Scott was dead. This was something Jonah knew. His mind had climbed groggily from its uneasy slumber and had come to this conclusion first. True, the mechanical beep beep beep and the relentless whirring of the many tubes and monitors that hooked up to Scott said otherwise. In fact, the thump thump thump of his heart that matched each beep beep beep said Scott was well and truly alive. Comatose, true, but alive.
Jonah considered going back to sleep. Watching a dead man would bring him no comfort. But his neck was stiff from the awkward position he had been slumped in as he slept, and while his mind contemplated death, he would not be able to sleep again. He sat there for some time, until he could no longer take that thump thump thump and that beep beep beep.
A green line flashed across the monitor as a sign of a heartbeat. The line, not yet flat, showed Scott alive. Alive but dead. Dead but alive.
Jonah shifted his legs, restless. It took him a while to tear his eyes from Scott, but when he did he could not bear to look at his friend again. Deciding the best course of action would be to leave, he got up and exited the room. He wandered the halls, aimlessly, until he found the cafeteria. Each room he passed smelled like sickness and blood. In the cafeteria, however, the plastic smell of processed food overpowered anything else. Jonah was grateful. In all, he spent $2.19 on a shitty cup of coffee. He did not think he could stomach anything else.
He took the long way back to Scott's room, not only because he was afraid to return, but also because each blank hallway looked much like the last. A labyrinth of the dying and diseased. If he tried, Jonah could convince himself that the white walls were peaceful, calm. But he did not try. He was much too tired.
It had taken him so long to return to the room that his shitty cup of coffee had turned lukewarm. He took the first sip and grimaced as the tar-like substance coated his teeth. Disgusting. He braced his elbows on his knees, cupped the coffee between both hands and rested his head on the lid of said coffee cup. Had anyone seen him from behind, they might have mistaken him for praying. This thought flitted through his mind, amusing him momentarily. Perhaps he should pray. Equally quickly, Jonah dismissed the idea. It was nothing more than desperation talking.
He stayed curled in this non-praying position for some time before a nurse came in, jerking him from his thoughts. When he first came to the hospital, he had told the nurses that Scott was his brother, and there was no one to expose the lie. In any case, they did bear some passing resemblance and with the oxygen mask and wires and tubes that obscured Scott, it was hard to make a real comparison. Perhaps they knew there was no blood between the two. Jonah suspected the staff might even have pity for him, a thought that made him uncomfortable. He had no need for pity. He was in the room though, so what did it matter? Pride was useless now.
The nurse checked a few things, but Jonah had little medical knowledge and didn't know the purpose of the tests she ran. He decided he didn't want to know the results. As she left with a clipboard in hand, she briefly touched his shoulder. It was meant to comfort and was as fleeting as the flutter of an eyelash. Jonah wished she hadn't touched him.
He grabbed his coffee, which had been unceremoniously deserted earlier. After taking a swig, Jonah wished he hadn't; it was now completely cold. Even so, he drained the cup and crushed it in his palm. He let it clatter to the ground.
He had been still before the nurse's unwanted touch, but now he was not. It was as though she had awoken the pain and fear that he had been stifling. But now. Now. The panic encapsulated him. And what lay in the bed he could not bear to lose. Abruptly he pushed back his chair and stood up. He began pacing, hoping the movement would loosen the tightness in his chest, the heaviness of foreboding. It did little to relieve his restlessness and seemed to only further agitate him. Everything in him was wound tight; each lap made the tension escalate.
His feet beat a pattern into the floor. His heels skittered on the slick tile. He came to a stop.
Thump thump thump. Beep beep beep. The noises, inanimate and mechanical, did not stop.
Fuck. Fuck, Scotty. Tears sprung unbidden into his eyes. They glittered, unfallen. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, wiping furiously to clear them. His head bowed, not towards the occupant of the bed, but to the scuffed tile. It couldn't break him. Jonah could not see again. His hand flew up again, but he didn't swipe the tears away. Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Ran his hands through his hair frantically. Let them drop to his sides and ball into fists. Clenched and unclenched them. Let his nails dig into his palms, as though that pain could outweigh this. The all-consuming dread of watching a dead man.
You stupid bastard. Goddamn it, wake up. Get up, you fucker. Get up.
But he did not.
