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She’s eighteen and naive. Eyes of wonder and tears of joy as she babbles to you about her college acceptance. You’re four hundred and scared to let her in. You hide it with an eye roll and a sarcastic remark.
Congrats you’re in the majority.
She rolls her eyes too.
Wow, you’re so edgy.
You’re four hundred and terrified at the familiar stirring in your stomach every time she smiles or laughs or fucking breathes.
Not again. You’re not ready.
…
She’s nineteen and loving college to an extent. She tells you she misses you almost every day. You promise her you’ll visit more.
You drive up on the weekend and take her biking along the city trail. She’s loves the view of the river she told you once. You hope she likes the view this close.
Back at her dorm, she tells you about her new friends. About how hard it was to find them and how hard it was to keep focused on school.
She just talks and it’s so easy to love her when she practically hands you her heart with every piece of her soul she shares. Each thought each feeling, and it’s such an enticing thought to give her the same from you.
But you don’t have your heart on your sleeve like she does. You have it under centuries of padlocks and reinforced ribs; you’d have to shove your fist right into your chest and dig it out for her, still bleeding, still dripping, still worthless.
So, so tempting.
She stops talking and looks at you, confused.
You take a deep breath, because in the silence your heart begins to pound, faster and harder before you even realize what you’re considering.
Pounds and thuds until you can almost hear your sternum beginning to crack from the beating it’s taking from its underside.
But it’s like she knows what’s happening at the exact time you do, for when you lean in, her lips part just before you kiss her. Your stomach jolts.
Begs, stay.
But you have to pull back and you are met with curious eyes and pink cheeks, lips still parted how you had left them.
She blinks.
This time the silence is too much.
Run, your body says. Run and hide like you know you always should.
She doesn’t stop you as you stand abruptly and storm out of the dorm room.
You don’t hear from her for three days. When she calls it takes you four rings to work up to courage to answer. You squeeze your eyes shut tight and inhale slowly.
Hello?
The pause is almost as long as the three days of radio silence.
Hey.
You feel relief. As if there had been any doubt that it was her on the other line.
Hey, is all you can say back.
You didn’t give me enough time.
I should have asked. I’m sorry.
No. You should have let me think.
I couldn’t breathe.
Neither could I.
You don’t know if that’s good.
I’m sorry.
She pauses again, but the frustration is palpable.
Don’t run next time.
You’re four hundred and one and fighting back the butterflies of a twenty something sap.
…
She’s twenty-one and learning the ways of the world. Her landlord won’t fix her apartment and she’s in shambles. The hot water won’t run in the shower, there’s a panel missing in the wall where animals can come through and she’s frantically running around the house trying to place rat traps while filling a bucket full of hot water from her sink.
You hug her until she has to stop, standing rigid in your arms. She learns to hate for the first time.
You teach her how to put her rent into escrow until he fixes everything.
In the way that is so incredibly her, she takes the moment of emotional intimacy to try using it for a different problem.
Why won’t you move in with me?
You’re young.
So are you.
She doesn’t know what you are. You never want her to. The vampire thing blew up on you twice now. Twice had it been the reason you had lost the girl you loved. Not this time.
(Not yet?)
I’m not ready.
It’s the truth. She can see it in your eyes, and she scoots closer, brushing the hair out of your face and running her fingers along your jaw.
Why?
I don’t want to ruin this yet.
Her eyes are sad and her smile is half-hearted.
You can trust me. I might still love you after I live with you, y’know.
The sentiment of the joke is not lost on you, but it doesn’t drown out one unavoidable and incontestable fact.
No one has in four hundred years.
…
She’s twenty five and learning how to play your game. She’s like the waves of an ocean, hitting the shore in a predictable rhythm, unwavering and continuous, breaking down every rock every shell it comes across until they are minuscule and powerless, nothing but a grain of sand on the long stretch of beach.
She wears at your will and at your fears until you learn her game. Sharing. Existing. Carving out a home inside your brain just for her, like she had done for you so many years ago.
You move in with her. You agree to marry her. Four hundred and seven years and you had never been married. Never even thought about it, if you were being honest.
It does not strike you until you are trying on wedding dresses with her just how misguided this is. Just how much pain it’s going to cause.
Problem is, you can’t fight an ocean. No one could.
