Run, run, run!
I need to move faster before they catch up with me, before it's too late.
Leaving the apartment so late at night was such a mistake. I usually always think this stuff through, take the proper precautions, and think better of it before being rash. If only Hermes hadn't gotten into the spice cabinet and eaten the garlic and onion powders. He was sick but would be recovering overnight at the vet's office. Stupid me waited far later than necessary at the vet's clinic just to be sure Hermes would pull through. The receptionist kept looking at the clock and out the door so concerned; even she knew better than I did and yet here I am proving the point.
"Shit, shit, shit," I seethed under my breath. That was stupid, too. I don't have the cardiovascular endurance to be wasting air on the obvious.
"Hey! Wait up, girly. We just wanna talk with you. Get to know you!"
Shit! They're so much closer than I thought. Every step I take is putting almost no distance between us. Just go away!
"Ah, screw that man. But I think she'll like what we have to show her, yeah?" He laughed at his own perverted joke. They didn't sound nearly far enough away yet, even as I tried to pick up the pace.
Left, left, straight, right, left, straight through. Quick left! Their footsteps were clearly audible slapping against the pavement, eager to claim their prey. I slipped into the closest alley, easing my way behind a dumpster. It would be very difficult to find me here so, I just had to wait it out.
The rhythm of their footsteps slowed as they approached the entrance to the alley. They padded casually inside definitely assuming I was here - correctly - and determined to put the chase to an end. Would that mean my untimely end? Probably.
I held my breath. The odor of trash was horrendous, but I was pretty sure my panting would give me away. I was feeling superbly light-headed by now. This night was a nightmare. I considered how much I would prefer being dead to facing whatever imaginings they had drawn up for me and it still looked to be the prime alternative. Maybe I could dash out of this alley into the road? They most likely were not looking to put roadkill on the menu.
I gave the option a moment's consideration. It was a shame though because the alley had three additional exits. This was the part of the city that transitioned into the suburban or at least more residential sector for housing. If they would just turn on their heels, assume they had isolated their search too soon, I could make a dash for the road parallel to the urban transition on housing and circle back to the apartment. I would sprint every step of the way, not even slowing once I was secured behind the automatic locks of the main doors. I would never neglect to fasten any of my unit's locks ever again and I could reclaim Hermes in the morning without another thought.
Moving forward I would be a model citizen of personal security. Maybe I'd pick up some more volunteer hours! The animal shelter doesn't take nearly enough of my free time. Perhaps a soup kitchen, picking up litter, or a local school needed some free labor.
Please, God, just don't let me die tonight. Whatever these guys had in store for me would ultimately result in my inevitable demise if we are being honest. There's no way they appreciated the marathon I put them through. I would certainly feel their dissatisfaction with my less-than-enthusiastic response to their invitations.
"Here kitty kitty. It's very much time to play. We know you couldn't have gone any further. Something you're carrying is very noisy, almost like you didn't want to escape at all." That was the big guy. He had a gross posture, tottering around the bins like a glutton.
There had been a jingling sound, but I had been too terrified to realize it was drawing them in to me. The charm bracelet my mom and my friends had put together for me over the years was stupidly distracting when I first got it, but now I was so used to the tinkling sounds I hardly ever noticed. No one at worked seemed to mind anymore for the same reason, it never came off. Carefully, I pulled my sweater's thick rolled-up cuff tight over the bracelet and gripped the excess fabric tight in the same hand. This way it couldn't be jostled noisily even if I got another chance to make a run for it.
"Yeah, little thing. But playing hard to get has a safe limit. You've gone too far and now I'm very hungry. I hope no one's waiting for you at home. You won't be making it any time soon." The leaner and greasier of the two intoned it clearly as a promise. I could see the yellow and rot on his remaining teeth from here. They were both disgusting people. I regretted that they were human beings; it was nothing but disappointing.
He was right. There was no one waiting for me. If I never came for Hermes he would just be placed in a shelter to be adopted. My work friends were just that and my only real friend lived halfway across the country in Denver. Mum lived on the coast of Maine. Dad settled in Massachusetts. I was very, very alone here.
They paced around a little, scanning their hungry eyes over all the places they had already looked until they paused. I was either behind this dumpster or crouching behind the stacks of surplus industrial plastic drums. I sent a silent prayer to somebody, anybody, that they would check the drums first.