***
The bass was thumping and resounded through Jonah's entire ribcage. It was one of his favorite feelings, the music so loud it could physically affect him. Scott was less impressed, having never been one for these types of social gatherings. Generally they were too loud, too impersonal. Parties, he thought, were meant to bring numbness or a sort of superficial pleasure. Jonah, though, reveled in this debauchery, and Scott was willing to humor him by being here. Despite his general attitude towards these gatherings, Scott could admit this party was one of the beautiful ones. Where the heat of the summer lingered into the night but wasn't insufferable. Where the stars glittered up above and the moon was especially grand. The residents of the place had even gotten creative, stringing up the little bulbs that were used for Christmas trees. As far as parties went, this was as perfect as Scott could've hoped for.
He suspected, though, that for Jonah it was not. His friend had refilled his cup at the keg several times. More than several times. Scott worried, and Jonah tried to drown out his need to talk. Or perhaps he was giving himself the courage to talk. Because when the word had finally slipped past his lips, Jonah was wasted. Nearly out of his mind. It had snuck out a few times before, when living in isolation had become too difficult. When he wanted someone to understand. It happened rarely, and he nearly always regretted it. Somehow, drunk though he was, he hoped Scott would understand.
"I'm a goddamn vampire."
The words were slurred to the point of being nearly indecipherable. So he repeated them, slowly enunciating each word. If he'd had a functioning heart, it would've been beating an erratic rhythm brought on by nerves he hadn't known he could possess.
Then he remembered, people don't just take your word for this shit. There was a sort of snick, the noise of scissors being snapped shut, and his fangs flicked out. Sharp and lethal. Sharp enough to sever the only real friendship he'd had in forever, anyway. Jonah was afraid to hear Scott's response. Numb as he'd made himself from the booze, he was aware enough to know he'd crossed a line that he could not come back from.
The bass thump thump thumped in the intervening moments between Jonah's admission and Scott registering the words. And the fangs. Confusion clouded Scott's mind for a second before he studied his friend. Could this be some sort of elaborate drunken joke? As he watched Jonah's face for any sign of laughter, he realized this was no prank. Jonah had looked away from Scott, watching some of the other partygoers. His face was set, his mouth in a grim line and his eyes glazed over, both by alcohol and in hopes of masking his fear.
Scott paused before responding, considering what he could say. After all, what could he say? Despite his many questions, he knew now was not the time for them. His face flickered through various expressions until it settled, determined. He nodded once.
"All right."
And that was that.
***
Jonah broke from these thoughts. Do not reminisce about dead men.
He had, after all, seen plenty of the dead. They had haunted him for a time. Not at first. He had been overcome by a lust when he had first come into this life. Bloodlust, sure, but something much more common and dangerous: thirst for power. After all, wasn't he immortal? And strong?
So Jonah had become cruel. The faces of the dead had blurred together, and he was little more than a capricious god to humanity. Unbeknownst to them, he went about silently condemning and judging; some would live and some would die. There was power in his cruelty.
The only thing that had dulled this callousness was time. He had taken pleasure in the freedom of solitude for an age, but the isolation began to wear on him. A weariness, heavy in his bones, had settled on him. To combat it, he joined the legions around him. Surrounded himself with the vitality of humanity. They didn't feel the long stretch of time, the endlessness of it all. Because he had no better way to live, he observed how they lived. It fascinated him. Though he could not consider them his equals for a long time, he grew in his appreciation of their earnestness towards life, their enthusiasm. Making no conscious effort to do so, he adjusted his actions. Slowly, his apathy, the armor he cloaked himself in, had begun to dissolve.
Though he was not particularly good at not killing, he at least tried. It seemed unnecessarily cruel to snuff them out.
His eyes flickered towards Scott in the bed. Dead and alive and snuffed out.
Anger clawed up from his stomach like bile and settled in his chest. He had tried, goddammit. While Jonah was not responsible for Scott lying in the bed, he felt enormous waves of guilt and fury wash over him. Had the universe tried to punish him for his budding humanity, something his species should not rightly possess? Perhaps this retribution was for his past crimes, which, he could admit to himself, were numerous. Shouldn't he pay the price of his actions? Was the goddamn universe as uncaring as he had been, if it enacted its punishment on the innocent? Anger blazed through him, all-consuming. He stewed in silence, rage sitting in his gut like a hot ember.
