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"Finally," Imelda breathed, flipping the signpost to 'closed' with a mixture of exhaustion and relief etched on her face. She couldn't wait to escape the confinements of her work apron and step into the freedom of her own clothes.
Just as she turned to make her way inside, the door swung open abruptly, making her heart skip a beat. It was her boss, his drunken state obvious from his unsteady gait and glazed eyes. Wearily, she met him halfway, her forced smile masking her annoyance.
"Melda? You haven't gone home yet?" her boss slurred, his words slithering out in a drunken whisper. Imelda steadied him, guiding him towards the couch with practiced ease, her patience wearing thin.
"I would have, but my boss needs his money, and I need to get paid," Imelda replied softly, her voice carrying the weight of the night's labor.
"I'll be right back, boss. I'll get you a bucket just in case you—" Imelda's words died on her lips as her boss retched, spewing his earlier meal onto the floor.
"No, no, no," the cleaner from the lounge exclaimed, visibly irritated. "Why didn't you get him a bucket?"
"He couldn't keep it in," Imelda replied tersely, her eyes narrowing at the mess before her.
The cleaner's eyes darted around the room, searching for a solution. "How about I take the boss home to his family while you clean this... mess?" she suggested, her fatigue evident in her voice. Imelda begrudgingly agreed, allowing the cleaner to shoulder the burden of responsibility.
As the cleaner left, Imelda found herself alone once more, her gaze fixated on the vomit-streaked floor. Cleaning was her least favorite task, a fact she had made clear during her job interview. Her guarded personal information had led her boss to assume she was an orphan, providing her the job despite her refusal to undertake cleaning duties.
Moments later, the doorbell rang, shattering her contemplation. Expecting the cleaner's return, Imelda opened the door only to be met by a captivating stranger. His presence commanded attention, despite the subtle unsteadiness in his steps.
"Sir, we are closed," Imelda stated firmly, attempting to maintain control over the situation.
"That's not what the signpost on your door says," the man drawled, his eyes glinting with mischief. Imelda's heart sank; the cleaner had forgotten to change the signpost.
"I work here, and we've closed for the night," she asserted, her tone unwavering.
The man approached the counter leisurely, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. "Even better. I need alcohol. I'll pay you your salary for the night," he offered, his voice dripping with charm. Imelda's instincts tingled with suspicion.
"Sir, you need to leave, or I will call security," she warned, her eyes narrowing with determination.
Undeterred, the man locked his gaze with hers, his eyes holding an unspoken secret. "Sit on the couch until I'm done treating myself," he murmured, his voice like a seductive spell. "Say okay if you understand."
"Sir, you need to leave," Imelda repeated, her voice steady despite the inexplicable fear creeping into her heart. The man's expression shifted, his eyes widening in disbelief at her unwavering resolve.
"What are you?" he stammered, taking a few hurried steps backward, his curiosity laced with fear.
"The girl who'll send you to jail if you don't get the hell out—" Imelda's words caught in her throat as she noticed something she hadn't seen before. A pool of blood, glistening in the dim light, stained the floor. Tracing its origin, she realized it oozed from the man's abdomen, a grotesque addition to the mess before her.
Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm Imelda. She hadn't even begun cleaning the initial mess, and now there was another, far more repulsive one to contend with.
While Imelda wrestled with her despair, the man watched her, intrigued by her defiance. Perhaps she was intoxicated, he thought, attempting to rationalize her resistance. Her senses must be dulled, making her impervious to his commands. He decided to try again, urgency clawing at him; time was not on his side.
"Fall asleep before me," he commanded once more, hoping a different approach would yield results. However, Imelda's response was far from what he expected. Her eyes blazed with fury, her will unyielding.
"I will call the cops if you don't leave this instant," she threatened, her hand tightening around the phone in her pocket. The friendly customer smile she had worn earlier was replaced by an icy resolve.
"What are you?" the man asked, his frustration mounting. He was unaccustomed to his questions going unanswered. What was she? His confusion gnawed at him; no human could resist his presence, let alone his spells. He needed answers, and if she refused to provide them, he would delve into her mind and extract the truth.
"Are you a vampire?" he ventured once more, his tone laced with uncertainty.
"Not the last time I checked," Imelda replied, her voice laced with intensity. The man furrowed his brow at her indifferent response, his agitation intensifying until he could no longer find words.
In a moment of desperation, he seized Imelda's hands, pulling her closer. She struggled against his grip, her determination evident. After a brief struggle, she stilled, choosing instead to watch him closely, her ears attuned to the rhythm of his heart. But there was no heartbeat, no sign of life, which only left him more intrigued.
Swiftly, he yanked her toward him, their faces inches apart. Her defiance ignited a strange sense of fascination in him. He tried to command her once more, but before he could utter another spell, Imelda reached for the nearest vase on the table.
"Bang!"
The shattering of glass pierced the night's silence. Imelda stood over the unconscious man, her heart pounding in her chest. She had struck him with the vase to stave off his relentless advance.
Kneeling beside him, Imelda examined his wound with clinical precision. The gash in his abdomen was deep, requiring urgent attention. She could have left him there bleeding on the streets, but her conscience wouldn't allow it.
"Shit," Imelda cursed aloud. Rushing to the storeroom, she grabbed a first aid kit and returned to tend to his wound. Surprisingly adept, she cleaned the wound meticulously, her hands steady despite her inner turmoil.
Imelda kept a vigilant watch over the stranger, ensuring his stability before morning. In those moments, she cleaned the dried bloodstain on the floor, her face a mask of determination. When she was certain he would survive, she knew she had to get him out of there.
After dragging him outside to a nearby phone booth, Imelda heaved a sigh of relief, finally free from his unsettling presence. She hurried home, the weight of the night's events heavy on her shoulders. As she locked her apartment door, she allowed herself a moment to relax, her exhaustion pulling her into a deep dreamless sleep.
In the darkness of her apartment, Imelda moved with a fluidity that belied the absence of light. She reached for a bottle of water on her kitchen counter, her routine a comfort in the midst of chaos. Even in her sleep, she needed that water close by, a lifeline tethering her to reality.
Perched on her bedside table, the water remained untouched that night, a small victory in the face of an unexpected, otherworldly intrusion. Despite her fatigue, Imelda couldn't shake the memory of the stranger, his presence a lingering ghost in her thoughts.
"I really don't like that guy now," she muttered under her breath as the water stood sentinel by her side. In the silence of her apartment, Imelda surrendered to sleep, her mind haunted by the enigma of the man she had encountered, hoping the morning light would bring clarity to the inexplicable events of the night.