Bitten | Part One

The pain was excruciating. It swept through my body, white hot and blinding, until I was sure there was nothing left inside, that the pain had eaten everything away, leaving me a hollow shell. I had the distinct impression my heart was no longer beating, that it might not even be in my chest. My nails gripped the concrete below me and it cracked, gouging out finger-shaped imprints. The pain suppressed my shock, but I was sure I was sobbing because I could feel the familiar trembling wrack my chest and my throat constrict helplessly.1

The world was beginning to blur.2

“Hush, now, you’ll be fine shortly,” a liquid smooth voice soothed. A woman’s voice, I recognized. I was locked on my hands and knees, head bowed to the street, and I couldn’t see straight anymore. When the voice’s body stepped into my line of vision, I could only make out a pair of tall, stiletto boots that wavered in and out of focus, then abruptly doubled. 3

A short, hissing sound was the most I managed before the pain intensified and my body curled into itself.4

“We’ve all been through this,” she continued, “and you’re no different.” Her words were illogical, and I was vaguely aware of her hair brushing my chest, a pair of icy arms encircling my neck. It calmed the fire. I sagged against her, panting.5

“W-w-wh—“ I tried, but then her fingertips traced a spot along my neck and I froze. This was where the fire had spread from and the pain there was sharper, more intense. I moaned, unintentionally pushing myself closer to her hard, cold skin. 6

"Such an attractive boy," she murmured as she continued to shush me, her fingers running through my hair. My eyes slid shut against my will; my breathing became subdued. She hummed quietly, further distracting me from the pain so that while it was still undeniably there, it wasn’t searing anymore. It felt like an old pain, one that promised to heal.7

I couldn’t focus anymore. Reality was slipping far, far away, and I wondered if this was what it felt like to die. I wondered if my father would bother to report me missing, if anyone would notice my absence at school. Would there be a police investigation? Would they find my corpse? I couldn’t remember what had happened, or if the woman had been involved prior to the pain. I didn’t have the strength to care about any of it.8

The last thing I remembered was the feeling of her lips on my sweating cheek, hard as granite and with no more warmth.9