But it was a useless and tiring emotion. It came like a flame licking his insides before burning out. The heat of it had pulled him in and had left him even more exhausted. What good would blaming the universe do? He could blame anyone; it wouldn't change a damn thing. In an instant, he was deflated.
Tired though he was, hope had not deserted Jonah completely, and he began to think along more dangerous lines. After all, immortality could be given to another. Jonah began to imagine it as if in a dream: Scott was walking with him in the night. The stars winked in the black sky above them, gems more priceless than diamond. Their voices intermingled in the warm breeze, jokes and laughter flowing easily between them. Freedom, but not at the cost of isolation; they would truly be brothers.
An unasked for image overtook it though, more potent than the previous dream had been for its vileness. Because in order to fulfill his hopes, Scott would have to be turned. Jonah could only imagine his willpower crumbling as soon as his teeth broke his friend's skin. The thought of sweet blood, dribbling down his chin, dripping onto his shirt, staining the corners of his lips dark sickened and enticed him.
Sickness won out. Luckily Scott had been placed in a room that had access to a bathroom, and Jonah rushed to it. Nearly diving to the toilet, he barely made it before he began spewing the contents of his stomach. Because he'd only had the coffee, it didn't take long before there was nothing left. He retched and choked but nothing more came out, and soon he was left howling into the bowl. Goddamn that siren's call that fucking desire for blood that goddamn hope for something that could not happen. Wake up, you fucker, wake up. Snot poured from his nose, and his eyes grew swollen and red from crying. What was pride worth when your best friend was a dead man?
He didn't hear the nurse come in, and he was too distressed to be embarrassed anyway. She was little more than an abstract presence, and he disregarded her. He was decomposing. Everything hurt. He focused on holding tight to the edge of the toilet. His hands started to throb from gripping it so hard, and he liked the sting of it. It drove him to distraction, at least for a moment. Constricting pain burned in his chest. He stared at a fleck on the toilet seat.
His desperation had not been driven away by the woman, but he tried to appease her. I'm fine. The lie left his lips in a small whisper. I'm fine I'm fine I'm fine I'm fine I'm fine. The words were repeated over and over until they lost whatever significance they'd had. They no longer sounded like words. And they didn't matter. An obvious lie made especially obvious because it was punctuated by huge wracking sobs and choking gasps of air. I'm fine.
The nurse said very little. She crouched next to him, resting her weight on her toes. Her hand, which had originally brought about this misery, rubbed soothing circles across his shoulders and back. I'm fine I'm fine I'mfine imfineimfine. Presently he was overcome and stopped saying the lie. He sat, crumpled against the toilet, to wait out his own storm. The sobs, shaking his whole body, morphed slowly into whimpers. Which in turn became deep gulps of air, until they steadied into regular breaths. I'm fine.
While he was, of course, not fine, he was at the very least somewhat composed.
She left him when she was satisfied that he would not collapse into himself again; self-destruction was not something the hospital endorsed. Slowly, he pulled himself off the floor and again took up his place in the chair next to his not-yet-dead friend. So he sat, a silent sentinel. They could, at the very least, be broken and alone together, and there was some solidarity in their mutual isolation, the first comfort Jonah had had since being in this godforsaken place.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Unbidden, the image of blood dripping down his chin came again. He felt sick.
He visualized himself doing the deed: leaning in close to Scott's neck and hesitating for a split second. And then he would no longer be hesitating. Even in the vision he could imagine no other outcome than Scott's death. What kind of goddamn monster was he, to kill the only good thing that had ever come into his existence? Fuck if the temptation wouldn't get him in the end; whether it was the hope of reviving his friend or the call of his blood, Jonah would falter. He sat in silence and hopelessness trying to keep from looking at Scott.
Wake up, you bastard. Water leaked from his eyes.
Just like that, he could not stay here, in this room filled with the reminder of his impotence. He stood up and strode across the room, swiping at his eyes.
Glancing at the glass door, he caught his reflection in it. He saw himself as a ghost: a mere likeness of blurred outlines and dimmed features, waiflike and insubstantial. This lasted for only a moment before he pushed the door open and left.
There was no one he could save here.