Farah:
After that first meeting and the bizarre forty-eight hours that followed it, my life seemingly returns to normal. I go to work each morning before returning home much later. The days are tedious and mundane.
Frequently, I catch myself looking for him, my eyes straying to the table where he'd sat watching me or the bus stop where he'd waited for me. I scan the cars that pass me on the street as I walk home each night, wondering if there's only tinted glass and a bit of tarmac between us.
But I never see him.
I can't tell if it's disappointment I feel, or if it's relief. I think it ought to be the latter. Although I fear it's the former.
Everything within me told me he was dangerous, even when I had first met his eye across the café and now knowing his name doesn't make him any less intimidating. I'd feared him in a way I'd never felt before. Even now, days later, I can still feel the adrenaline pulsing through my veins, as if at any moment I will need to run.
The way he'd looked at me had been predatory.
I can still feel that stare, as if he's still watching me now. The street lights above my head are bright, and yet I feel like I'm walking down a darkened alley. The sound of my own footsteps is almost deafening against the silence around me. There are barely any cars, no people walking. The city is almost dead.
I try to distract myself from the growing unease in my stomach by pulling out my phone and a pair of headphones. It's hopeless but I have to at least try to drown out the silence with some music.
Humming along to the music, I continue up the road, not really sure why I'm so nervous. I feel on edge, scared even, my pulse racing and my eyes straining as I search the shadows for something, though I know not what.
I hear a noise behind me over the sound of my music and turn abruptly, yanking the headphones from my ears.
The road is clear and my sense of unease grows as I feel my heart pound against my ribcage. I've never been one to get scared, often putting myself in danger's path rather than more wisely avoiding it.
My parents always told me I was reckless. They'd said it with the tone of an endearment, never once chastising me for it. My parents were too gentle, too kind. They'd never even raised their voices at me growing up.
But someone used that goodness against them, killing them for their generosity.
They'd met a young woman at the airport. She'd been covered in bruises, some a fresh blue, while others were yellowy green. They'd offered to escort the woman to the police station—they'd wanted to help her—but she'd told them she was too scared. So they had taken her home, let her live in their house, feeding and clothing her.
They did it all for her and then one night, while they were sleeping, she let her ex-boyfriend, the one who'd given her those bruises, into the house.
He beat her senseless, almost to the point of death, but that was nothing compared to what he did to my parents. He stabbed them in their sleep, leaving them to bleed to death.
I still can't believe that this is the world we live in, a world where the best of humanity can get themselves killed.
The generosity they showed that girl left their only daughter alone in this cruel world.
Pulling my coat around myself, I turn back in the direction of my apartment. Putting one step in front of the other, I tell myself to ignore the fear that is making me feel queasy.
I just need to get home; I'll be safe there.
Everette:
Avoiding Farah is exhausting. It doesn't help that I'm not completely sure why I'm bothering to avoid her at all. I should just drink her dry and be done with it.
And yet that's not what I want.
I shouldn't be thinking about her at all. I should have bitten Farah the first time I saw her, draining her blood dry and been done with it.
Then I wouldn't be so conflicted now.
Staying away from Farah is harder than I had expected it would be. It's been almost a week since I last saw her and I've barely stopped thinking about her for more than a few seconds at a time.
They say that human men think about sex every seven seconds. Well, I think about Farah far more than that.
I'm fucking obsessed.
And it's not just the idea of drinking her blood. It's everything. It's the look on her face when I'm close to her, the sound of her voice when I scare her, the way she looks for me almost instinctively… It's everything.
And that bothers me.
Because I shouldn't be thinking about anything other than how good it will feel to have her warm blood trickling down my throat and into my parched body.
Sighing, I tell myself I have no choice but to go to her. I need to take her life so that she'll stop haunting me.
With that thought in mind, I climb into my car and drive towards the café where she works.