I'll start going to church again. I'll get re-baptized and become a Born Again. I'll do all that volunteering I promised earlier, all of it! Please, turn them away from me.
They must have felt a cosmic nudge or just assumed a girl would prefer plastic barrels over a smelly dumpster. They circled the wall of plastic drums from each side and sprung upon an absent victim. It gave me the opportunity to make my escape up the parallel alley with no time to spare. I'd caught my breath well enough. Time to prove to the universe I would use these next breaths wisely.
"Bitch! Get back here!" The large one pounded after me but slipped and fell hard in a puddle of leaked gasoline and dumpster scum. The greasy one hesitated before resuming the hunt. I had made it more personal.
Fortunately, there was a decent head start on my side. I careened down the alley, dodging all the bins, barrels, equipment, and midnight smokers. My pursuer was making far more ruckus and I had the audacity to hope that any one of the loners on this street might dial a surreptitious nine-one-one on my behalf. They probably didn't.
He was still holding on strong, fueled by his anger. In a last ditch effort for survival I veered left, deeper into the suburban sector, rather than predictably toward home. I could not risk him narrowing down where I lived in case an escape was short-lived a week from now. Instead, I moved down a once familiar street.
I used to run a dog-walking business around here when I was still in university. Eventually, all the dog owners moved to better neighborhoods for their kids, gave up dog ownership after losing one to old age or disease, or succumbed themselves to old age or disease. Life happened, basically. I had not been here since, but not much had changed. It was still a quiet neighborhood albeit very superstitious.
There was a rundown home, overgrown with thick ivy and losing all of its dark blue paint to the elements. Many of the residents on this street whether original or new believed the house to be haunted. I remember prankster kids around here used to play jokes on all the houses on this street, but never go anywhere near this property. I remember one walk in particular.
Several kids were roaming the neighborhood. They were teasing each other, picking on other little kids, being scolded by adults. For all it was worth these were totally the kinds of kids who would see an abandoned house and pounce on the opportunity to face low-stakes vandalism consequences with spray paint or careless rock-throwing. However, they never lifted a finger against that house. The Sange Street house had a reputation and whether they knew it or not they weren't about to challenge that history. They all stopped at one point and just stared at the house as if it were preaching solemn wisdom. Not the good kind of wisdom that leaves you feeling thoughtful but rather the kind that leaves you cripplingly cold. I continued walking the fleet of dogs without pause, but I watched the kids and they didn't shift from their post for several minutes.
It was the only place I could think of as I made my final sprint.
Sange Street curved at a convenient angle for my purpose now but few others. Many car accidents have occurred here over the years because of the tight angle, but this same infrastructure would buy me the priceless seconds I needed to slip unseen onto the 22 Sange Street property.
I rounded the bend and tore through the ironically peaceful night. Grease Lightning still hadn't made it to the street sign so I knew I had just enough time to make it over the five foot fence into the back yard. I was not overly concerned with grace and vaulted myself over the wooden boards like my life very much depended on it and landed on my butt with a spine-jarring thud. My teeth ached for a moment but there really wasn't time. I was determined to prove to the universe how much I valued my life and wanted it to continue.
Steady on my feet, I smuggled my way to the back porch and crawled up the steps on all fours. You would know this house was abandoned for the overgrown lawn, brambles, and ivy, but more importantly for the absence of a motion sensor. Every house I had ever known installed one as an initial security precaution, but 22 Sange Street did not flaunt the luxury, assuring me it was truly abandoned and not owned by an elderly person who never left they home for any reason.
On the deck I pressed my back to the door jamb and listened. My hand snaked upward to the doorknob, gave it a careful wiggle until it released, and pushed open the door carefully to avoid squeaking. It was dead silent.
I slithered onto the linoleum kitchen floor and eased the door closed but this time locking the deadbolt. It was strange that it didn't squeak considering the age of this place, but I rationalized that as the hinges being protected by the elements under an overhanging roof and good insulation keeping out the damp. Either way I was finally off the streets. Tentative of creaking floorboards, I stepped gently across the floor and down a narrow hallway into the front room. There was a large picture window with thick curtains slightly parted at one side. I moved myself into viewing position.
