Incarnadine: A Polyamorous Vampire Romance

Veronica

The cover of darkness is exactly what I needed this late fall evening. The air was cold, chilling me down to my bone, not leaving a spot of my rough, dirt-smeared skin uncovered with goose pimples. Swirling wind twisted itself through each and every hole in my old and torn clothing, making even my soul feel frigid.

That brought a snark to my pale lips- calling myself cold down to the soul was extremely dramatic, even for me. Especially with the current elective activity of checking windows in this residential home in the middle of ‘big city suburbs U.S.A’. I could be anywhere else, holed up somewhere until it warmed up. But that was quitter talk, and I never quit. The window jerked ever so slightly against my push. Fourth times the charm, right?

Breaking and entering wasn’t one of the most glorious things I’ve done in my 24 years of life. We’ve all been there, staying on the streets due to an inability to keep a job or get a steady enough income to afford the shittiest slum apartments that this city could offer. Even then, there are few and far between that could tolerate someone like myself- a nonexistent credit score, a criminal history, a lacking high school degree. One of the thousands of unfortunate souls stuck between morality and survival.

I’ve done this before, the routine felt familiar as the adrenaline began its warm course through my veins. Taking the blade of my knife, the click of it popping out of place with a spring like music to my ears, I ran it around the painted-over rim of the window to loosen the seal. It required me to stand on my tiptoes to reach the top, the window higher than most, but what could you do? I couldn’t exactly travel with a little step stool attached to my already overfilled pack. Thankfully for me, this window was an old one, making the whole “entering” part of my crime easier.

Thank the gods for the people who never locked their bedroom windows. The paint seel might have kept out the less determined criminal, but not this sly, hungry woman.

The window creaked its resistance to my insistent pushing, needing a few extra shoves with the corner of my bony shoulder. Reluctantly, it opened just enough for my smaller frame to fit through before it locked itself angrily in place.

Finally, I was going to be able to warm up for the first time in a while. Alcoves of businesses and department stores could only do so much before you’d get chased out by a security guard or the police. This house was warm, inviting, as if it was calling me in, deeper.

The growling, painful rumbling of my stomach would be satiated, even for a little bit. I know this is a crime. I know it’s something I could be jailed for. This was desperation, this was survival- I refused to allow myself to feel bad about it. But I always had my rules, just to make my actions even more justified.

I would only take food that seemed extra, or a single meal, something they wouldn’t horribly miss. Nothing sentimental, nothing to pawn or sell, only what I needed. The temptation to take electronics or cash lying about always hit me, the softest of whispers into my subconscious that I wouldn’t have to take so many risks if I just slipped that watch or that ring in my pocket on the way out. If this family lived in excess, how seriously would they miss a dusty gaming console or the extra TV in the kitchen?

But I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t. Only what I needed, and what they could spare. It’s risky enough for me just getting food or the occasional lighter. This is just for survival. I wasn’t going to be like them. The people I sometimes shack up with who boast about the wallet they grabbed from an innocent person just trying to navigate their lives through this crummy world, just like us. We don’t know if that was their entire life savings in that wallet, just like I don’t know if that extra television took months to afford, or if they were a stone’s throw away from bankruptcy. Could be that the diamond ring left by the sink was a family heirloom, something they would grieve if misplaced. They could be struggling, just like me- like us, all the ones who lived on the streets.

Or maybe not just like us. Maybe with clean clothes on their back. Maybe more food in their bag. Maybe a less heavy burden on their shoulders. Fewer demons in their closets.

My bag made its entrance into the quiet home first, landing on the carpeted floor with a safe, dull thud. Always send the bag first, they say. Though it contained about 2/3rds of all of my worldly belongings, replacing them would be easier than a hospital bill if someone was actually in the room, silently waiting for an opportunity to murder the person trying to break in who was preoccupied with the window, shooting the first thing they saw. It was a test, mostly. It’s happened before where a dog ran out at my bag, teeth bared, ready to eat me before I baby-talked it enough to get my bag and leave. If the dog bit me, I wouldn’t be able to go to the hospital.

This wasn’t what I wanted to do. I didn’t spend my childhood thinking that I would end up having to break into someone’s home, just for a chance to eat. In my elementary school homework, I said I wanted to be a doctor. More particularly, a surgeon. I wanted to be just like the lady who saved my mom when her appendix burst.

