Blood Type Zero

CSI France and a Worried Heart

Once I got to room twenty-four and opened the ornately carved wooden doors, my eyes widened in pure shock and terror upon seeing the scene before hand. It was like watching an episode of CSI. Only at France. CSI France. Because Alliyah's body was lying on the ground in an awkward position, as if someone had slit her throat open and left her unconscious body in the last position before she was alive. She was still wearing her blue dress, only now it was covered in little spots of dark liquid like blood. Her tummy was so big that it seemed bloated. And her face down to her neck was dripping with a weird-looking liquid. 

"Alliyah!" I screamed in terror and rushed to my friend's side to check her pulse. She grunted. Oh, thank God! She was still alive. She looked despicably horrible, but still alive.

"Persephia," she moaned like a zombie as she turned to face me. Then something in her stomach grumbled and she lurched upward then ran to the bathroom, covering her mouth. In the bathroom, I heard the oh so familiar sounds of glorious puking. 

It took a few minutes for her to expel everything. When she got out, I was even more horrified! Her hair looked like an unkept wig and her neck down to her dress was thoroughly covered in vomit. Good thing she had the decency to at least wash her face so that I wouldn't pass out due to utter shock. But she was stinky as hell!

"Alliyah? You okay?" I questioned out of pure concern. She glared at me. And let me just say, I did not want to be the object of her glaring right now.

"You're asking if I'm okay? Eff you, Persephia Clermont!" she grumpily exclaimed.

"Geez, relax! I was just asking!" 

"Just get me some clean clothing in my bag, would you? I don't need your attitude right now." she commanded. 

I hopped off the bed were I comfortably placed myself, listening to Alliyah puking, and grabbed her bag by the corner on one of the chairs. 

"You PMSing or something, Al? Do french hotels sell tampons? I could get some-" 

"Persephia, I really don't need your jokes right now," Alliyah sickly drawled. 

"I wasn't joking." I handed her a pair of denim jeans and gray tanktop I got from her bag. 

"Whatever," she said as she went back inside the bathroom and took a shower. 

As she was taking her time cleaning up herself, I began contemplating on Mr. Vierzon's offer at a job here. I couldn't help feeling anxious and just darn right lucky. Now I had an opportunity to just approach the man about my dilemma concerning his blood-- if he'd be approachabale, that is. Then I can finally return to America. My mind floated over to Damian. I quickly checked my phone and found five missed calls. My chest exhaled in relief. He called. I was beginning to think he'd given up on me and my situation after he just hung up the last time he called. I wondered why he did that. Did I just imagine it? Or did he really hang-up? Maybe it was just the translantic line cutting his call short? Could be. A part of me thinks he deliberately hung-up so I wouldn't catch his weakness. His voice sounding strained when he called; his nose clogged with worries of me, and his eyes drowning with how my future would turn out. 

I should stop doing this to him. He doesn't need to worry more than he already does. But I love it when he does-- it makes me feel like the most important girl in the world. I'm a greedy little bitch, selfish too. I feel sorry for him... For ending up with me. My eyes well-up as I press dial for his number.

It rings once, twice, thrice, no answer. A tear falls. 

How could I be so sure Mr. Vierzon's blood is compatible with mine? Maybe our blood type attacks the same type of blood that enters our stream as well? My cells might attack foreign ones. I could die here, with not too many people who care.