Footsteps arrived out front, hesitated, but kept going. The greasy creep looked around confused, scanning the possible houses or entries into the think wooded areas, but he knew that I would still be making noise if I had opted for any of those options. Instead, I must have kept running, maybe down that side-street ahead. He picked up his pace again. This road was a through-street and my pursuer would most likely keep going until he gave up, He would have to assume I ran faster, fled into any one of these suburban homes for quiet asylum, or hailed a friendly ride to safety. He probably hoped I was scooped up by someone worse, but he'd be too afraid my providing the police with a description to keep up the hunt much longer.
I was finally safe.
I sighed with heavy relief and sank to the floor, while using the wainscoted wall to support me. The varnish was cool to the touch and I was sweating. For at least a minute I just sat with my eyes closed and breathed heavily until my heart rate returned to normal. I was dizzy and ready for bed, but there was no way I would leave this house until morning.
"Hello, lovely," a voice far too close for comfort said in a lulling tone.
I flung myself onto my back and scuttled feverishly away from the voice. It belonged to nothing I could make out in the darkness. I strained my eyes desperately trying to penetrate the darkness. My heart was restless in my throat. I pressed myself firmly against the far wall. For just a moment I took my eyes away from the spot near the front door to look for something to defend myself with. There was nothing but a wooden chair.
I looked up again. Two eyes, a reflective sheen of silvery white over each, and a sickening grin full of daggers greeted me once more.
"Hello, lovely," he purred.
I screamed, grabbed the chair, yanked on the loose leg until it came free, and held it at arm's length still screaming. I didn't want to look - really, I wanted nothing more but for this to be a fever dream after being nearly assaulted in an alley - but I knew I had to if I meant to defend myself.
I pried my eyelids open but the grinning face of nightmare fodder was gone. Glancing fiercely left and right I knew it couldn't be far away. A soft, rumbling chuckle echoed in the dark. The chair leg was my only line of defense. That and consciousness. I could feel my grip on reality slipping away. I was hyperventilating and nowhere close to calming down any time soon.
"Sh-Show yourself," I stuttered squeakily. More distant laughter. It sounded as though it could be coming from anywhere, lurking in the walls.
Scraping plaster. Something was digging into the plaster in this room. I swivelled my eyes left and right but there were deep shadows in this room. Were these shadows authentic or artificial? They were so thick and swallowed the light even as it came in through the gap from the curtains.
The scraping continued and my screams became sobs.
"P-please, please, let me leave. I-I'm so sorry for t-trespassing. I was being ch-chased by a rapist! I needed to hide!" I wailed.
Gentle shushing sounds eased into my immediate area.
"You wasted your fear on him, then. I'm the true monster," he whispered, a smile clear in his voice.
"Wha-?" I held the chair leg steady. The scraping was gone. My heart caught in my throat.
"Hello, lovely," he said, right above my head.
I looked up into a face of daggers and mirrors. I don't remember if I managed a scream.
This is a strange feeling. I'll describe it as best as I can. Imagine choking, but still breathing. Imagine a burning like fire that hurts but relieves its own pain simultaneously. Imagine all the strength in your limbs draining until you believe you never had them. This is the strangest sensation I have ever known.
It was not totally uncomfortable, but you probably would not tolerate the feeling if you had a choice. You'd push away, squirm, fight it off. Yet you feel very tired. So tired you can't imagine making a single sound let alone moving. So, you let it happen to you. You accept it because you know there isn't another option. This is not a time for mustering smothered endurance. All of that is gone, now. Everything feels gone, and that's another reason not to fight it off. You finally feel the kind of nothing, even emotionally, where you haven't a single bother to give. So, uncomfortable but still acceptable to alternatives.
It took a bit of coaxing, but I was curious if I was dead. I managed to pry my eyes open just enough to see for myself. All I could make out was the head and long hair. Then, I knew I was being held - pinned - to his body and the burning I isolated to my shoulder.
Maybe I tensed up, maybe not; I could not feel it either way. Nevertheless, he hesitated and the burning flared like a cancerous sunburn being smacked with a sharp hand.
"Uh," I managed to get out. My throat hurt and it came out like a hoarse growl.
He must have paused to think for a moment, because he didn't move away or resume whatever he had been doing. Instead, he waited. Perhaps he was challenging me? Challenging me to utter even one word, a plea or a command. I racked my brain for something, anything worth saying in the moment of predator claiming prey. He waited.
I took a slow deep breath. It passed easily enough without my heart pumping behind my eyes. I licked my lips; they were bone dry. I tried to swallow, also dry. He waited.
