Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
But … if we were to meet one of Them, one of those horrors of the night whose name you nearly let slip from your lips … They, who so gluttonously drink of blood, who carelessly take others’ lives as they please, who abuse their Death-given powers with no remorse … and if They were to try and harm you, even to look upon you, then the world will learn what I am truly capable of, what I truly am … and I promise you, it will be so much worse.
5.
Keep Me Human.
—∙—
“So do you, like, turn into dust under direct sunlight?”
The gymnasium was empty. It was an off period. Tristan sat on the bleachers next to him in the half-lit gym. This is so not the conversation I was hoping to have today.
“I’m just curious. Or do you burst into flames?”
Would it be more interesting if I did?
“You hate the sun, though?”
It’s annoying. Feels like fire. I suppose if I am in direct sunlight, I might skip the flames part and go straight to ash. Then you can hold a bit of me in your palm, you know, like a mound of sugar. Bake some cookies with what remains. Chocolate chip, if I had a choice in it.
“So indirect sunlight doesn’t kill you?”
Not yet.
“What do you mean ‘not yet’?”
It’s a gradual thing, this gift, this condition, once it gets ahold of you. It can eat away your humanity slowly, bit by bit, if you let it.
“So you’re still human?”
That’s up to your interpretation, I guess.
“Well, I think you’re still human. You seem human to me. I thought you, like, get bit on the neck by one and just instantly become one. I didn’t know it was a gradual thing … like a slow transformation or whatever.”
Just like puberty, only far less terrifying.
“Have you ever met one that’s totally transformed?”
Tristan scratched above his eye, appearing uncomfortable. I would really rather not talk about Them.
“So you have? What are they like?”
Tristan closed his eyes. His voice grew slow, deep. Imagine someone at their greediest, most vile. Soulless and horrifying. Around one, your blood runs cold in an instant. To look upon one is to see your own death, to lose all hope, to know only regret. Anguish beyond Hell. In their eyes, you see a darkness no light can hope to penetrate.
“Really?”
Tristan eyed him. Please don’t make me talk about Them.
“And you’ll become that someday?”
Not if I can help it.
“Do they look different? The, uh, ‘fully-transformed’ …? Do they grow fangs? Or horns? Are you gonna grow horns?”
Hopefully. Then you can call me horny. It’ll be our thing.
“You make jokes out of everything, but I can tell they truly disturb you, talking about them. They sound … scary. Oh, you also have a weird metal allergy, right?”
Silver, only silver, no other metals that I know of. It stings when I touch it, burns, like it’s scalding hot even if cold.
“I remember a movie I saw when I was ten about a bunch of werewolves. Isn’t silver only used to kill werewolves?”
Maybe everything is made up and considered a fairytale until it’s written in your tenth grade science textbook, who knows.
“Are you all allergic to it? To silver?”
We all have different allergies, I’ve learned. We develop in our own ways, like trees, some get tall first, some flowery, fruits or leaves, or tiny spikes to keep enemies away. Maybe someone out there isn’t allergic to anything at all … even the sun.
“Doesn’t the silver need to be blessed by a priest first?”
I met a priest once, as a child. He patted my cheek and called me a sweet little boy. He’s probably dead now.
“What about a wooden stake? Is it true that a wooden stake through your heart will kill you?”
I imagine that would kill anyone, don’t you?
“You know what I mean.”
Haven’t experienced it yet myself, fortunately, so can’t say.
“What about garlic? Is that a thing? Or holy water?”
You seem awfully fixated on how to kill me. Should I worry?
“So are you immortal, then?”
Eventually.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
Does anything make sense when you think about it long enough? Have you ever tried explaining the universe to someone? Gravity? Corduroy?
“But you have powers,” Kyle pressed on.
Ugh. Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose. Are you done with this ungodly interrogation? Can you be? I have a paper on the Renaissance due in sixth period that still needs an ending and title.
“What you did to Brock, the sleeping thing. Being able to smell blood. Do you have any other powers?”
I can make fart sounds with my hand in my armpit.
“Ooh! Can you read minds?? Please tell me you can!”
I regret telling you anything.
“Read my mind right now. Tell me what I’m thinking. It’s not my exam this morning, I totally aced it, by the way.”
This is worse torture than standing in the sun at high noon.