t have to be. I can follow the rules. Boundaries, like you said.”