Her family is there, all excited giggles and fists full of tissues, waiting for the moment everyone knows is coming.
She looks good in anything, you think. She could wear a damned potato sack down the aisle and she’d be the most beautiful thing in the room. Even so, there’s something about dress number four that grabs your heart until you feel like choking.
You know everyone else sees it too. Her mom cries. Her dad pretends he isn’t. Her sisters hug her until she begs them to stop.
They all want to stay for you to find yours, but you convince her to send them home. You don’t want the attention. You don’t want the reminder you have no family to even avoid.
She understands to an extent. It is true after all. Your parents are dead.
You pick a blush colored empire waist dress. It’s all free flowing and easy and exactly what you needed. And not white.
You were the furthest thing from pure. You’re not even sure you’re physically capable of stepping into a church.
You suppose you’ll find out.
…
She’s twenty eight and dealing with your night terrors like a pro. She doesn’t ask you about them. Maybe she’s too scared to or maybe you reveal more asleep than you do awake.
Either way she just holds you and kisses you until you get your grip on reality. She makes you tea and runs her fingers through your hair until you fall asleep again.
You don’t deserve to wake up in her bed. But for some reason it keeps happening.
…
She’s thirty and miserable on her birthday. She comes home from her girls night an apathetic frown on her face as she takes her coat off and throws her keys into the bowl at the door.
She doesn’t say anything as she scrounges for a snack in the kitchen. She settles on a box of cereal and brings it with her over to the couch where you are lying.
She gets under the blanket with you and nudges your feet into her lap. And for a long while she just watches TV with you.
You give her space. She always says what she’s thinking. She just needs time to figure out what it really means to her.
I’m old.
You understand. Thirty was always strange. Especially to someone who had just gotten their life together.
You’ve still got a long time left, you whisper, reaching out to touch her hand.
The contact is enough to pull tears from her eyes. She blinks them away, and they fall into her lap.
I don’t want to die. I haven’t even figured out what I want to do yet.
You’ll figure it out before you die, don’t worry.
Why do I have to though? Why can’t I just keep…living. Young forever?
You don’t want that.
Says the woman who still gets carded. You don’t know what you’ve got.
I do. And I mean it. You don’t want it.
Your chest is starting to tighten. She’s pushing where she usually doesn’t.
Why didn’t you tell me?
This wasn’t happening, it couldn’t be.
Tell you what?
Don’t make me say it, she says dejectedly, clenching her teeth and looking down. Sarah was here last week with her son. He asked for some milk so I…tried to give him some.
You grimace. Her lactose intolerance had saved you a lot of trouble for five years. You suppose it couldn’t have lasted forever.
Still. You don’t know what to say.
I poured a glass of blood in front of a five year old boy, Carm!
I…I’m sorry. I’ll…go.
You pull the blanket off you to get up, but she grabs your wrist.
You don’t get to just dodge this one! She’s angrier now. I deserve an answer.
You swallow, breathing in and collecting vampire on your tongue. She beats you to the punch though. Asks a different question before you can answer the obvious one.
Why didn’t you tell me?
You laugh darkly, shaking your head. I can tell you from experience it always ends better when you’re in the dark.
She doesn’t know how to answer that. She mulls it over in her head for a long time, shoveling handfuls of cereal into her mouth as she watches the TV.
And unfortunately for you, you fall in love with her all over again.
Is that it?
What?
Is that all you’ve been hiding?
A laugh escapes you before you can help it.
Is that all? I mean…yeah.
She ponders for a long moment before leaning in closer to you, eyes narrowing in emphasized suspicion.
Let me see your teeth.
You laugh outright before grinning at her, all normal teeth to display. She frowns in disappointment, and it is then that you jut your fangs out. She gasps before the broadest of smiles breaks across her face.
The wonder won’t last, you know it.
…
She’s thirty two and learning just how deep yearning can go. You catch her watching strollers in the park, making faces at babies in line at stores.
God you think you might know what storm is coming before she does.
More and more of her friends are having children and entering this new era of their lives and she does not know how to escape the sense of stagnation.
She brings it up over drinks one night, two margaritas in and more than a little tipsy.
I think I want kids, Carm.
You glance down at your glass for a moment before back into her positively and dreadfully hopeful face.
