ash𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒

You don’t want it to be over. Your eyes leave the figure, though His blood is still dripping through your lips, choking down your quiet sobs. Wet soil sticks to your limbs. Your breath gets stuck in your ribs as bones twitch, break, and form. Skin burns, blood, and dirt are too much sensory input on the expanse of your body. You gasp, clawing at your own body like a puppet being reanimated.

The figure wraps His arms around you, bringing you to His chest. He swallows down His own sobs. Before you could feel His own tears as your own. Now it all contorts into a haze, bending at the will of someone else, not yours. You can’t feel him. Nor the dirt, the salt, the blood, nor the grime under your fingernails.

The world loses its sound. The river water quiets. The waves lose their wrath, their unquenchable stubbornness. The night sky is robbed of its stars, like some thief has gotten too greedy and possessive over something that wasn’t His to take. The moon hangs alone, stripped of the sun’s light of compassion.

“I promise,” He repeats, words turning into a useless mantra.

You wonder if you’ve been cursed.

+++

The quiet cracking of firewood being burnt wakes you. Even before opening your eyes, you can smell the ashes gathering under the wood. The stretch of a leather chair. Hurried steps. The silk sheets around you are like rivers flowing. Your mouth is parched. You think of water, but the idea isn’t enough to quench your thirst. Or hunger? You’re not sure.

You shuffle into the bed, recognizing the room. Heavy velvet curtains frame the windows. You can’t tell if it’s morning or night. Half-closed drawers with old parchment peeking out. The faint smell of ink and paint.

“Love?” His figure bleeds into your sight. “You’re awake.” He doesn’t sound like he even believes Himself.

A pang of pain echoes in your head. You groan. He leans across the bed, and you instinctively reach closer. His hand cradles the back of your head, fingers running through your tussled hair.

“Easy,” he coos. “I’m right here.”

His fingers tighten just slightly around your hair. You’re surprised that you even caught the change in grip.

Your eyes adjust to the dim light of the room. The candles do you a small favor. No artificial lights weigh on your already heightened senses. The wax smells of vanilla, surprisingly, the iron tingle of new jewelry, or blood—you can’t quite put your finger on it.

“Xanthus?” Your lips move without thought. So do your hands, reaching and pulling for any kind of anchor.

Xanthus lets out a shaky gasp, you suspect He was keeping caged between His ribs. His free hand quickly wraps around yours. Icy cold fingers intertwine with yours. It’s only this moment that you realize how cold you are. Neither the warmth of the fireplace nor the flickering candles reaches you.

Your elbow supports you as you rise from the bed. Xanthus brings you even closer.

You look over your body, surrounded by silk blankets. No warmth is trapped under the sheets. Your skin can feel and make out every thread of the silk fabric. Your free hand clutches the sheets in a tight grip. You rip the fabric. Your heart aches at the sight, but it’s not really an ache. More like a doll pretending to be hurt. A superficial beat of a heart.

Your chest does not rise. You do not breathe. Air is not needed. You press your hand against your chest. Still no heartbeat. If you press any harder, you might break your own bones.

You gasp.

“What is happening?”

“Love,” Xanthus grips your shoulders, His touch pronounced because of your sensitive senses. “Listen to me. Focus on me for just this moment.”

“Why?” You writhe in His hold. “Let me go!”

You want to get these sheets off. You want to pull open the curtains. See the sun. Or the moon. You hear the movement of the fence on the east side of the property. The wind is dancing between branches outside.

“I said, let me go!” You yell, teeth clashing on the inside of your cheek. You feel blood on your tongue. Metallic, wet, warm, saccharine.

What did he do to you?

You push back against His chest. His hold on your body lessens. You climb off the bed, the silk finally off your skin.

“You didn’t—”

“I had no choice.”

“You had no choice?” You spit out the words. “What about me?!”

Xanthus slowly leaves his side of the bed. He circles it, shuffling closer to you. You can hear the wood creak under His feet, though there is no sound of His own steps.

You don’t look at him. You can’t. Your hand is still pressed to your chest, feeling the absence of the one thing that made you human.

“I can’t hear it.” Your voice is hollow. “My heart. What did you do to me? We didn’t agree to this. I didn’t agree to this!”

Xanthus says nothing. He stands like a statue, ivory marble skin and golden threads like rivers. Even when your body burns with cold heat, you can’t ignore how he is a part of your soul made flesh. Was.

“Why?”

His jaw tightens. His eyes are wet, crimson irises blurring with dried tears. You’d feel your chest tighten at the sight, maybe share His own pain. But you don’t. He took that away from you.

“Because I couldn’t,” He says, his voice breaking, “I couldn't let you go.”

+++

Days bleed into each other, all becoming a blur. You spend most of your time in a single bedroom, watching the sun and moon hang in the sky through the cracks of the curtains. You rip the silk sheets once more. Though they are always replaced. You’re sure it’s Xanthus’ doing.

The room feels like a cage of your own making. A glasshouse. A dollhouse just for you.

You claw and grip at your mind, trying to remember the past. The time when you breathed; when your heart ached and moved; when you weren’t haunted by every creak of the cage you’re stuck in.

“Your heart is beating fast,” Xanthus comments, his finger tracing the pulse point on your wrist. “Am I right to assume it’s because of me?”

In response to his words, you feel your chest tighten, your pulse elevated even higher under his touch.

