Thirst No.1

Thirst - Two (iii)

As I gather my bow and arrows, an anemic-looking young man with thick glasses and headphones speaks to me.

"You're new, aren't you?" he asks.

"Yes. My name is Lara Adams. Who are you?"

"Seymour Dorsten." He offers his hand. "Pleased to meet you"

My flesh encloses his, and I know instantly that this young man will be dead in less than a year. His blood is sick-how can the rest of his body not be? I hold on to his hand a moment too long, and he stares at me quizzically.

"You are strong," he says.

I smile and let go of him. "For a girl?"

He rubs his hand on his side. His illness has startled. I have bruised him. "I suppose," he says.

"What kind of name is Seymour? It makes you sound like a nerd."

He likes my forthright manner. "I've always hated it. My mother gave it to me."

"Change it when you get out of highschool. Change it to Marlboro or Slade or Bubba or something like that. And lose those glasses. You should be wearing contacts. I bet your mother eveb buys your clothes."

I am a revelation to Seymour. He laughs. "She does. But since I am a nerd, shouldn't I look the part?"

"You think you're a nerd because you think you're so smart. I'm a lot smarter than you and I look great." I gesture to our bows and arrows. "Where should we shoot these things?"

"I think it would be best if we shot them at the targets," he says wisely.

So that's what we do. A few minutes later we are at one end of the football field sending our arrows flying toward the targets that have been arranged in a neat row on the fifty-yard line. I impress Seymour when I hit the bull's-eye three times in a row. He is further impressed when we go to remove the arrows from the target and they are stuck in so deep he has to use all his strength to pull them out. He does not know that I could have split the shaft of my first arrow with the next two if I had wished. I am showing off, I know, and it is probably not the wisest thing to do, but I don't care. My mood this day is frivolous. My frist day of high school. First happy thoughts about Ray and Pat and now I have taken an immediate liking to Seymour. I help him pull the arrows from the target.

"You have shot before," he says.

"Yes. I was trained by a master marksman."

He pulls out the last arrow and almost falls to the ground as it comes loose. "You should be in the Olympics."

I shrug as we walk back toward the goal posts, "I have no interest," I say.

Seymour nods. "I feel the same way about mathematics. I'm great at it, but it bores me to death."

"What does interest you?"

"Writing."

"What do you like to write?"

"I don't know yet. The strange and unusual fascinates me." He pauses. "I read a lot of horror books. Do you like horror?"

"Yes." I start to make a joke of his question, something about how close it is to my heart, but a feeling of déjà vu sweeps over me. The feeling startles me, for I haven't it in centuries. The sensation is intense; I put a hand to my head to steady myself, while searching for the source of it. Seymour reaches out to help, and once more I feel the sickness flowing beneath his skin. I am not sure of the nature of his disease, but I have a good idea what it is.

"Are you all right?" he asks me.

"Yes." A cool film of sweat has gathered on my forehead and I wipe it away. My sweat is clear, not tinted pink, as it becomes when I drink large quantities of human blood. The sun burns bright in the sky and I lower my head. Seymour continues to watch me. Suddenly I feel as if he has come so close to me his body is actually overlapping mine. Like the déjà vu, I do not like the sensation. I wonder if I have developed a greater sensitivity to the sun. I have not been out like this, at midday, in many years.