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It happened again. Why did it have to keep happening?
His hands shaking. Why were they shaking? Was it because of the fear in her eyes, when he sunk his teeth into her alabaster neck? Was it because of the powerful way she tasted going down, like a cool drink of water in the middle of a barren desert?
No.
It was the fact that in that moment, for just a flash, she looked like Annie. The last person in the earth that he wanted to hurt, and his mind had made his victim look just like her.
Glancing down at his shaking hands, he saw the blood still fresh on his fingertips. Some of it had even stained the green knit hand warmers that he constantly wore. It wasn’t the first time they’d been the victim of one of his frenzies, but for some reason this time the blood seemed to cry out to him. Accusing him.
Every time he tried to stop, the relapse was always worse.
Sounds came, muddled from downstairs. Her friends? Flatmates? Someone was going to find them, and he did his best to put the room back together, pulling his jacket back on as he slipped out through the window and down onto the patio below. They would find her, call the police, and one of them on the police force would clean up the mess. It had happened before. It would happen again. He couldn’t think about it.
He didn’t even know her name.
Slipping into the darkness of the night, he walked down an abandoned alley, trying to figure out how best to return home without getting caught. He didn’t want the others knowing he’d done it again. Not now. Not when he’d done so much to keep himself on the straight and narrow. Their disappointment he wasn’t ready to face.
The flat was still dark when he arrived. He paused outside the door, trying to sense if there was any movement inside. He couldn’t smell George, so he must have been out. Annie would be there, but if he was quiet perhaps he could slip through without her noticing. He took a few moments to clean his face on his arm warmers before removing them and stuffing them in his pockets. Unlocking the door, he slipped into the flat and shut the door as silently as possible.
Hardly a sound could be heard in the flat as he made his way up the stairs and towards his bedroom. He was nearly there when that angelic voice hit his ears, drawing his attention back to the other end of the hall.
“Mitchell?”
Pausing in his doorway, he turned to look at her but immediately diverted his eyes, toying with the doorframe with his hand. “Hey.” The word was a bit longer than it should have been.
“Are you alright?” she asked, taking a few steps closer to him, but he took a step back into his room, refusing to meet her gaze.
“M’fine.” And he quietly shut the door between them.
The room, as always, was in complete disarray, but that worked to his benefit as he quickly began stripping off his clothes. They weren’t in as bad of shape as they could have been, but there was enough blood to betray him. Stuffing them under other bits of clothes, magazines, and useless crap, he pulled on a new pair of jeans and a plaid shirt, though he didn’t button it right away, instead letting himself collapse backwards onto his bed and covering his face with his hands. The strong iron smell of the blood had even worked its way into the skin. It smelled so good…and he regretted it so deeply that he had to push back the emotional tailspin that was threatening to take him over.
There was a knock at the door. “Mitchell? Are you sure you’re alright?”
He couldn’t answer her because he couldn’t lie. Not to her. Not when she was the one thing in the world that made him want to change, to be better. And especially not when, in spite of all of that, he still failed to be the man he wanted to be. That he needed to be, for her.
Hardly a second passed before she was suddenly in the room, though he still wouldn’t look up at her. “Mitchell?”
“I told you,” he answered in an even tone, though the way he covered his face betrayed him and she didn’t hesitate to sit on the bed beside him, watching him with her deep, dark and compassionate eyes.
“Mitchell I know something’s wrong,” she pressed. It was funny, how forceful and yet gentle she could be at the same time. It was like she had this presence that said she was too kind, but she had power too. More than she recognized in herself. “Please talk to me?”
His hands were still shaking. They slid from his face through his long dark hair, the locks coated in sweat. Had he been sweating? He hadn’t realized it. But the tremor was visible because she put an arm around him, her hand resting on his shoulder.
“You’re shaking.”
Something about her words and the softness of her touch released a torrent inside, because the shaking spread from his hands to the rest of his body, and before he was aware that it was happening, he was leaning into her shoulder as tears that shouldn’t have been pushed their way out of his eyes. Was he crying? Did he ever really cry? This was the first time he’d found himself in the position of receipt; usually it was he holding her as she cried, or struggled. Him kissing her forehead. Him holding her to his chest.
What changed that now he was like a child in her arms? So old. Centuries old. And yet still a child.
“What happened?” she pressed, the concern rising in her voice as she ran her gentle fingers through his long hair, not caring for the wetness or the way he shook. She wouldn’t notice the traces of blood there. And she wouldn’t smell the iron reek on his breath, or his hands, or his body. But she could sense the unrest, and she could feel the failure that radiated off of him.
“Oh Annie,” he finally breathed out before allowing himself to be wrapped in her warm and soothing arms. Her touch was cold, but it was the only comfort he had ever known since the change. It was the only place he felt safe. The only place he felt human.
“Shh, it’s alright. I’m here,” she reassured him as she continued to run her fingers through his hair, her free arm wrapped tightly around his back as she cradled him to her chest. Just once, she chanced to kiss him on the forehead, and though her lips were cold, the gesture seemed to reach the core of him and settle itself there.
Pulling back slightly, he murmured, “I can’t keep doing this.”
“Then don’t,” she answered matter-of-factly. “You don’t have to do this, Mitchell.” He may not have told her, but her voice said that she already knew. “Let the part of you that doesn’t want to beat the one that does. I know you can. I know that man is strong enough.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Listen to me,” she continued in a pointed tone, and she pulled his chin up so that he was looking directly into her eyes. “I don’t lie. When I know something to be true, I say it.” Then she softened a bit. “It’s not my fault you don’t listen.”
Pulling her into him again, he had to bite back the tears that kept forcing their way from his eyes. “Thank you,” he replied, still too ashamed to look at her directly, without any help from her.
“Listen to me Mitchell,” she said again, not letting up one bit. “You are strong enough to do this, you know. You can stop…if you want to.”
“I don’t think I can,” he replied in a voice that showed every insecurity. “But for you, I could.”