Obviously, that didn’t happen. They always seemed to blame the victim in cases like mine. Maybe if she didn’t put as much effort into her makeup, maybe if she didn’t wear shorts around the house. Maybe this, maybe that. Maybe if I didn’t catch my stepfather’s eye when I was the ‘so’ mature preteen. Maybe if he never lusted after a teenager. Maybe if my mother cared for something more than what her friends thought of her. Maybe if she didn’t marry a lawyer, who knew exactly what to say. Maybe that, maybe this. All I knew was that being homeless on the streets made me happier than ever being under his thumb again. There wasn’t even an ounce of remorse in his eyes as they sent me to those troubled teen camps, because my behavior was “appalling” and my grades “disgracing”. An excuse to get me out of the house, throwing around his power so I knew no one was ever on my side.

Everything was always my fault. My emotional outbursts, throwing myself at people for physical intimacy, but just scaring myself time and time again. Always my fault, never his. Always, “Veronica, you have no reason to act and say these things about him, he’s given you everything you’ve never wanted,” never “Veronica, I understand what you’ve gone through, being assaulted by someone who acted like a parent.”

At least that’s what they would say in group therapy as we circled around and tried to talk about our trauma, while a thin-faced woman with a bun so tight on her head that it sucked back her eyes wrote everything down. If she couldn’t find a hole in your story to show you you’re lying, then it was your fault. “Always blame the victim and tell them to get over it”, seemed to be their motto.“We all have daddy issues, stop sobbing, it makes you look weak!” I wasn’t weak anymore. If only Mrs. Oblong could see me now. Breaking into a home, nothing but “street trash” like she always used to say I’d turn into.

A lot of my anger stems from those camps. The second is the boarding houses for troubled teens, which you would go to straight from the wilderness. The intensive survival camp left us in a constant state of hunger and exhaustion. We would be cold, we would hike for miles, and if we showed them any sass they would literally sit on us. But at least it prepared me for my adulthood. It prepared my body to suck the last nutrients out of every meal, never knowing if it might be my last. It helped create the severe insomnia I faced, which also helped when it was too unsafe to sleep. I didn’t need as much sleep anymore to stay alert.

Shaking the feeling of abandonment from my system, I hoisted myself up and into the window once I knew no vicious dog was coming after my bag. Of course, I checked out the room as best as I could from the outside before picking it as my point of entry. Not only was the house next to it completely dark, but there also was a tree I could use as coverage if I needed to hide behind something quickly. It was dark in the entire house, not even a night light helping me see, making it harder to decipher anything. What I could see was a desk pushed against the window, making me think it was an office. Or a bedroom and I would be immediately face to face with the homeowner. You never 100% know.

Sliding into the window, onto the cold wood of that desk, I heard a sharp shatter as a glass I didn’t see freed itself from its mortal connection to this world and plummeted to the carpet below. The shatter was muffled by the carpet, but still loud enough that I didn’t move, didn’t breathe. My stomach was resting on only what I could imagine was a spiral notebook, as I lay with my feet still dangling out the window, listening to each and every sound of the house, my pulse racing in my ears. The holes in my well-worn boots helped the chilly air wrap itself around my ankles, encouraging another round of goose pimples.

One breath, two.

Another second, hoping my heart would stay quiet enough to hear everything around me. But I didn’t hear a single peep.

Thankfully it seemed I chose right, this was a house of sound sleepers.

I completed slipping the remaining length of my legs into the house, sliding down to the floor on my hands, careful of the large pieces of glass now blending in with the tan carpeting. One of the notebooks fell with me, landing with a dull thud next to my body. Making more sound with breaking in was the last thing I needed, I paused again to make sure that wasn’t the straw that broke the camel’s back. Silence, I didn’t feel the need to dash back out the open window. That window would remain open my entire time inside, just in case I needed an escape route. It would be easier than trying to figure out someone’s door if I had a gun pointed at my back.

Standing up and smoothing out my flannel from its wrinkled state, I took a minute to assess the room. Definitely an office, with papers pinned and taped to the wall, all scribbled on in cursive writing. Cursive was always a touchy subject for me, writing and reading both closer to the ‘mild’ side than the ‘efficient’ so whether this homeowner was a writer or someone who was tracking the moon landing, I had no idea. A soft sigh left my closed mouth as I figured they were missing the red string and the blurry photos of Lance Armstrong if the second one was the case.

