I found him more quickly than usual and started to rush over to the table he was sitting at. Before last night, it would have taken me longer than the five seconds I'd just used to perform such a task. A great deal longer. But that was all changed now . . .
I had been weak before. Now I was strong.
When he saw me, he waved. The simple gesture used to make me smile at his adorable boyishness, perhaps give a small wave back. Not anymore. It seemed superfluous now; he knew I could see him and he knew that I would go sit with him, as I'd done every day since we'd become friends.
Still, perhaps out of habit, I walked faster when his eyes lit up with joy. I made sure I was breathing normally before he could see me in detail.
I slipped into my chair across from him, lithe as a cat, and immediately wished I hadn’t. I wished I'd just gone into hiding until I'd figured everything out.
His scent hit me like a slap to the face and induced a reaction twenty times more powerful than before. I clenched my teeth to keep from gasping at the initial pleasure, then clenched them tighter against the immense pain. My entire body was burning . . . What was wrong with me? I didn't even need to ask the question - I already knew the answer.
I wanted his blood. I needed it. My heart was crying out for it in its hollow state. I wallowed in my punishment, slowly pushing my chair away from him.
He, meanwhile, was ranting away about some story he'd written for English class. That was my Erek, always the writer. Apparently, the teacher wanted him to publish it in the school newspaper and was practically proclaiming it a masterwork, while Erek thought it was the worst thing he'd ever written. He seemed to think that a lot, lately.
Listening to him talk about useless trite took my mind off the anguish. I got my mind wrapped up in the details of his story and untangled from the shadowy depths of pain. It wasn't completely gone, but it had reduced to a dull, endurable throb. As long as my mind didn't accidentally slip to thoughts of food, I would be fine. I could make it through the day.
His train of thought changed abruptly when he realized I wasn't my usual, chatty self. When he realized I had nothing in front of me on the table.
"Aren't you going to eat?" he asked quietly. Warily. He knew something was wrong. There was no ignoring that.
The agonizing, tearing feeling started up in my stomach again. My limbs started to feel as if I'd poured gasoline all over them and dropped a lit match. My lips were parched, my throat was uncomfortably dry, and I could feel a scream trying to escape my lips. I had to continually tell myself not to look at his veins. So much for making it through the day.
I shook my head with a forced smile. "Not hungry." The words came out in a harsh gasp. As you can imagine, it wasn't very convincing, and Erek wasn't dumb. For once, that was going to cause me trouble.
"That's not true," he said. "You have to eat, Anna, or you'll get sick."
Yes, I'll eat. I'll leap right over this table and sink my teeth into that pretty throat of yours. Yes yes I'll eat I'll eat you yes I'll eat —
I had to fight to overcome the thought. My rationality was slowly starting to drip away, my animal instincts starting to kick in. I could practically feel my sanity wasting away. On top of all that, there was a new pain now, a sharp one in my mouth. It grew exponentially as time went on and became unbearable. I could barely stand to open my mouth to talk.
"No," I groaned with a great amount of difficulty, "You really don't want me to."
My friend had no reply for that. He went back to his meal, confused. While he wasn’t paying attention, I covered my mouth and nose to try and stifle the smell. It was stupid and childish, but I honestly had no better ideas. My mind started swimming, my vision blurred. The growling started back up in my throat. I knew I couldn't trust myself and crushed my body further into the plastic back of the chair. I stayed like that, bunched up and fighting the urge to shriek in pain, until a crawling started in the back of my head. I didn't know what it was, just that it must be bad.
I have no clue how I did it, but my mind registered Mr. Harley's presence before I even knew he was there. I'd completely forgotten about him in all of the commotion. Our art teacher and close friend always stopped to check in on us during lunch. He was what some would call the "hippie" type, with long blond hair that never quite stayed in a ponytail and rather large gray eyes. He always wore bell-bottom jeans and some form of a tie-dye shirt. Before he noticed, I dropped my hands in my lap.
