Chapter Fifteen
Title: There's No Way To Turn Around
It’s been three days and he hasn’t woken up.
He was still sort of awake after I got his heart beating again, but I had to leave him (I moved about three metres away) to phone the hospital and tell them I was bringing him in again. When I got back he was out again.
The nurses have had to assure me many times that it’s not a coma and then they follow it by singing my praises about how fast I was to react and save him, telling me it could’ve been much worse. On the one occasion I pointed out what I did to his mouth, the nurse told me that CPR is a very volatile procedure and half the people who go through it come out with broken ribs because the person giving it to them applied too much pressure.
I, apparently, did very little damage.
I try very hard to ignore this praise. I don’t feel particularly good about, firstly, starting to drink from my . . . from George, and secondly, feeling my eyes flicker back and forth between brown and black behind my eyelids as he got closer and closer to death in front of me. How selfishly twisted is that? George is dying before me and I respond by getting turned on by the blood I’m drinking from his mouth.
And when I finally managed to get his heart beating again and he opened his mouth to take a breath my first impulse was to attempt to slip him the tongue.
I didn’t.
No, he was too busy coughing up blood for that to have worked.
But that was enough to shock me out of the vampire part of me and into the human reaction of . . . well, not enjoying the experience. And onto the top of the spiral of despair that I have been slowly making my way down ever since.
***
George is lying on the sofa when I enter from the kitchen carrying two mugs of tea. I deposit them on the floor by his head.
Annie is out.
Instead of attempting to get George to move or sitting on the floor, I simply crawl on top of him, our bodies melding together as though we’ve done this countless times before.
The movements and touches that pass between us are small but sure, and you’d think one of us would be nervous or stopping to ask questions about what we’re doing or where this is going or something but we continue as though this is something already planned out for us, that we’ve been waiting for for ages.
There are no awkward moments, no wrong turns, no nervous laughs. We don’t hesitate; no words passed between us sound out of place or cliché.
My entire vocabulary is reduced to his name, GeorgeGeorgeGeorgeGeorgeGeorgeGeorgeGeorgeGeorgeGeorge.
The doorbell rings.
I ignore it. This, here, is the high point of the last century. I’m not pausing for the postman or whoever else might be inconsiderate enough to fucking ring the doorbell.
But whoever it is has not taken their finger off or something, ‘cause the ringing continues, desperate for attention.
I touch my lips to his one last time and clamber off him to answer the incessant ring ring ring ring ring ring . . .
***
. . . beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep
It’s been three days and he hasn’t woken up.
He was still sort of awake after I got his heart beating again, but I had to leave him (I moved about three metres away) to phone the hospital and tell them I was bringing him in again. When I got back he was out again.
The nurses have had to assure me many times that it’s not a coma and then they follow it by singing my praises about how fast I was to react and save him, telling me it could’ve been much worse. On the one occasion I pointed out what I did to his mouth, the nurse told me that CPR is a very volatile procedure and half the people who go through it come out with broken ribs because the person giving it to them applied too much pressure.
I, apparently, did very little damage.
I try very hard to ignore this praise. I don’t feel particularly good about, firstly, starting to drink from my . . . from George, and secondly, feeling my eyes flicker back and forth between brown and black behind my eyelids as he got closer and closer to death in front of me. How selfishly twisted is that? George is dying before me and I respond by getting turned on by the blood I’m drinking from his mouth.
And when I finally managed to get his heart beating again and he opened his mouth to take a breath my first impulse was to attempt to slip him the tongue.
I didn’t.
No, he was too busy coughing up blood for that to have worked.
But that was enough to shock me out of the vampire part of me and into the human reaction of . . . well, not enjoying the experience. And onto the top of the spiral of despair that I have been slowly making my way down ever since.
***
George is lying on the sofa when I enter from the kitchen carrying two mugs of tea. I deposit them on the floor by his head.
Annie is out.
Instead of attempting to get George to move or sitting on the floor, I simply crawl on top of him, our bodies melding together as though we’ve done this countless times before.
The movements and touches that pass between us are small but sure, and you’d think one of us would be nervous or stopping to ask questions about what we’re doing or where this is going or something but we continue as though this is something already planned out for us, that we’ve been waiting for for ages.
There are no awkward moments, no wrong turns, no nervous laughs. We don’t hesitate; no words passed between us sound out of place or cliché.
My entire vocabulary is reduced to his name, GeorgeGeorgeGeorgeGeorgeGeorgeGeorgeGeorgeGeorgeGeorge.
The doorbell rings.
I ignore it. This, here, is the high point of the last century. I’m not pausing for the postman or whoever else might be inconsiderate enough to fucking ring the doorbell.
But whoever it is has not taken their finger off or something, ‘cause the ringing continues, desperate for attention.
I touch my lips to his one last time and clamber off him to answer the incessant ring ring ring ring ring ring . . .
***
. . . beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep