I Hope They Taste of Me Forever

“Are you sure you’re up for this, Elle?”

“Yes.”

“You know you don’t have to prove anything to me… to any of us…”

“This isn’t about that, Pete,” I rolled my eyes. “This is about doing our job. My job.”

“Ha!” Joe scoffed from the kitchen. “Job. You make it sound like we get paid.”

“We rob,” Pete muttered darkly, stabbing Joe with his eyes. Joe took the hint and left us alone.

It had only been a few days since Hunter had taken off with the dead bitch. The guys had been staying home each night, but at the first mention of the word hunting I was there. I had wasted far too many nights upset over unreliable people in my life. I had wasted far too many opportunities for the group. I wasn’t going to do that whole emotional routine all over again. This time I was going to be strong. This time I was going to take it like an adult, rather than a sulky kid. My life had changed so much in the last couple of years. I would be wasting my life if I didn’t let myself change along with it.

“I want this, Pete,” I said lowly, our eyes connected by invisible tendrils of truth. “I want to see them die. I want to see them crumble. I want to see them in pain. Preferrably blonde ones.”

He grinned, a form of pride glistening on the small points of his fangs. All his years, all his burdens seemed to slip away with that grin. A cheeky boy was back, and for a fleeting second I felt my age. I grinned back and kissed him once before standing up, pushing a stake into my belt.

“You look sexy in your black hunting gear,” he growled seductively, fingers lightly running over the studs on my belt. I cocked an eyebrow and shifted his hands further around my waist and slightly lower.

“You look sexy in nothing at all. Guess we’ll have to wait for tonight.”

“Tease,” he grumbled.

“You know it,” I winked. “Now let’s go kill.”

***

That first night hunting was good. Really good if you count what Pete and I did afterwards. The night after that was good too. But it was the third night back on the streets that fucked us all up.

If I tried really hard, I could probably remember all the details. I could probably remember the jagged rocks of the street digging into my foot that was missing a boot (courtesy of the punk bitch vamp that had managed to escape me). I could probably recall the exact shade of the night sky, and the fact that a full silver globe peeked out from behind the clouds of pollution. I could probably distinguish the depth of the gash on Andy’s knee. I could probably rate the sweetness of the parting kiss as I turned down an alleyway that the others didn’t. I could probably estimate the measurements of the wire fence in the middle of the alley, the exact size of the spaces that allowed me to see what I saw. I could probably define the combination of garbage odours that mixed the stench in the air, and the noises of my friends out on the street behind me. I could probably calculate the size of my heel, snapping as my feet found the ground unsteadily, and how many thoughts regarding womanly shoe stupidity ran through my head as I fell to the ground. I could probably count the exact amount of strands of hair that obscured my vision, as I looked up to see the most horrifying sight that I could never forget for as long as I live.

I should have done something. I should have called for help; Pete could have been there in a flash. I should have concluded it the repercussions of my head hitting the floor rather than an actual vision of reality. I should have locked myself down in denial, refused to believe it. But I didn’t do any of those things.

My heart dropped to my abdomen like the fastest hourglass, my lungs collapsing around. It couldn’t be real, but it was. Although I was on the floor a few meters away, I felt like I was kneeling anxiously, hands grasped around the wire mesh leaving its imprint in my face. I felt like I was in prison, fists wringing around the iron bars, fear and guilt spraying from my sad eyes. The clichéd imagery is meaningless. More persuasion for a concussion. Regardless of the wire obstacle, the sight was burned into my mind without doubt or obstruction of any meager sort.

My friend, the one that I had refused to cry over.

His lover, blonde perfection that represented everything that I hate about my world.

Pearly whites, piercing, sinking into displayed flesh.

Crimson rivers, staining the pearly whites, the flesh, the lover, the friend.

Twitching, he fell to his knees. Her laughter was worse than nails scraped down a chalk board, worse than any sound imaginable. And then they were gone.

The sound of my name being called was far too distant for me to hear. I didn’t hear it until it was right beside me, muscular arms hoisting my body upright. I just fell back into those tattooed limbs of safety.

“Elle? What’s wrong? What’s wrong?”

It took me about ten minutes to explain. I think mostly I just uttered nonsense words. In the end, when it had sorted itself out, it was my mind that told Pete what he needed to know.

“Go after him,” I begged, pleading eyes wide. “Get him back. Get him away from her. Fix him.”

Nonsense sentences. So much for being tough. I could see the hesitation in Pete’s eyes. His hatred for the two was immensely strong… But I guess whatever influence I had was stronger.

“Are you sure, love?”

I ignored the use of such a word, and nodded.

“Please…”

“Okay,” he promised. “Okay.”

I smiled. I have no idea why.

“Thank you.”

Those final two syllables, too soft to be humanly audible, was the last thing I remembered as the other guys joined us in the alleyway, and my consciousness faded to black.