FICTION SERIES

#6 Blood of the Covenant — Chapter 5: The Strangest Strangers

A paranormal fantasy

I awoke.

I was vaguely aware of an uncomfortable weight pressing into my hip. I shifted slightly and the weight lifted. Rolling onto my back, his hand came back down to rest on my upper leg. He was lying right there on the bed, right there beside me. Though his eyes were closed, he smiled knowingly. Weird.

He gently traced fine patterns on the bare skin of my right leg as he breathed slowly and evenly. I didn’t not like it. Still, I crossed my arms; it felt safe.

The room was dark.

This whole thing was too confusing. I felt uncomfortable (or perhaps, I felt that I should feel uncomfortable) with the stranger touching me, yet his touch, somehow, held me. I could not break it; it drew me to him. I wanted to push him away, to accuse him, yet I could not. His touch made me feel like… like I had something to hold onto through the confusion.

His fingertip drew a line up my thigh, across my hip, and along my abdomen snaking under the hem of my top which was already bunched up around my waist. I fought the urge to gasp. His hand came to rest on my stomach just below my folded arms and the shape of his flat palm burned into my skin. I felt angry that he touched me and even angrier that I liked it.

Why did this stranger touch and caress me so perfectly as if he already knew my thoughts and desires? Why did he seem so passionately patient?

I stared at his face for a long time trying to figure it out, to figure him out.

He seemed so old and so young, as if he had seen too much in his short life. Crazy how he seemed to morph and change as I watched. Sometimes he looked so painfully young, barely more than a child. Then he would seem older, mature, and knowledgeable. It was hard to pinpoint his real age. Then again, I did not even know how old I was.

His hand became heavier and his breathing slowed. Though I still did not know who he was, a strange excited glow built inside as I watched his face as he slept; he was strangely attractive to me and that seemed wrong.

He had the face of a perfect angelic child — serene, calm, and innocent. He had the face of a hardened criminal — harsh, strong, and deadly. He had the face of everything in between. His square jaw was masculine beauty at its best but he held it in a constant state of tension, even as he smiled, as if he would break into hysterical tears should he relax. Even appearing as comfortable and happy as he did, he looked like his short years had forced him to go against his own morals in so many ways. Not that I knew enough about him to know what his morals were. A name would be a start.

Carefully lifting his hand, I rolled onto my side to face him and gently lowered his hand into the divot above my hip trying not to wake him. It didn’t work. He smiled slyly. A curl of raven hair fell across his brow and without thought, I gently pushed it back feeling the warmth of his pale skin as my fingers tips brushed against him. His slow heartbeat skipped. I heard his heart skip? His eyes opened ever so slightly and a sudden intensity met my gaze. He looked expectant, or hopeful, like there was a strange secret he assumed I was privy to. It scared me a little.

I was caught. I desperately wanted to look away (I think) but I was not going to give him an upper hand. The stare-down continued. His eyes were hungry though I suspected mine were just growing angry. Look away, idiot.

A knock at the door interrupted thank goodness. Whoever it was, I loved them; my savior. There was an unembarrassed laugh from the doorway. He looked away. Yes, I won! Looking over his shoulder, I could see… a boy. Not like the man-child that still had his unfamiliar hand on me; this was a child. Perhaps fifteen years of age, surely no more. His short, dusty blonde hair was teased with product. He was slightly pudgy with puppy fat but certainly not large for his age or height. He looked pretty average from where I lay, except for the dazzling pink eyes. Albino eyes? He could not be albino, his skin was too beautifully tanned and deeply opaque.

“Hey guys,” he interrupted with a laugh that seemed too old. “We’re going out for a bite, do you want to come?” The man-child shot the boy a fierce, scolding look that would have made any other child retreat in fear and hide in the corner, but this boy just laughed and shrugged. “I’ll take that as a no. Glad you are feeling better beautiful.” I gawked at him, utterly fascinated with this boy that projected such confidence and control. I thought I should introduce myself but I did not know how to, so I just waved.

The boy reluctantly waved back, a confused expression plastering his face, then shook his head with a barely audible laugh. Hmmm, whatever.

“We’ll be back in a few hours,” the boy said as he looked back to the strange man-child beside me. “I’ll bring you something.” He turned to walk out but then turned back as if in afterthought. “Do us all a favor and close the door. Nobody wants to see your pasty ass, dude.” The man-child let escape an almost relaxed, though clearly embarrassed, snicker.