I’ll stay out of your way.
Her face falls immediately.
No, with you. She prods your forearm across the table for emphasis. It reminds you of Laura and your heart shatters as you gently take her hand in yours.
It couldn’t work darling, and you know that.
Why not?
You lick your lips, catching them between your teeth before releasing them with a sigh.
What are we supposed to say when I’m eighteen and they’re thirty?
She pouts.
What does it matter if they know?
You suppose that’s fair.
Okay, maybe not if they’re thirty. But what about eighteen? Fifteen? Ten? Kids can’t keep secrets.
She frowns deeper. What’s the worst that could happen?
You scoff. Revolt. Mobs. Kidnappings. You pause for emphasis. Stakes. Fire. Usual shit.
She sighs, defeated, and you know you have broken her heart yet again. She spends the rest of the night avoiding you once you take a cab home.
Finally she crawls into bed and takes her place under your arm, snuggling close and quiet.
I’m not mad at you, she finally breathes into the dark.
I know.
I’m mad at the situation.
I know.
You are the situation.
I won’t leave you.
You do not have to hide your frown. You should.
I don’t care.
You laugh. (stubbornness is never lacking in this one)
I know.
…
You wake up early for your hospital shift, but before you leave, you place a few printed articles about foster parenting on your pillow.
She shows up on your lunch break in a whirl of engulfing hugs and tearful thanks.
It wasn’t the perfect answer, but it was the best you could give her. She deserved that.
The next few months are full of preparation. child locks and gates, socket covers and chemical relocations. You move your blood into a fridge in the only locking closet. Things like that.
She wants to repaint the guest bedrooms to brighter colors. You reason that different kids will like different colors.
She tells you to shove it up your ass and help her anyway.
(on the bright side, painting with a cute woman isn’t so bad)
…
She’s thirty four and running ragged. You get home from work to find her throwing things around in the kitchen just trying to get lunch together. The newest boys are wrestling in the living room, rolling and yelling and she doesn’t even seem to notice.
When you drop your keys, her eyes immediately dart to you, and the relief in them is instant.
Help me, she mouths, and you nod to accept her challenge.
Do I hear fresh blood in my ring? You bring your voice down to an almost growl. (she throws an oven mitt at you the moment the word blood is out of your mouth)
The boys stop wrestling each other to look at you instead.
You want rights to battle, you gotta beat the champ, you continue, throwing the oven mitt back over your shoulder as you stalk closer to your tiny little targets. They screech and scramble to run away, but you scoop up one child in each arm, lightly body slamming them into the couch.
Children, she finally snaps.
You respond with an amused, yes?
Lunch, she prompts, and you hike the boys up in your arms again and shuffle them toward the kitchen, all while they giggle and squirm.
It’s make your own sandwiches, and you pull her in for a quick kiss before helping the kids put lunch meats or peanut butter on their bread.
You stick with ham and hot sauce. She rolls her eyes, but the twins don’t let it go.
Why don’t you eat normal stuff? one asks, brows furrowed.
Normal stuff tastes bad, you mutter with your mouth full.
You expect her to nudge you in warning, but when you glance over, she is grinning at you.
Huh? you ask, spitting crumbs inadvertently.
She laughs and pokes your puffed out cheek. You’re a heathen, Karnstein. You’re lucky you have me.
She blows a stray wisp of hair from her face and you think maybe it’s the cutest thing you’ve seen in thirty years, if not more.
…
She’s thirty seven and you love her just as much as you did when she was eighteen and terrified. She holds your hand as you two walk down the pier, ice cream melting onto your hands faster than you can eat it.
God, she never stops laughing at you. (you never want her to stop)
You offer her some and stick it on her cheek. She shrieks and bats your hand away so hard you actually drop the cone. Doesn’t matter though, totally worth it.
She starts some apology and tries to tug you back toward the ice cream stand when a woman taps your shoulder. You swing around, frowning down at the middle aged woman who is looking at you with a peculiar sense of wonder.
It must be so nice, she says politely, and you glance back at your wife to see if she has any idea what is going on. She looks just as confused as she cleans her cheek with a napkin.
I’m sorry?
Having such a nice relationship with your mother.
You frown deeper, glancing between the very obvious hand holding and her and back until you open your mouth with an answer you hadn’t quite developed.