"C-could," I began. I could have been presumptuously wrong, but I thought I could sense his anticipation. Curiosity killed the cat, but he seemed to be expecting satisfaction to bring him back.
I began again, "Could you let me go, now, please?"
Silence. Then, all at once hearty laughter. Nauseating to listen to knowing this self-proclaimed monster was a sadistic tormentor. He was shaking me with his laughter and splitting pain tore through my shoulder blade and spine. I tapped the back of my hand pitifully against him in an effort to refocus his attention. His laughter stuttered to a halt.
"Please, I'm serious. I don't know wh-what you were looking to get out of this, but please, just let me call a cab and go home," I managed to say it but the breath it took drained me. I could very easily have fallen asleep again if that's what I am to call what happened prior.
"I don't think you understand the situation, lovely."
I sighed. I probably didn't, but no one ever told me not to ask an attacker to spare me. They paint this picture of being attacked as the end of the world - oh no! time to give up because you got caught - rather than seeing it as the ultimate opportunity to prove your investment in the life you've worked so hard to compile in such a brief amount of time. Why shouldn't I ask? Why shouldn't I run, create diversions, hide, and beg for my life given that as the only alternative to just dying? It's survivalist and I never thought it stupid to try to survive even when looking Death in the eyes.
In fact, I could get a good look now if I just turned my head! First my eyes and then a few millimeters more. He was smirking rather pityingly. He did have the long hair I thought I saw. It looked very dark in the shadows. He had hooded eyes too dark to determine color and angled eyebrows that made him seem permanently mischievous. His mouth seemed normal and not containing any daggers, now. In a police line-up I was certain I could identify him. Not many long-haired attackers no-older-than-thirty roaming around with faces like that as far as I knew. If I could convince him he was through with me I could most certainly report him and wait in police custody until he was caught. I even knew his address!
He smirked again and shifted my weight to lean me up against the same wall I had been clinging to for stability not long ago. How long ago was it, now? He assumed a casual seated position across from me. There were no viable escape routes. I was certain this was also planned.
"I can't let you go for obvious reasons you were just considering. If you know my address and are so unforgiving you'd report me for a police line-up when clearly you are doing just fine right about now I couldn't possibly release you into the wilds of the world! And I'd say it's only been about thirty minutes since you trespassed. Any longer and you certainly wouldn't be speaking. I suppose this is all a cosmic joke from the universe, a punishment of sorts for taking my time and savoring you rather than just getting it over with," he concluded. He was either a deluded sociopath or a sadistic psychopath who liked to toy with emotions. Or both. That was always a possibility.
Obviously he noticed the confused terror in my eyes. He ran a bloody hand through his hair and shook his head. Resting his forearms on his knees and looked me over. If I was correct he was just as confused as me but about something completely different.
"H-how did you know I was thinking about a police line-up?" I croaked. He hesitated, tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth. His shoulders drooped and he stood up and sauntered casually to the back of the house. I had come in through the back by the kitchen. While he rummaged I twisted gingerly to the right and saw the front door deadbolt. All I would have to do is flip the lever, turn the doorknob, and never look back.
The faucet sputtered several times before filling the kitchen with the sound of steady rushing water. I tested my right arm. It didn't want to reach, but I made myself push, while steadying myself on my left hand. My fingers nearly brushed the deadbolt before my left arms gave out under me. I was a pile of exhaustion and pain by the front door of the rest of my life. If I couldn't manage this there was no more life to be had, right?
"Not exactly. Please, refrain from escaping. You are in no condition," he had returned and I hadn't even noticed. He had left the faucet running to provide me a false sense of timing. He knelt beside me, lifted me out of my crippled pile, and presented me with a glass of water. There were particles of something floating in it.
"Beggars - and the nearly dead - can't be choosers so drink. Now." He tipped it at my lips and the relief was almost instantaneous. I gulped it down like ambrosia. He paced me, satisfied when I finished, and lifted me to carry me into the kitchen. I didn't like being carried, never had. I hadn't being out of control and all this night had been was no control. Hermes got into stuff he never should have. Rapists and possible murderers hunted me into a corner. A monster was keeping me prisoner. This was an absolute nightmare with no signs of daybreak.
He sat me gently in a sturdy chair at the table. It was clean; there was no more dust in this home than in any other. In fact, it was arguably cleaner and well-kept. Besides the chair I had broken, nothing I had seen suggested abandoned house at all. There was even a functional clock on the wall above the back door.
