Page 2 of Friends With the Monsters
A thump upstairs has me looking at the ceiling. “Who do you think it is?” I ask, almost too eagerly.
Uncle stands. “You’re not leaving, are you?” I stand, too, and crane my head back to look up at his considerable height. He’s all long limbs. If he turned to the side, he’d barely be visible.
I already know my answer. He never stays long. He’s been visiting me almost as long as the Will-o’-the-Wisp have. Skinny Legs isn’t really my uncle. I only call him that because I feel a familial bond with him that was always lacking with my family.
Uncle pats his chest over where he placed the marbles and gives me a slight bow before turning and disappearing wherever he came from.
Another thump from upstairs draws my attention. I grab a copper chamberstick that holds a taper candle and move into the long hall so I can go greet my next guest. When I reach the bottom of the stairs, a thrill of awareness skates down my spine. I can taste an essence in the air—agony. It smells of ripe strawberries, delicious and new.
I slink up the wide staircase, making sure to stay quiet as I do. It brings that sweet taste even closer, and my mouth waters. Damn, I must be hungry again. You’d think it would be easy being a Sin Eater, but I devour little lies like licks of a lollipop, yummy, but not at all filling. I don’t even really know if that’s what I am. With all the monsters I’ve met, none are like me, and none are sharing if they know others of my kind.
I open my mouth and pull in the tiniest bit of essence to taste. I roll the flavor over my tongue but can’t place it, other than the soul-shattering agony. It announces itself like it has its own billboard. There’s something achingly familiar yet also unknown to me, about whoever is up here.
Not everyone who visits me is eager to be my friend, so I stand here, as still as a virgin at her first lay, and as silent as a corpse. Well, most corpses anyway. Sometimes they’ll talk your ears off.
When another sound alerts me that whoever is here hasn’t left, I creep closer to my room, since that’s where the noise is coming from.
“Shit,” a masculine voice curses. I peer around the door, gauging if the entity will stay. Sometimes I scare the monsters, which is kind of scary if you think about it.
So, I don’t think about it.
The sight on my bedroom floor frightens me more than Uncle Skinny Legs or any of the other monsters ever have.
There’s amansprawled out on my rug, half leaning against the footboard of my bed, holding his middle like it might spill out if he lets go. If the blood covering his hands and pooling beneath him is any indication, it just might.
Forgetting I have no idea who he is, I rush over to his side, setting the candle beside him and kneeling. “What happened to you?” I ask, pulling the throw off the end of my bed and balling it up to press it against his wounds. I take a second to look him over. His clothes are dark: black pants and what looks like a bulletproof vest over a long-sleeved, black shirt.
“Nothing too serious,” he slurs, as he stares at me. I glance down, noticing there’s something strange about the way he’s looking at me. He’s observing me like he knows me.
“It looks pretty serious if you ask me,” I scold him and push against his belly. His eyes close on a wince, but he jerks them back open. “Should I call a doctor? How did you even get out here?”
He lets out a shallow cough, covering his mouth. His hand was already bathed with blood, but the crimson liquid on his lips is new when he pulls his hand back, and I don’t think it transferred from his fingers.
I move back so I can stand, but he reaches for my wrist, his grip surprisingly firm. “I’m fine. No doctor.” He’s staring up at me. “I didn’t mean to come here. I’m sorry…” His words trail off as his grip loosens on my arm, and his eyes fall closed as he slumps to the side—passed out or dead.
A frantic panic fills me. I have no idea who this man is, but something inside me is rebelling at the thought of anything happening to him.
I brush his long dark hair away from his face, revealing several scars marring his features. He’s rugged, but achingly masculine. There’s a thick white line through both of his lips, disfiguring his mouth a bit, but it doesn’t detract from how handsome he is. He’s battle worn, and his scars show just how many conflicts he’s survived.
I palm his cheek and his face turns into my hand—not dead, then. A heavy sigh leaves his parted lips. “I’m still not sure that you don’t need a doctor.” I worry my bottom lip with my teeth.
With the edge of the blanket, I wipe the blood from his mouth, being careful not to scrape too hard since the scarring there seems almost fresh. No new blood leaks out of his mouth, so I take that as a good sign.
He makes a low groaning sound when I stand up. “I’ll be right back,” I promise, even though I don’t think he can hear me.
Rushing into my bathroom, I flip on the tap for hot water and grab a few towels and washcloths from the closet. I pause when I reach for the bucket in which I usually keep my decorative hand towels. Should I be worried about infection?Inever get infected orsick, but this man…I shake my head and dump the towels out. I don’t have time to worry about that now—I need to stop the bleeding first. He can get antibiotics like a normal human being later.
I cautiously carry the water-filled bucket back to the room with the cloths gripped under my arm. He looks exactly like he did when I left him: his head lolling to the side, his chin slumped on his chest.
Kneeling beside him again, I pull back the throw over his abdomen. It’s too dark to see how mangled his stomach is, so I jump up and flick on the lights. My friends won’t come with them on, but I’m not sure they would with his presence, anyway.
“Damn,” I mutter, my knees slamming into the hardwood floor as I get my first real glimpse of the damage that’s been done to him.
There’s bruising forming along his jaw and cheek, and cuts and scrapes on every inch of him I can see, but the three thick slashes across his stomach seem to be the most urgent injuries. Reaching for his heavy black vest, I look at his face even though he’s out cold. “I’m going to clean you up. Don’t wake up swinging.” Under my breath, I add, “I’ll bite back if you do.”
He makes another sound, but I can’t tell if he’s trying to argue or if it’s just a pained moan. “Okay, here I go.” I unclip the first latch on his side and he doesn’t stir, so I undo the next and the next, until both sides are open. Now I just need to get it over his head. I hem and haw for a few seconds before deciding the garment has most likely seen its last war, then I run back to the bathroom to grab a pair of scissors. However, the black fabric over his shoulders won’t snip. No matter how hard I squeeze the scissors, the fabric just keeps sliding down the blade.
“Damn it.” I plant my hands on my hips and glare. “This might hurt,” I warn. Cradling his head with one hand, I drag the vest up and pull it over his head. He’s putting too much weight against his back, so it takes a little maneuvering to get it out from behind him.