“You’re too confident.” You mumble, trying to avoid locking eyes with him. Though you feel his gaze on you, peeling back your layers and leaving you bare.

In your peripheral vision, you can see the smile on his lips, almost predatory. You haven’t freed your hand from his hold. His finger spreads something akin to a cold burn on your wrist. The feeling makes it hard to breathe.

“Wouldn’t you say that confidence is warranted?” He quips, fingers slowly leaving your pulse point and touching the golden bracelet he gifted you. The one branded with his blood. “Your heartbeat seems to agree with me.”

Xanthus haunts the mansion like a ghost. Sickly and obsessed. You can hear the wood creak as He covers around your room. The leather chair sighs when he hits, fingers around His furrowed brows. You can hear the blood through His veins. How does it call to you? Sweet like sugar, bitter like metal; siren-like.

You’re not sure He can feel this like you do. You want to rip his rib cage open in anger, in hunger.

“I’m not sure,” you mumble, attention on the stubborn strand of hair that frames his face. “I still want to read through your diaries.”

Xanthus chuckles; the sound is like a melody. “They're not diaries, love.”

Your hand reaches his face, tucking the strand of hair behind his ear. His eyes widen slightly, but you still notice it. Your lips curl at the sight.

“I like reading them.”

“I’m glad you do.”

He leans into your touch. You cradle his cheek in your palm. The warmth of your skin seeps into his own.

You haven’t touched Him in days. You haven’t felt the one thing He promised to you.

For however long forever lasts for us.

What a lovely lie, wrapped in vine, dripping with wine akin to blood. Forever with him, your bones bent and cracked, reanimated corpse walking alongside Him.

+++

The first feeding was as bloody as it could get.

You can’t stay here forever, love. He said. The world is still out there. Waiting for you.

What use does the world have for you?

You listen to Him anyway. You could try, but biting the hand that feeds never ends well. He’d let you, you’re sure of that. But you’re tired of scratching at His arms every time He tries to grab you with a pathetic hope to calm you down.

Your leg bounces. You can’t stop it. Xanthus moves to place a hand on your thigh. You know He means to stable you, but your glare stops His hand midair. The pathetic look of defeat on His face is impossible to take in. You rip your eyes off Him.

That night is a blur now.

Darkness, as tendrils peek through alleyways. Xanthus hovers near. You can’t survive on vampire blood, He said. Or maybe he doesn’t want you to end up like Him. A mindless husk looking for their next fill; chained to the sweet poison of a maker’s blood.

You regret what you’re turning into. A monster with jagged teeth. Truly a walking, lifeless husk.

“—I didn’t mean to!” You rasp.

“I know, love.” Xanthus takes slow steps near you.

Before you would allow Him to get so close. But back then, you hadn’t drunk someone dry.

You don't remember the taste. You remember the sound—the wet, shuddering gasp as they realized what was happening. You remember the way their hand went slack in yours.

The body fell at your feet. Forgotten by their friends, you charmed them out of their seats at the bar. Hands clutching at their sleeve, promising them an innocent indulgence. Instead, you took all their worth. Their breath. Their blood.

“What did I do?” You whine, tears burning down your cheek. You forgot you could cry.

Xanthus wraps His hands around you. Against your bones yelling at you to push Him away, you sink back into His touch; the only sanctuary you have left. He doesn’t tell you that it’ll be okay. He just cradles you, blood and all. His hands shake against your back. You stain his shirt with wet tears and hot blood.

Your hand rises, gripping His own. Your body moves against your broken mind. You cling onto your only anchor left in this cursed world.

At least both of you are monsters now.

Xanthus Claiborne 

Jumped someone for stealing my food when (happened when I was in grade school).

Rumors about kidnappers became rampant in my town, so I gifted my friends knives so they can protect themselves. 

Wrote a scathing letter about this girl who kept talking shit about me and passed it around the class. My teacher confiscated it, she called my parents and said what I wrote was wrong and diabolical, but she told them that I have a bright future in writing.

Kayson Mayer

Begged my boss to sing "(They Long To Be) Close To You" by The Carpenters with me when I was sedated.

Accidentally ate rat poison disguised as sprinkles.

Earis

Ghosted my therapist.

Broke down when they announced that I was two points away from being a champion at the annual quiz competition.

Prefect

Studied history of England for hours until I questioned myself why am I studying it when I’m a language major. The subject was History of English Language.

Whole class received 1 to 1.5 on a subject since the professor said they don’t count class performance and participation on grading. After I was discharged from the hospital I studied their grading system and the subject so hard my grade went to 1.5 to 3.5.

Andrew Marston

Drank a cocktail with my colleagues, went back to my room. I was too drunk to function so sat on the floor, and cursed myself for drinking knowing that I'm lightweight. 

Accidentally sent "You're welcome" instead of "Thank you" to people who greeted me on my birthday. 

Zaros Atha’lin

Had a (almost) decade long situationship.

Went to school hungover, took a test, aced it.

Dontis 

A friend asked me when we were going to tell everyone that we're dating, I was not aware that we're dating. Realized that’s the reason why they’re telling me “I love you” the whole time.

My family friend said that I'm too pretty, so she immediately set up an arranged marriage with me to her son.

Elias

Was secretly taught by my cousins to ride a motorcycle, rode it on the highway without lisence while cursing them as I tried to avoid the bus beside us.

Luca