God Hates Us

I’ve been lying on the bed in my room, staring at the window without moving, since last night. Nobody comes to see me until roughly midday, when (judging from the sounds filtering up the stairs) they’re going out again. The front door shuts; right on cue, I hear footsteps coming up the stairs.

Leave me alone. I don't even bother to say it out loud, but I know he can hear me.

“Cass. I’m so sorry. I didn’t-”

“What? Didn’t mean to? Shitty excuse, Johnny. Think of something better.”

I feel the mattress depress as he sits down, but I don't look up. “Cass, it was a mistake.”

“Like we were? Because you said that was a mistake too, remember? Cut the shit and tell me the truth.” I can almost feel the remorse emanating from him, but I don't relent. He’s hurt me, and I want to hurt him back. Was the sex worth it, Johnny? Or was that another mistake?

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes, some of which I regret, but...I don't regret that. Never.”

His tone catches my attention and, despite my anger, I find myself turning onto my back and looking up at him. To my horror, my eyes start to fill up again; I brush the tears away angrily, but he catches my wrist and raises my hand to his mouth, pressing his lips to the back of my hand.

“Please, Cass... I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He looks like he’s on the verge of tears himself, his eyes wide and so full of guilt anyone with a heart softer than mine would want to forgive him on the spot. But I'm not quick to forgive when someone’s hurt me. I’ve been hurt enough times; learned my lesson the hard way.

“I believe that you’re sorry, Johnny. But... I don't know if I can trust you anymore.”

My words are hurting him, I can see it in his eyes, but for some reason, the expected satisfaction of inflicting pain doesn't come. Instead, I just feel empty, like there’s something important missing.

He opens his mouth as if to say something, closes it again and blinks once, then opens it again. “I know I’ve hurt you, and I wish to God there was anything I could do to fix that.”

“So do I,” I say quietly.

“What can I do? What can I say that will show you how much I regret it? Please, Cass, tell me what I can do to fix this, and I’ll do it!” He sounds desperate now, his hands clasped in front of him. In other circumstances it would have been amusing to see him begging like that, but as I know the reason for it...

“I don't know, Johnny.” I say it flatly, without inflection.

He looks away for a second, running a hand through his hair. “Well, I don't suppose it matters now, anyway.”

“What d’you mean?” I frown confusedly.

He gets up and moves to the wardrobe in a blur. Opening the doors, he reaches into the back and feels around inside, then pulls out a very familiar object.

“Johnny, what are you doing with that?” I ask warily, eyeing the slim, sharpened length of wood.

He holds it out to me, handle first. I don't take it, instead looking at him in confusion.

Then, suddenly it clicks. Wait... “You want me to...stake you? What the fuck? No!” No matter how angry he made me, nothing could justify that. “Why are you doing this?” I ask, frowning.

“It’ll give you time to escape.”

“...What?”

“I’m letting you go.”

“But Zacky’ll kill you!” My concern for Johnny’s wellbeing momentarily overrides my fury at his behaviour.

“He doesn’t need to know I did it on purpose,” Johnny replies, his tone frighteningly calm.

“But...I can’t...” Not a friend; not Johnny.

“Then you’ll never get out.” His tone is casual, like he’s offering me a glass of water instead of inviting me to stab him. “And you know it won’t kill me,” he adds.

That, at least, is true. Those stakes (wooden, not silver) are designed to hold the vamp down while you finish it off. Wood to the heart doesn’t kill them, like in the legends; it just paralyses them until someone pulls it out.

Long enough.

“But you’re still…”

“…Asking you to stab me. I know; I don’t like it any more than you do. But it’s the only plan you’ve got.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Finally everything’s set. All the things I’ll need and anything that might incriminate Johnny in my escape (plus some provisions from the kitchen) are packed in one big rucksack; the back door and gate are sufficiently damaged to explain my escape...

...And Johnny’s sitting calmly on the bed, flipping the sharpened length of wood over and over in his hand.

“It’s time,” he says quietly, once I’m completely ready to go. I pull my jacket on slowly, stalling for time.

I don’t want to do this!

“I know, Cass. I don’t really want you to either, but it’s the only way. You can’t live here forever, and I can't come with you.” He flips the stake one last time, catching it by the sharp end and holding out the handle.

Jesus Christ... “Alright.” I take the stake from him, then hesitate. “D’you want to do it here, or downstairs? Then it’ll look like you caught me trying to get out.”

“Yeah, good thought.”

Too soon, we’re in the kitchen, by the splintered back door. He lies down on his back on the floor, now looking slightly worried. I kneel beside him, holding the stake in both hands. They shake slightly, but I steel my nerves and the shaking stops.

On impulse, I lean down quickly; our lips meet – for the last time? – and I feel him smile. When I lean back again, he whispers, “Make it quick,” then closes his eyes.

I do my best, pushing it in as quickly as I can, right over his heart; his cry of pain cuts through me like a blade of ice.

“I’m sorry, Johnny! I’m so sorry!” I cry, fighting to hold back tears as he opens his eyes a crack and looks up at me. At that moment, I forgave him for hurting me.

“G-Go!” he grates out, his voice almost inaudible. “Th-they’ll be b-back soon…”

I nod once, then stand, unable to look back at Johnny, lying impaled in the middle of the kitchen floor, blood spreading slowly over the front of his shirt. When I reach the door, I glance back for less than a second; enough time to see his lips form my name before his eyes slide shut.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Johnny!” I call when we reach the door. I can’t hear him. Or her…

“Hey, short-stack!” Jimmy shouts a nickname that’s guaranteed to get a response.

Nothing.

“Something’s wrong,” I mutter, shoving the door open and running inside, followed by the others. “Johnny?”

“In here, Zack!” Matt yells from the kitchen; within seconds I’ve joined him on the tiled floor.

“Oh, shit…”

Johnny’s lying on his back, his eyes closed, his shirt bloody and a sharpened piece of wood – is that a stake? – stabbed into his chest.

“Matt, Brian. Find her.” I give the order without looking up.

Matt nods once and they run out the back door, vaulting over the fence.

“Don't hurt her!” I add loudly, but they’ve already gone. Rolling my eyes, I reach down, grasp the stake firmly in both hands and yank it out.

After about five minutes of alternate yelling and face-slapping, Johnny opens his eyes and slowly sits up, looking confused. “What the…” he starts to say, then stops and puts a hand to his chest. “Ah, fuck!”

“What happened, Johnny?” I ask, trying to keep my tone reasonable gentle, considering the circumstances.

“What d’you think happened? She fuckin’ staked me, man!” he exclaims, still holding a hand to his chest. I wince in sympathy; I’ve met my share of hunters before now, and I know it from experience. Stakes hurt.

“How’d she get it?” Jimmy asks, eyeing the weapon interestedly. I toss it to him and nod.

“Yeah, that’s a good question.”

“I don’t know, dude. One second she was just standin’ there,” he points to where Jimmy’s leaning on the stove, “next, zip.”

“Shit...”

“Yep.”

I consider what he’s said for a few seconds. Her escape could prove to be a problem, if she comes back and has another crack at us, but somehow I don't think she will. I think living with us, learning about our way of life, has changed her mind about wanting to kill me and my family. Putting a hand on Johnny’s shoulder, I offer him my other hand and help him to his feet. “I’m glad you’re okay, bro,” I tell him honestly.

He smiles briefly. “Me too,” he says quietly, before leaving the room; his footsteps echo up the stairs and fade to silence.