Nonetheless, I slung my previously launched bag back over my shoulder and walked carefully to the mostly closed wooden door. This was a typical suburban 60′s home so I could only imagine it would be a hallway for the bedrooms and bathroom, giving me space to access if I need to book it. From the outside, it wasn’t the largest house, but not the smallest either. The neighborhood was nice enough I hoped they would have a fridge overfilled with food.

I once had broken into a home with nothing more than a water bottle to take with me. It looked promising, another home in the suburbs with no cars parked outside signaling someone might be on vacation, but when I reached the fridge it was empty of all food. Only name-brand water bottles and off-brand beer could be found. Realistically, it had to be a single bachelor or a college student. Two people I would feel bad if I stole from them. So, water it was, and my stomach rumbled on longer that night. The beer was tempting, but I knew better than to partake in any more of that where I was now. I’ve seen what alcohol and drugs do to people on the street and really take my fear of addiction seriously.

Realistically, every once in a while a glass of wine would be nice.

Pushing the door open quietly with the palm of my gloved hand, bare fingers taking in the smooth sensation of the wood, I took the agonizing minute to just breathe. Listen to the sounds around me, and get a feeling for the house. My fingernails held days of dirt under them, not escaping no matter how many times I rubbed sanitizer across them. The soft purple color clung proudly to my thumb from when I let a little girl paint my nails a few weeks ago. A sign to myself that I was, indeed, a human.

With the coast clear and the living space sounding empty, I took the risky steps out into the hallway. It was a normal house, with pictures on the wall of a three-person family. Father, mother, and a child who looked no more than nine years old in the photos. I hope they were nice to her, that’s such a delicate age.

My resolve was set and the urge to pocket items properly squashed, I made my way into the kitchen. There was an island in the middle that would require me to take a few steps to get around it, noting I could use it to dupe someone if they came at me with a bat or knife. The floor went from carpet of the living room to laminate wood in the kitchen, eliminating the noise reduction my boots needed to avoid making a soft click with each step I took. I had to slow my steps, trying to match the clicking of my heels with the light dripping from the faucet. From the small puddle of water I saw as I looked in the sink, it was a sound they should be used to now.

The hunger in my stomach seemed to take over as I made the quick turn to the fridge. With every fiber of my being, I hoped that they were a normal middle-class family with a shit ton of food in their fridge. I was crossing my dirty fingers and blued toes for it, every fiber of my being calling out to any god listening to manifest food. Finally pulling open the stainless steel fridge, I nearly cried and fell to my knees praising whoever answered my prayers for what I saw. Food, and a lot of it. Sandwich meat galore with nearly 3 heads of lettuce sitting crisp and clean in the vegetable drawer.

This was going to be a tasty and long-lasting haul.

The bread sat in a little bread container, safe from infection from the air outside. These little things were so nice, a delightful sign of ‘middle class’. I took the loaf out, turning around to place it down on the small island countertop that assisted in the separation from the kitchen to the living space. It didn’t take too long to find a knife, a few paper towels, and some mayonnaise. They also had color-coded sandwich bags, amped and ready to go.

Such a nice, organized family. At least if it was the child’s fault for the quantity of food in here, knowing that sometimes children will fixate on one food and refuse to eat anything else, that any disappearance of food would be blamed on them. I could picture it, the mother calling the child into the kitchen. Indicating the empty package of sandwich meat in the trash with a compassionate and calm expression. Ask if she was hungry after their sit-down dinner yesterday, probably of more sandwiches and untouched broccoli. Why didn’t she just let her know? She wasn’t mad, more concerned about a bit of broken communication. They have a range of healthy snacks (which I did take a few and place into my dirty sack) that she could have picked from. Sure, she would feel a small sense of shame but they would end the entire conflict with a hug and an empowering statement on body image. One that feeding yourself when you are truly hungry rather than bored, that you can eat no matter how your body feels, and asking for seconds is allowed.

It would be just like something I could see on TV, a “Matters of Life” type sitcom. Maybe there would even be a soundtrack going ‘awwhh’ in the background as they embraced. Soft music playing, indicating the end of their episode as they told each other they loved them. Dad would come home at that time, and without hesitation or a single ounce of anger, embrace his two girls in a big family hug. A slow fade to black, end credits.

My mind was humming a made-up closing song when I finally opened the freezer, a place I normally stay away from. Though frozen food didn’t transport well, something inside was telling me to look. One time, a person had 5 boxes of freezie pops inside. That meant that one singular one missing didn’t hurt them at all. But inside of this freezer wasn’t a crapload of freeze pops, but something that made my mouth water.