We love each other very much, she swoops in to save you. But that is all. She tugs you away with your interlocked fingers back to the stand. She buys you another ice cream without a word and the two of you walk slowly back toward your car in silence.
The mood is different.
Obvious and overwhelming.
You shovel down the ice cream in record time, and when she glances over at you, the smallest of smirks appears.
What? you ask.
She leans closer to you, and you close your eyes for a kiss, but it never comes. You frown and open your eyes in time to see her bite her lip in worry, glancing up at the world before quickly retracting.
You…uh, have… she gestures to the corner of her mouth. Chocolate.
Your heart sinks knowing despite how tightly you are holding her hand that she might as well be hundreds of miles away.
Your heart on her sleeve, never say never girl, building up her walls.
You didn’t want to be alive to see that day.
…
She’s forty one and avoiding family’s phone calls. Every click of the reject button feels like a stake through your heart.
Why won’t you at least talk to them on the phone? you ask tentatively one day, over coffee and lazy morning cuddles, tablets on laps as you read a book and she scans the news.
They’ll ask me why.
Why you won’t see them, you mean?
She presses her lips together.
Yeah.
You let the answer hang between you for a moment, relishing the silence before you proceed.
You know…you can see them without me, right?
She shrugs, not lifting her eyes from scanning headlines. They’d just ask about you. And then they’d invite us places. And then they’d ask about why you weren’t around anymore. It’s…more trouble than it’s worth.
She hides her frown behind her coffee mug and you try to ignore the stinging in your eyes.
(you’re destroying her. she needs her family she always has, she doesn’t need a monster)
…
She’s sixty five and aching to see the world. You oblige her every wish. To the tops of all the most famous buildings, to hundreds of beaches. You fly her anywhere and everywhere. To things she finds beautiful, to things she finds tragic. You take her hand and lead her step by step through a world you learned a long time ago.
She loves every goddamn minute of it. Her camera never leaves her hand and her smile never fades. For two whole years, you go and you never look back.
She asks, you oblige, it’s so fucking simple.
She wants to stay in a castle, she says. You take her to the Irish countryside and rent the most expensive room in a lavish castle.
She wants to skydive. You jump out of a goddamn plane for her.
She wants to hike a mountain. You carry her on your shoulders every time she says her knees ache or her breathing is too hard, up until the two of you can overlook the setting sun in the national park. (you carry her back down too)
She likes that most of all. You carry her up more than a few other mountains. She just wraps her arms and legs around you and never lets go and you think maybe this is what you like most too.
…
She’s sixty seven and losing grasp on her joy.
During the day, she is the perfect picture of retirement. Does what she wants and spends time with her friends. Keeps herself busy with small projects and the like.
It’s a night when it all falls apart.
She cries herself to sleep a lot these days.
Sometimes you hold her until she stops. Sometimes you cannot bare to feel her jerky sobs, skin pulled tight across her ribs as she curls up tight, making herself small.
It doesn’t always last all night, though. On good nights, she finds her breath, counts it until it’s even and forces herself back into her body.
On those nights she rolls over to cuddle you.
You always drape a loose arm around her shoulders, pulling her close until she rests her head against your chest, hand atop your stomach. She usually makes light conversation. Plans for tomorrow. Funny news articles she saw.
As if she hadn’t just sobbed until she choked ten minutes earlier.
Tonight is different. Tonight she stops her crying and curls up against you and doesn’t say a word for the better part of twenty minutes. She just breathes in time with you, tracing endless circles on your side.
Carmilla? she whispers.
Yes, darling? you murmur, rolling your head an inch to the side and kissing her hair.
Her jaw trembles on your collarbone; you can feel her unraveling yet again in just an instant. She bursts into tears, hands grabbing fistfulls of your shirt to pull you closer, closer until you cannot do anything but hug her tight and kiss her hair again.
It hurts, she cries into your shirt. It hurts to love you.
Your jaw aches in response to the tears you are holding back like a dam. I feel it too.
And it’s true. It hurts love her when you know she will leave.
A-and I just…I-I can’t stop, she blubbers, wiping uselessly at her eyes with her wrist before hiding her face once again against you.
I know, you whisper, raking your fingers through her hair. I know.