My mouth dropped open. Such vulgarity from a child and he was laughing as if it was completely acceptable. What just happened?

“You didn’t recognize him, did you.” It was a statement, not a question. I shook my head anyway. He visible winced, concern etching his face.

His next movement was so swift and yet my eyes followed every motion. He sat up and shifted to the edge of the bed but as he stood, he hooked his toe in the edge of the sheet, tripped over ungracefully, catching himself without reaction as if it was expected, then he was in the corner of the room effortlessly picking up an old Victorian upholstered chair. How do I know that? I don’t know anything. Did I have subconscious experience of Victorian furniture? I wondered what else I knew.

The intricately patterned wood of the armrests flowed in a floral design that wove absent-mindedly. The intensely crafted material covering the backrest and seat screamed at me in reds, gold, blues, and greens. The colors cried out like a wailing wall. They were so frighteningly bright and vivid to be almost as blinding as the sun. It was quite ugly, really. I was glad there were no lights on.

He placed the chair at the edge of the bed and then sat, facing me. As he leaned forward, he stole my hands, one in each of his, and pulled me up so that I sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed as he drilled into my soul with his albino eyes. “What’s your name?” he asked me. My breath caught. Finally, I was going to get some answers. Of course, I shrugged.

He dropped his head low and for a brief moment, I glimpsed the inviting skin of the back of his neck and the short bristling hair at his nape. I licked my lips. A small laugh escaped him and my focus was back. He laughed at me. Anger. It took but a moment for him to lift his head and I was once again caught in his hypnotic gaze. Something new danced in his eyes. Yearning? Or pity? Or pain? I could not decipher it. I did not know him well enough to read his face. Did I? He rubbed the backs of my hands with his thumbs. Discomfort chewed on my thoughts.

“Your name is Bex,” he said and seemed to wait for recognition. I had none, so I just nodded in acceptance. OK, I am Bex. Whatever. Did it even matter? Huh. I was in such a need to find my place and now that I have a name, nothing has changed. That sucked massive amounts of butt!

I could feel my brow furrow as I sifted through a thousand questions for the next most important question after, ‘Who am I’. Perhaps one that would actually make this anger, confusion, and frustration abate.

Where am I? Why am I here? Who are you? What have you done to me? Why is it so bright? Who is that boy? Why does everyone keep shouting? Why are colors so bright? Why can I see the name on the collar of that dog walking across the other side of the street? Why can I even see that dog through the window when the crack in the curtain is a mere quarter of an inch wide? Why can I see anything at all outside in the obviously dark night? Why is everything so bright, at night-time, with no lights on in the room? Why am I obsessed with wine?

Wine. The thought invoked a sudden twinge of thirsty pain in my side. Why was I always so hungry and thirsty? Why had I not eaten anything… ever? I guess that may have explained my hunger; I quite literally could not remember having ever eaten anything in my life. Why could I not remember anything prior to… a cage and blood?

So much blood.

A flash of memory hit like lightning. Sudden. Hard. Intense. But it was gone before I could register it enough to understand. Though the residual plasma of memory dissipated in a moment, my physical reaction did not stop as quickly. I had the sudden urge to vomit. An uncontrollable heave erupted from the pit of my stomach and I lurched towards him. He stayed steady, not even a flinch.

Nothing came out. I stayed that way, folded at my waist, for an eternity pulling back my breath. Obviously, nothing would come out because I had not eaten anything. Ever. When the fog of my thoughts eased and clarity began drifting back, I could feel his hand stroking my hair a little too roughly and a little too quickly.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice a little too frantic and a little too high pitched.

I had decided on my question.

“What am I?”

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Chapter 6: Thinning Tether

He had laid it out for me and now my psyche was attempting to protect itself. Part of my conscious mind understood and easily accepted the devastating truth; however, the larger and much more forceful entirety of my subconscious screamed in my brain, ‘LIES! Ridiculous lies’. It was not ready to allow me to face reality. Not yet. It had already taken me far away.

Copyright © 2021 Kai Parker (adapted from Awakening by Porle Joen — also me, lol). 2021 queer reworking — LGBTQ2SAI+ Paranormal Fantasy.

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.