Vampire lore - Carmilla/First Kill

Chapter 39

The night had an unbearable stillness to it, one that clung to the air like thick fog. The house was quiet, far too quiet, as the group retired to their rooms, worn out from the mess of the day. One by one, they climbed the stairs, faces drawn and tired, and the tension between them barely concealed.

Juliette was the first to slip away, disappearing without a word, her face pale, haunted. Carmilla didn't need to ask why. Of course, Juliette couldn't bear to look at any of them—not when her sister, Elinor, was locked away in their basement, a shell of the person she used to be. The weight of that knowledge hung heavy in the air, but Carmilla's mind was somewhere else entirely.

Her eyes found Laura, standing just a few steps ahead, looking drained, her face tight with the strain of the day. It was late, and Laura's exhaustion was evident in every gesture, but Carmilla knew there was more than just fatigue on her wife's mind. She could feel it, an unsettling tension that had settled between them ever since the fight earlier that evening. The kind of tension that words couldn't fix—not immediately, anyway.

— I'm going to bed - Laura said quietly, her voice soft but tense, like she wasn't sure if Carmilla would follow.

But Carmilla did. She always did. Even when she was furious, even when she was terrified for Laura's safety, her instinct was always to follow, to be there, no matter what. They had a bond stronger than the mess they were in now. But tonight, it didn't feel that simple. Nothing felt simple anymore.

They walked upstairs in silence, side by side but with a space between them that felt wider than it ever had. The memory of their earlier conversation echoed between them like the sound of breaking glass—sharp and painful.

Carmilla had been livid when she found out what Laura had done. When Kirsch had let it slip, casual as ever, that Laura had thrown herself into danger yet again, Carmilla had nearly lost it. The fight that followed had been heated, with Laura trying to explain herself while Carmilla demanded to know why she kept doing this—why she kept risking everything.

She remembered the way Laura's voice had cracked when she finally confessed the truth. She'd done it for Carmilla. She'd gone after Elinor, after the Malkia, because she thought she could find a way to turn Carmilla human again, to "fix things," as Laura had put it. The weight of that confession had hit Carmilla like a blow to the chest. Laura, always so selfless, always trying to make things better, never realizing that her attempts to help were slowly tearing them apart.

But even after that fight, even after Laura's tearful apology and her promise to be more careful, the tension between them hadn't lifted. It clung to them, heavy and suffocating, like an invisible wall neither of them knew how to break through.

In the quiet of their bedroom, that tension only grew.

Laura moved through the room mechanically, her movements stiff and awkward as she undressed, tossing her clothes into a heap on the chair by the window. Carmilla stood by the door, watching, her heart aching but her body frozen, unsure of what to say, what to do. She hated this—hated the silence, the space between them. She loved Laura more than anything, but every time she watched her throw herself into danger, it chipped away at something inside her. It exhausted her in a way that no amount of rest could fix.

Laura slipped into bed, pulling the quilt up to her chin, her eyes catching Carmilla's for the briefest moment. There was something fragile in her gaze, something broken, as if she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. Instead, she just turned over, her back to Carmilla, curling in on herself like she was trying to make herself small.

Carmilla stood there for a moment longer, her mind racing with everything unsaid between them. She wanted to reach out, to pull Laura close, to tell her that she didn't need to fix anything, that they were enough as they were. But the words got stuck in her throat, strangled by the fear that had taken root inside her—the fear of losing Laura to one reckless decision, one final, terrible choice.

With a heavy sigh, Carmilla finally lay down next to her, but she didn't pull the quilt over herself, didn't reach out like she usually would. The bed felt too big, the space between them vast and cold. Hours ticked by in silence, the weight of the day and their unspoken feelings pressing down on both of them.

Carmilla's eyes burned as she stared up at the ceiling, her mind refusing to let her rest. Images of Laura's narrow escape from Elinor played over and over in her head. The thought of what could have happened—what almost happened—made her stomach twist with dread. She wanted to scream, wanted to pull Laura into her arms and shake her, make her understand just how much it hurt to watch her risk her life over and over again. But she couldn't. Not now.

By 2:30 a.m., Carmilla had given up on the idea of sleep altogether. She glanced over at Laura, who lay curled up on her side, her breathing slow and steady. From the outside, she looked peaceful, like she had finally drifted off. But Carmilla knew better. She could sense the tension in Laura's body, could feel the silent weight of her unshed tears, the way her chest hitched ever so slightly with each breath.

The sight broke something in Carmilla. She couldn't stand it—the distance, the silence, the way they were both hurting but neither of them could reach the other. Quietly, she slipped out of bed, needing some air, some space to clear her head. Maybe a cup of coffee would help. Anything to keep her from drowning in the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her.

As she gently closed the bedroom door behind her, she didn't see the tears that finally spilled from Laura's eyes.

Laura had been lying there, waiting. Waiting for Carmilla to reach for her, to say something, to pull her close and make things feel right again. But that touch never came. Carmilla never reached for her, and the emptiness between them felt like a chasm Laura couldn't cross.

The tears came fast and hot, spilling onto the pillow as Laura buried her face in it, her body shaking with silent sobs. She cursed herself for everything—for being reckless, for not thinking, for hurting Carmilla in ways she hadn't even realized until it was too late. All she wanted was to make things better, to make Carmilla's life easier, to take away the burden of immortality. But instead, all she'd done was push them further apart.

She hated it—hated that she couldn't fix this. Hated that she needed Carmilla's touch so badly, hated that she couldn't fall asleep without her wife holding her, without feeling that connection that had once been so effortless between them. But tonight, all she had was the cold emptiness of the bed, and the crushing weight of her own guilt.

Laura curled up tighter, her tears soaking the pillow, as she whispered apologies into the dark, knowing Carmilla couldn't hear them. All she could do now was hope—hope that this awful tension between them would somehow break, that things would go back to the way they used to be. But deep down, she feared that too much had changed.

And so she stayed, crying quietly into the dark, wishing for a single touch that never came.