There inside sat a full stack of lean cuisines. Man, I could nearly scream for a hot meal. It’s been a minute since the last free meal the soup kitchens had. Something about the cost of living and lack of donations closing their bi-monthly food service down. That was the last time I really got some hot food. I did have to roll it over in my mind, trying to decide if it was right or not to take one. I managed to convince myself after a portion of debating that they wouldn’t miss one. Sure, these typically were on sale for only a dollar but unless you could beg the store enough to use the microwave, they weren’t reasonable to buy. Sometimes you could thaw them in the summer, but that was hit or miss with the diarrhea or food poisoning you could get.

I flipped open my knife from my pocket, stabbing a few holes in the film before placing it delicately into their residential microwave as if it personally would scream at me if I went even a tad bit too fast. Closing the door quietly was painful, but not as bad as pushing those buttons. They screamed loudly to life as if they were calling for help as I typed in 3 minutes. Beep, Beep, Beep- demanding attention as the big 3:00 flashed green on the lit-up screen.

There was always the chance it would be a running meal so making it nice and hot would be a delight. As the microwave hummed to life, I continued making the sandwiches and sticking them in my bag. I could only convince myself to take 6 sandwiches, which was one full package of meat. Anything else would feel like excess and actual theft. But that, combined with some granola bars and fruit, I would be set for over a week.

My stomach rumbled hungrily at the smell of the cooked frozen meal. I set my pack on my back, eyes fixated on the numbers going down. 4, 3, 2, 1- I stopped it before it announced my presence in the loudest way possible. Carefully taking the molten meal out, I closed the door as quietly as I possibly could. My back was turned to the island and hallway, leaning over the countertop as the steam came off of the meal, gloriously lapping my face. It was like a free hot towel.

I kind of hoped this family wasn’t home so I could take a shower, but with the two cars parked on the street, I couldn’t be sure if that was theirs or someone else’s. Plus, the leftover food and the glistening dishes in the drying rack made me a little too scared to even poke my head around and see if there was any life.

Grabbing a fork I dug in, letting the melted cheese on top of what I could assume was supposed to be pasta wrapped around the shining metal. These were always something a little sketchy with their ingredients, but I absolutely would not complain. After blowing on the bite for a good minute, I placed the hot food in my cold mouth. It felt like my insides were warming up immediately, the taste of ‘real food’ going down my throat. I immediately felt my body regain some strength and energy. It took a lot of self-control to not just scarf the whole thing down as quickly as possible, but it was too hot and that would just lead to my mouth being burned.

But I felt like I was in heaven. So much so, that I missed the shadowed figure as they came through the hallway. I missed the exhale it gave as it saw my figure, or the steps as it began its move behind me, stalking closer.

What I didn’t miss, however, was when the figure came up behind me, the shadow suddenly reflecting in my metal fork. It paused as if assessing me, smelling me. I placed the suddenly turned cardboard food into my mouth yet again, acting as if I didn’t notice them, now softly humming that made-up song in my head. My other hand crept smoothly to my pocket where my knife waited patiently, my motion casual and organic. They were nearly a foot behind me, the hair on my neck tingling. It felt like they were about to strike, they had to.

In one fluent move, I turned my entire body and opened the spring-assisted knife all at once, aiming the sharp edge right for the smooth flesh of the stranger’s neck. I pushed their body against the island, the knife blade cutting the tender flesh lightly, showing my absolute willingness to end them.

A gasp escaped my mouth when I locked eyes with them. The look of shock would be obvious in mine, but I couldn’t help it. It could have been from the absolutely inhuman color of their eyes. The almost shining yellow color with a ring of brown pushed to the outer edge of the right, while the outer edge of the left one showed blue. It was as if the unhuman yellow fought the other colors for control, moving in and out as they moved across my face. Their pupils were small, constricted nearly to ovals as they stared tensely at me. What also could have caused my surprise was their mouth, turned up in a cocky smirk, showing off incredibly sharp teeth stained with red, matching the smeared color across their cheeks and chin.

Whatever this thing was, I wanted nothing to do with it.

They smirked even more as they leaned their body into the blade of my knife, letting the meticulously sharpened edge cut a thin line into their flesh. First, they groaned, moaned more like it, then a musical chuckle escaped their lips, their pale hand reaching up to catch a bead of blood from their wound. They placed the bloodied finger on their tongue, letting the long, red organ suck the talon clean, never moving their eyes from mine. I followed their arm down, noticing that their teeth weren’t the only thing stained red. So were their hands, the edges dark and sharp, inhuman claws dripping against the laminate wood. Blood covered their flat, pale chest, their defined but lean stomach, their arms-

They were drenched in blood.