He placed another glass of water in front of me and I guzzled that one down, too. He gave me my third and this one I sipped more slowly. Leaning against the counters where they meet in the corner he studied me for another minute or so. I sat there unmoving waiting for another attack or cold-blooded threats but none came. Rather, he moved to another cupboard and pulled down a first-aid kit from the top shelf and unpacked it on the table. He prepared a bowl of water with a rag.
"I'm going to take off your shirt. The best option is to let me cut it off. It's already ruined, sorry. Most people don't get around to complaining about their clothes in the end. This is a little new for me. What do you say?" He was speaking quietly, hushed tones, but I didn't process much of what he said.
I went to shrug my shoulders and immediately regretted the decision. The pain crashed through me like a splash of acid through my veins. I could barely breathe through the sensation and braced myself against the chair. I was gasping, trembling until he put his hands on my legs to steady me and bring me back to the moment. Terrified, I nodded feebly for him to cut my shirt.
He maintained a calm face and took the scissors from the bottom hemline to the collar. It wasn't a favorite shirt so, small victories. He clipped away from the shoulder to the wrist until the shirt could simply fall away. Whatever he had done to my shoulder severed my bra strap, he just flicked it away. He dipped the rag into the bowl and rang it out. Then, he looked at me with hard eyes.
"Hey, what's your name?" It didn't really seem like he wanted to know. I didn't like having an interview without a shirt. No one could be happy after a botched murder.
"Charlotte, but I usually go by Charlie," I whispered.
He nodded, "Well, Charlie, this is the hard part. It's going to hurt and I have never done this so, it'll probably hurt even more. I just need you to hang tight okay? The numbing agent obviously wore off and I can't give you more. Ready?"
Numbing agent? Is that why everything went black? That was probably fear. If anything it's why I didn't notice how bad this wound was until now. I took a deep breath and nodded curtly, gripping the seat of the chair fiercely with my left hand.
"Okay, let's start by cleaning away the excess."
I seethed with pain and held my breath. It was easier this way. He was relatively quick about it. He pulled out a bottle of antiseptic and I most definitely hissed.
He laughed a little awkwardly, "Relax it's an antiseptic pain killer. It shouldn't sting much at all except maybe where the wounds are really deep and then only slightly. I promise, okay? Just relax. Turn your head away and hold your hair up like this." He spritzed the painkiller all over until he was certain all was sanitary. It was more than could be said for most killer monsters. Unless they meant to keep you around. To be fair, it really didn't hurt at all. This should be the go-to for all future injuries in my opinion.
"Umm."
"Yeah?"
I hesitated, "Wh-what's your name?" He was looking through the kit for something - liquid stitches and steri-strips - and smiled almost genuinely. He placed them on the table gently and looked me in the eye.
"Oliver, and nobody calls me Oli." Usually I would have smiled at that attempt at a joke, but it was definitely still a little too soon. Oliver seemed to pause again, unsure how to continue.
"I need to apply the sutures, and this is definitely going to hurt. I need to squeeze your skin together. So, what do you drink? Vodka or whisky?" My stomach twisted at the thought of either. I hadn't had a drink since my first time five years ago after a lousy friend suggested lousy tequila for the first and only go. My face obviously gave it away that I would regret either choice.
Oliver's amusement didn't make the choice any better. If he were to get me drunk enough for me not to feel the suturing he could easily do terrible things to me. Again! What is all this bullshit tonight?
"Should I choose? The vodka is pretty good, very smooth. Might go down easier if you aren't used to drinking," he said, pulling the bottle and a short glass from the cupboard over the stove. He poured several shots worth of alcohol and said, "Drink."
I threw it back. It burned not unpleasantly followed by a profound numbness over my tongue and down my throat.
"Ugh, I don't like that feeling. How long will it take to set in?"
He shrugged. What a luxury. "We can give it a minute and then just keep testing your shoulder until you can tolerate me touching it. Here's a refill in case feeling comes back too soon." I took frequent tentative sips to keep the stream of self-medication on tap. After a minute or two of prepping the suture strips and skin glue he gently brushed his thumb over my shoulder. I didn't feel anything. He brushed a little closer to the wound and I felt a dull aching. I quickly tossed another two shots back.
"Okay, now. Now's a good time. Just get it over with," I muttered. "And thank you."
