Pennies and Rust

Prologue - Some Little Kids

     "You sure your bag can fit all of this?"

     "Yeah, yeah, just fill me up all you can, Abe."

     The older of the two young men flipped open the lid of the ice chest that stood at his feet. The lid hit the brick wall behind it, the sound echoing throughout the small alleyway in which they stood. The younger boy pulled his bag off of his back, and swung it round in front of him. He crouched down to be at level with his backpack on the floor.

     Abe, the elder, reached into the ice chest, beginning to transfer its contents into the backpack. To no one's surprise, the contents of the box were not ice.

     "You're gonna be set for a while now, hopefully." Abe grinned through his rough voice. He was easily 25 years old. Abe's short, cleanly cut hair, smoothly shaved chin, and fine posture contradicted the tone with which he spoke. His slender hands grabbed a single pouch from the chest, and held it in front of the younger boy's face. "But really, who know's how long you will last until you need me again. You've been going through these at mach speed recently."

     The younger of the two kneeled, following the bag with his eyes as it was waved in front of him. The pouch was swelling - full of a dark, thick liquid. "Stop messing with me, Abe." He reached his arm up, and snatched the pouch from Abe's hand as gently as he could.

     "Awe, come on, I'm just a bit worried about you. Slate, you're like my little buddy." Abe pulled the backpack towards himself, and proceeded to fill it up with the pouches. "Anyways, I can't be doing this ever so frequently. It's difficult - what if I were to get found out? What would you do then?"

     Slate leaned over, assisting his older friend in filling up the backpack. "I thought you said this was easy. These are the rejects aren't they? You do work there after all." As Slate moved, his wavy silver hair fell over his forehead. He puffed air out of his mouth, blowing his bangs out of the way.

     "Look, as I said, I'm just worried for you." Abe zipped up the bag, and stood up. His expression turned from caring to a bit more sinister. "When 'you gonna pay me for this?"

     "Friday."

     "Friday? Seriously?"

     "Friday." Slate stared Abe strait in the eye as he stood up.

     "Honestly, I don't know why I'm giving you this now if you don't have any money."

     "You know why. I'm all out, and I'll go crazy without it. And if I go mad, then people are gonna notice that something's up." Slate picked up his backpack, and swung it round over his shoulder. He shrunk a little at the sudden weight.

     Abe became more playful again, a teasing grin quickly appearing on his face. "Too heavy for you?"

     "Shut it." Slate took off.

     He began walking, making his way down the alley, and out onto the main road. It was just past three on a Tuesday. Just any old, normal Tuesday. To any stranger watching him, Slate was just an average, misfit, 17 year old walking home from school, his dyed silver hair catching attention every now and then. And that's what he liked to tell himself. That really, he is just an average, slightly weird teen, right? Everyone has their quirks, and Slate has his.

     He eventually made his way up to his house. It was a normal house. Two stories, a kitchen, a TV, everything you would expect from a normal house. Slate walked to the door, beginning to slouch under the weight of the backpack. He fished around in his pocket for his key, and unlocked the door. A sigh of expected relief escaped his mouth. His mom worked late Tuesday through Friday. He knew she wouldn't be home, but it was always nice for him to know for sure. A rush of adrenaline sped it's way through his body. He'd been without it for two whole days, and his calm was beginning to spoil. Slate slammed the door behind him, making sure to lock it, and ran upstairs with his bag, throwing it on the ground once he had made it two his bedroom.

     He couldn't control himself any more. He threw open his backpack, and pulled out a pouch, grabbing a pair of scissors off of his desk to snip open a corner. Slate threw his head back, squeezing the bag's contents into his mouth.

     How did I end up this way?

     The bitter metallic flavour of the liquid coated his tongue. Most would be repulsed, but Slate found this taste to be his whole world.

     Some little kids wanted to be superheroes when they grew up.

     Slate stopped himself for a moment, and threw open his closet doors. He fished around in there, eventually pulling out a metal thermos, it's original purpose for hot cocoa, or coffee.

     Some little kids wanted to be princes, or princesses.

     He squeezed the remaining liquid out of the pouch and into the thermos, then quickly brought the container up to his lips, so he could drink some more.

     Some kids wished to be magicians, or werewolves.

     Slate fell to his knees. He felt whole again.

     Some kids wanted to be vampires.

     He felt more conscious, more aware, as if drinking that to which he was addicted had woken him up from a deep slumber.

     When I was a little kid I had wanted to be a vampire.

     A drop of the liquid sat on the edge of the thermos.

     It was such an innocent, harmless, wish.

     He drew his lips close to it, licking up the stray drop.

     How did it come to this?

     It was like he just licked up a penny, the rusty taste sitting on the tip of his tongue.

     How did it come to this?

     The rusty taste of blood.