I realized in that instant that it didn’t matter that the blade was to their neck. That minor threat of violence was not enough to cause them even to sweat. They were treating it like this was all a game, a joke. So, looking down and back up, I took a guess on my only way out.

My knee flew up, reaching the space between their legs with every ounce of power in my system.

“Ooohhh fuck!” They hissed, a voice laced with multiple tones as their bloody hands flew to their crotch, falling down onto their knees in the short space between us. I suppose I guessed right- whoever this blood-covered stranger was, they had a dick and balls. That had to hurt.

I didn’t take even a moment for granted, turning and running around the island like my life depended on it, grabbing my pack in one fluid motion. It did, actually, because this creature wasn’t going to let me go peacefully. I knew for everything in my body this was true, especially when I turned the corner back into the hallway I previously tip-toed and saw the man of the house, the father, half draped out of the now open door to what I could only guess was his bedroom. Blood covered what remained of his torn, chewed neck, his eyes permanently open as his final resting place stayed against the carpet he probably worked his life away to afford.

Oh fuck, oh fuck. This was bad.

Running was always something I was good at. I managed to get free of the adults in one of the troubled teen camps once, simply by running as fast as I could on bare, bloodied feet. I can push the pain out of the way and focus all of my pumping adrenaline on getting me further, faster. The muscles in my legs were built from running almost non-stop. But when the carpet bunched up under my booted foot, my thoughts shifted from escape to failure. All I could think of was the father’s dead, soulless eyes.

That was going to be me.

The ground met my body in slow motion. It was like I was looking at my body falling against the ground from a bird’s eye view. When the glass slit into my hands, the blood immediately pricked and leaked from my palm, all I could think of was those blood-covered hands. The source that covered the hissing creature laying not even 20 feet away from me. Maybe even the mother if I investigated closer. Probably the little girl, all of them taken out before my made-up sitcom could fade fully to black.

No, I needed to push on. I could still hear him groaning and gasping out in the hallway. He was loud, not the sneaky creature who feasted on this family while I innocently heated up some food, humming a song to myself like I had not a care in the world. I took only a second to prop my body up, looking back at the door as my breath caught in my throat. That groan turned into a laugh, causing the blood all the way down to my feet to grow cold.

I needed to get out, now.

My pack flung through the open window first like it didn’t weigh nearly 20 pounds. I managed to flip one foot onto the desk, then the other, going feet first out of the window onto the hard, cold ground. It was a four-foot drop that made my bones rattle, but I was still alive, and outside.

Of course, dropping to my feet and bloodied hands hurt like hell in that second, pushing the glass deeper into my rough flesh. A hiss escaped my lips as I faltered in moving, breathing as I felt the pain reach the back of my neck. Yet all sensation left as the laughs got closer to the window. I had to keep going, had to keep running as far away from here as possible. The backpack wasn’t even fully wrapped around my shoulders before I started sprinting. I pushed my bleeding hand into the flannel inside of my outer leather jacket, leaking my life juice into the dirty fabric.

But nothing mattered. Nothing except running, dashing, hiding. Not even when I didn’t hear footsteps behind me, not when I couldn’t sense the feeling of dread that creature pushed into the very fabric of my being did I stop. I just kept going, using all of the street smarts I had to navigate my way out of this residential hell and into the busted, decrepit apartment buildings I knew. I serpentine ran through the alleyways and streets, hoping if I was followed it wouldn’t be easy for them.

I never was one to be an easy target.

It wasn’t until I turned down a dark alleyway, pushed aside the rat-chewed piece of plywood from the hole that it covered, and crawled through did I think I could breathe. I fell onto the dark, slightly damped ground of the place I have been calling ‘home’ for the past month. A known squatter’s location, separated by self-placed shower curtains and blankets to give its inhabitants a little more privacy. Many of us roamed at night, so it was nearly empty, and that was just what I needed. If anyone asked me any questions, I probably would have screamed.

I flopped onto my little corner of this broken building, landing on the mattress pad I slept on, and finally cried. The tears escaped my eyes before I could stop them. I was mad, mad that I almost died. Mad that my hand ached and my pulse ran. Mad that I left my only knife there.

Mad that I couldn’t get those strange and beautiful eyes out of my mind.