His eyebrows lifted slightly, he was surprised. He went straight to work gripping skin with one hand and applying glue with the other in the areas it would be useful. The way he was mumbling I knew there were wounds to large to justify the glue. He applied a few sticky sutures and went rummaging in the kit.
"Don't look over here. You're distracting me and you shouldn't look at it just yet. Might freak you out." Now, I was a bit angry.
"You're an ass," I said confidently, still not looking at him.
"Why do you say that?" He asked, a challenging tone edging his voice. He was done rummaged.
"Listen to yourself. Listen to everything you've said. You keep making all these suggestions and assumptions. Worst of all you are completely disassociating yourself from what you have done! This wound is your doing. Are you just going to continue to ignore the fact or actually apologize?
"And what the fuck are you? I remember, now. There was a monster with a face full of knives on the ceiling. I recall blacking out and when I came to it was you giving me this wound as you so casually put it." I was breathing really fast. Liquid confidence is not a good look for me. It will definitely get me killed sooner rather than later.
"At least I am addressing the wound I caused. I could have left it to kill you."
"What the hell is that all about," I said almost hysterically. Now, I was looking him dead in the eye inches from my face. He was still working on my shoulder so I took another drink.
"Why are you patching me up? You seem really goddamned familiar with killing people so, why am I so freaking special? Why can't I leave? If this is going to be a regular thing I want none of it. Kill me right now or let me go because there is no third option," I concluded. He did, too. He pulled up on the needle and thread and snipped it free from my shoulder with scissors.
A little dazed from my confrontation I hadn't realized he had resorted to using the old fashioned method for suturing. He obviously recognized my aversion when he had taken down the kit and never mentioned it. Oliver took an alcohol wipe and glazed over the stitches to remove any remaining contaminate and blood stains. He smeared bacitracin around the contusions and settled a plush piece of gauze over the mess before taping it up securely and wrapping a bandage around my torso to keep the shoulder stabilized. It was all makeshift according to him but still practical and rather thorough given the circumstances.
"There. Now, you know I deceived you even further by using the needle. And yet it was all to help you. Is an apology in order from the snide little woman or are there any more 'thank yous'? I could use a couple more." He was being snarky and sarcastic without being totally wrong.
"Thank you," I said as he returned the kit to the cupboard. He returned with a glass and bottle of whiskey. Without warning my eyes began welling up with heavy tears. They fell fat and heavy down my checks and down my neck. I was a self-proclaimed - and for any who saw me cry - publicly-proclaimed "ugly crier." My mom had mentioned it enough times where I usually made a decisive point to not cry under any circumstances. Unfortunately, tonight had several unforeseen circumstances that called for an exception. So, I cried.
There wasn't any audible sobbing or physicality to it, just a flood of tears I really couldn't spare after my injury. I didn't care so much in the moment and Oliver sat quietly. I don't know if he watched or had to avert his gaze, but either way he waited. He never stirred in a way that made me think he was leaving. He just waited.
I petered out of all the cry left in me until I felt like a sun dried husk. I would have liked to rest my head on the table and let the weight of my skull counteract the throbbing that had just settled in behind my eyes, but bending wasn't feasible with the bandage. I peered over to Oliver, still waiting patiently, and saw a different expression in his eyes from any time before. He looked at me with something like pity but not a kind of pity that makes you feel bad. It wasn't a pity for how I looked crying, but rather for the fact that I had to cry. There wasn't any judgment.
"It didn't have to be you."
"Hmm?"
"It didn't have to be you. It could have been anybody, had to be somebody. It just happened to be you this time. I'm not sorry like it's my fault, but I am sorry it happened for you. It's not fun and I know it," he explained. A combination of crying headache and general discomfort made it hard to focus on him rationally.
Confused, I asked, "Can you just clarify what exactly it was you did? I was too afraid to look before and now that I can't see it, I think I still want to know what it is."
"Well, I bit you, obviously."
Beat.
That didn't ring true or obvious by any definition of the word and I was rather certain there was still only one definition. Why would he bite me? And so hard I needed several stitches?
"Because I was hungry," he added, unprompted.
"For what?" I asked, stupidly.
"For the obvious? Don't you know anything, yet?"
"In the unlikely case that I don't, fill me in on the answer you're looking for."
Oliver ran his hand through his thick mane of hair before concluding, "Blood, Charlie. I'm a vampire."