Vampirism | ✓

7 | Hot Pot

I did call Haruto later that week. At first, I had been quiet, only speaking when I needed to. My nerves were all over the place, and I was suffering from faulty nutrition when we chatted through the phone. Somewhere along the line, he had suggested that we go to a hot pot place downtown, and I had said yes, ignoring the fact that I would have to eat in front of him and burn my throat with human food. I didn't have an option. I wanted to see him, and it was a shame that meeting up with humans always meant eating one thing or the other.

We settled for Saturday evening. The weekdays went by quickly, and soon enough the day had come. We were going to meet at the restaurant since I would be going straight from work.

"Mate, what happened to your hand?" one of my coworkers had asked when I was changing in the locker room. I followed his gaze to my left hand that was covered in scratches and bandages.

"I fell."

It was a clear lie. You didn't get fingernail marks from falling, but my co-worker just frowned at me before walking away, probably deciding that asking me to be truthful wasn't worth it. I also didn't want to talk about it.

Self-harm.

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't for the same reason as humans. As a glutton vampire not eating well enough leads to self-harm. We're living containers of all the memories we've ever eaten, and it's not rare for vampires to attempt to cannibalize themselves.

Yes, I clawed at my skin to unearth a fraction of the thousands of memories living inside me, but I was used to this. It would pass and I wasn't in danger, the only part that bothered me was the wounds and how much they stung. Otherwise, I was okay as long as I found something more filling than animal abuse to feed on soon.

After I changed into casual clothes, I took the bus to the restaurant. Haruto was already there, and he had waved at me from the window. I had waved back, making my way inside before slipping into the seat across from him. The place was hot, and it smelled like heavy spice and raw meat. Thankfully the sound from all the on-hand cooking was making it hard to focus on the sound of Haruto's slithering memories. Also, to be fair, they weren't that noisy today. They remained dormant, looking like blotches of dried paint on his neck, shoulders, and face. He seemed calm and was probably not thinking too much. That must be why.

We ordered separately and are in silence for the most part.

"Wern," Haruto said with a small voice as he picked a piece of meat from the hot pot. "I've always wanted to ask. Are you American?"

I wondered what that question was for, but I answered it anyway. "German," I said, poking at the boiling shrimp in my hot pot. "Moved here by myself," I explained, looking up to catch his eyes.

He hummed. "I guessed as much you don't sound American." I raised a brow. I guess he was referring to my accent.

"Yeah, I guess so," I mumbled.

"Do you miss your parents?" Haruto asked me, and I blinked. I hadn't been expecting that. A well-buried memory of her being staked was suddenly vivid and playing in my head. I felt my eyes blur with tears.

"Yes, but they're dead," I said in a firm tone, trying to sound distant, but there was an underlying wavering in my voice. Haruto picked it up.

"I'm sorry," he said, mixing the piece of broiled salmon he had in the bowl of rice to his side. "I was just curious. I don't remember my parents too well so it's something I tend to ask," he was giving me a smile now. It was small. Apologetic.

"I'm not sure how much you know about me..." he trailed, referencing our professional relationship at the food bank. "I've not had a very good experience with family," he went on, and all I could do was stare at him through all the steam coming from the pots.