Bad Taste (Part II) // Colby Brock

241 - Colby

I hated myself for a short while, but I still loved her.

I bathed her and dressed her, and cleaned up the house where we'd left our clothes. All while listening to the silence, because she no longer had a heartbeat. I felt as though I had failed her as a boyfriend, even though I knew this was what she wanted.

It was something dug deep into my psyche that prevented me from seeing that she really had wanted this. All I could think was, "You killed her. She is dead by your hands. She is dead, she is dead, she is-" If I didn't know better, I'd say I was going insane—quickly, too.

Once everything was in order, I took Rebecca to her studio. Until the basement would become her office, we'd decided to use it as a way to store vampires. There had only been one prisoner so far, who we had killed shortly after capturing as he didn't give us any information. But today, we were imprisoning Rebecca.

She would not be the same for a hot minute when she woke up. Whatever it took to snap her out of the crazed thirst that came with waking as a vampire, she wouldn't start completely sane. And she probably wouldn't be the same even when she was capable again, either. It was the curse that I had brought upon her simply by entering her life. Yet I had the guts to say I was doing this for her.

Everybody was waiting in the studio and one couch was left completely uncovered. I placed my Rebecca there, feeling the stress of having so many eyes on my back. When I was seconds from a mental breakdown, the last thing I needed was pressure.

"Wow..." Tara whispered. I didn't even glance in her direction. I tried to zone her out, in fact. "That's- I don't know what to feel about that."

She was referring to the silence of the room, which was disturbed only by Katrina's heartbeat.

"Colby-" Sam started but I cut him off with my hand. I was barely able to look at him as he stood to the side of the couch, looking down at the "sleeping" woman.

"Don't speak to me," I said in a hoarse voice. "I am not okay."

Sam took a step back and the room became completely silent. I sat down on the floor next to the couch, bending my knees and resting my elbows on top of them. It felt wrong, almost, to feel so empty—though nothing compared to the hatred building up inside me at the thought of who was dead behind me.

My hands rubbed automatically over my face, through my hair, and held my head down almost in my own lap. Everything I'd ever done was crashing down on me, crushing me. It was so bad that I was almost shaking, but I had enough control of my muscles to become completely still instead.

I felt someone sit by me—a familiar presence. An arm laid over my shoulders and rubbed one of them gently. Of course, it didn't alleviate any of the hatred or the disgust I felt for myself, however, it did remind me that I wasn't alone. And that this was planned.

I didn't care anymore about being "weak" in front of my friends. They were the people who stood by me because they knew me at my strongest, therefore they should also know me at my weakest. If they tried to leave because of that, then they never deserved to be here to begin with.

This was what I was telling myself when I whispered, "It fucking hurts, Sam." The hand on my shoulder tightened. "I feel like I've actually killed her."

"But she's coming back," he reminded me.

"It doesn't matter."

"It does matter. You will see her again. Alive—and well. She'll be stronger than ever. Don't you remember how this works?" I lifted my head from my knees to look at my best friend, who was watching me sympathetically. He had not gone through this yet. He hadn't felt the pain.