Bad Blood

Just Because You're Alive, Doesn't Mean You're Living

I spend a week in Andrew's mothers house before he starts to speak to me. The house was miles out of town, near a lake, and embedded in the forest. It was away from society, which I'm not sure is for my benefit or his. He only drives into town to visit his grandmother, who had lived next door to my family since she was young.
When he's around me, he's quiet, and tense, and won't tell me why. I fear the worst.
Is he afraid of me? Is he angry with me? Does he regret helping me?
The panicked thoughts swim in the murky darkness in my head for days, until I can't stand it anymore. It takes hours to work up the nerve to ask, and I chastise myself for being so fucking weak. I've been through worse. 

"Why won't you say anything?" I finally snap over coffee one morning, and he shrugs out an unsure "I'm thinking". I can feel the wave of embarassment washing in- he probably wasn't even doing it intentionally, and I've gone and yelled at him over it. I feel like ripping out my own tongue, as if that would be enough. 

"You've never been outside?" He asks, after a period of looming silnce, so overwhelming I'm not sure I won't suffocate on it. 

"It's been a while," I shrug. It's not a lie, as long as several years could be considered 'a while'. He nods, not saying anything else for a while, before asking the single question I've dreaded most my whole life. 

"What are you?" 

I sigh, because the answer is always the same 

"I don't know,"