100 Yellow Doors

august 18th, 2019, 1:13 p.m.

Julien couldn't remember the last time he'd hosted any sort of social event. He could remember quite easily the last one he'd attended, though considering it was Sera Kozlov's, he wished he couldn't. He tried to remember what precisely people did when they had other people in their house. Drink? Eat? Was that all there was to it? Was he supposed to provide entertainment? A stripper, maybe?

    He shuddered. No. Maybe not that.

    Two walls of alcohol loomed on either side of him, from fine red wine to Prosecco to scotch. Was this a cocktail occasion or a wine occasion? He wasn't sure. He reached for a tall bottle of Vodka, figuring that was safe enough. Anything was safe enough, he figured, if it took the edge off right.

    A strange synth-pop song played over the grocery store speakers as Julien wound his basket around to the snack aisle. He leaned over the handle, trying to steady his weight. Light glared in his eyes and the bass of the pop song beat in his blood and every squeak of every grocery cart wheel was like a dart shot in his eardrum. It was getting worse. He was getting worse. He wasn't sure how much longer he'd be able to stand it.

    For a moment, he was back at the concert again, the bass riff in his ears and then in the back of his head. Sera was a devil and an angel as she turned the young boy's neck in Julien's direction, two dripping red puncture holes against flushed skin. Go ahead, she'd said, her eyes crimson and dangerous, poisonous rubies underneath red-blond bangs. I'll share.

    The cart skidded forward and Julien reached for it but missed, tumbling forward into a stranger's arms. "You good, mister?" asked the stranger, a middle-aged man in cargo shorts and a polo, wearing a Red Sox hat.

    Julien kept his head ducked as he staggered to his feet. The man's heartbeat was all he could hear, that and the blood rushing in his living veins. Sharp teeth prodded at Julien's gums, threatening to come out. He collapsed against his cart. "Fine," he breathed. "I'm fine. Thank you."

    Out

    Julien grabbed the bag of chips nearest to him, slammed it into his cart, and made straight for the checkout line.

    Out now

    The cashier held out an expectant hand. "I.D.—"

    Julien thrust it at her possibly with too much haste.

    Hungry—

    He paid and dashed out into the parking lot. The sun was a weapon, hailing its bullets down at him, stinging at his skin. How long had he been outside? Minutes? Hours? He didn't know.

    NOW—

    His Cherokee was parked beside a large oak tree. He crouched between the curb and the side of his car, dragging himself into the shade, vomiting nothing but spit out onto the pavement. He mopped his mouth, swiveled his ears until he heard it: first, the high chirruping of a blue jay, then its tiny, fast-moving pulse inside its tiny ribcage.

    Julien was shaking as he climbed to his feet, waited, waited more, then stuck his arm out, victory confirmed by the strangled final squeal of the bird's life. He checked his surroundings—all was clear—before lowering himself to the ground again and unhinging his fangs.

    A sigh escaped his mouth as the first drop of blood lit upon his tongue; a wave of relief so pungent flooded through him that he could hardly keep himself up. His stomach ceased its growling as the world around him quieted and dimmed. He almost felt like himself again—

    Footsteps. A lot of them.

    Julien dropped the bird, mopping at his mouth and getting to his feet again. He