𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐍𝐨 𝐄𝐯𝐢𝐥

1670

This one had lived longer than any man - that is, if he could even be called that. Truth be told, he’d never been one in the first place, so why pretend to be something he is not? Why make space for something that could never truly exist in the confines of his existence? How to hold onto a humanity that had never been within his grasp? These were questions whose answers he’d rigidly held onto since the day he’d gained consciousness and clawed his miserable way out of the ground. And ever since then, the only thing he’d wished was to go back. To the silence. The nothing.

But despite this, he had tried. He’d given away mercy like a cheap candy to even the most vile because he had begged him to. He’d donated his fortunes to the undeserving because she had pleaded with him. Themthemthem. When had it become about them? Why had it become about them?

For the first time in centuries, he cursed at himself. Because it had taken him dozens of lifetimes to finally grow tired of it. And because even if he had known from the start that it would end with them trying to drive a stake through the very heart he’d allowed them to fill time and time again, he would’ve still chosen the same destructive path that had been their love.

With blood pooling from his mouth, he brought his eyes up to the fair-skinned man whose body and soul he had so dearly worshiped. He allowed his gaze to wander once more, raking over every curve and blemish he’d so delicately touched and learned to know, just as the very first time he’d done so. And his dead heart beat with relief. Because beyond the bright red anger, there was more. Darker and deeper was the shade of his love, now woven in so profoundly with the hate, but still there nonetheless.

The vampire’s voice came, a cold rasp before the vengeance of his Yohan and Constance. “Why do you cry, my love?”

“Because,” Yohan hissed beside his wooden stake, “Much unlike you, we feel.”

“But this is what you wanted, yes?”

The vampire looked to his left at the woman cradling her wound on the floor. Where her brown skin once danced in hand with that of Helios, it now almost resembled his own ashy complexion. Their eyes locked, for one, two, and quickly her gaze was cast back down.

And then anger. Boundless. Bright red. “Look at me!”

“Your eyes can be so cruel,” she whispered.

“Yet mine does not hold a candle to yours, agapi.”

She stood, unsteady as her legs were. And his heart dropped into the floors, because her fear was so black. So suffocating. Was this the woman who’d once looked at him like her savior, now eyeing him like the very bane of her existence? When had the warm brown in her eyes turned even icier than his? Still, she approached him, and put a trembling hand on his cheek. If his eyes were cruel, then her touch was the devil, and he wanted nothing more than to pry it off with his cold dead hands.

“That witch, she predicted this,” the vampire started, “And now you have both proven her right.”

“You left us with no choice,” Yohan said, bringing the stake closer to his chest. He was ready. The girl was not.

So he did what he did best - he wormed his way in. “And do you hate me as well, Constance?”

“It’s not that…” she stumbled. A crack in the ice.

“Connie,” the boy warned.

“Will butchering me on our marital bed truly bring you peace?”

“Loving you was torture, Alek,” he replied as he straddled his lover’s soon-to-be corpse, “And the time has come for us - for the world - to start healing.”

The girl’s hands flew to the stake. Her eyes darted between the two men. “Yohan… This- this will haunt you forever.”

Gritted teeth. “Good. So I will know never to trust one of his kind again.”

“He is your family. My family. I can’t lose my family again,” her voice broke.

“Constance.”

Somewhere along all the pleading, he’d had enough. Someone would walk away from this dead, and all of them hurt beyond repair. So his instincts kicked in, forcing him to ensure he was not the only of the former. Despite the paralyzing amounts of pain and Manna Ash coursing through his weakened body, the vengefulness eventually found the strength to re-materialize, as always.

The tip of his finger sharpened into a familiar black blade, and the rest was reflex. One swipe and the girl’s throat burst like a dam, painting her wedding dress a delicious shade he knew better than anything.

If death made wise men of us, it certainly did for her. Even as the life seeped out of her, she did not claw at it. Constance had been born a fighter. But in that moment, she was anything but. Instead, she leaned over. “Monster,” she choked. Then she fell over on the bed, eyes trained only on her killer.

As many times as he’d replayed that scene in his head over the years, he still for the life of him could not remember what had happened after he’d murdered his wife. The only thing that came next in his mind was the grip of death. He’d been here before - staked, buried, forgotten for a few decades - and every time he’d found solace in the still depths of his trained mind. But this night was different, and no amount of hardiness could’ve dulled the searing pain that soundlessly grew over the centuries.

And then he would think of his Constance, how this nothing has become less terrifying to her than his touch. He wanted to scream. He wanted to weep, but he could not. All he could do was let the love fester and rot, eventually breaking down into a suffocating hate. One that seeped into his blood to fuel him, giving him purpose again.