Something had been off. It slowly got worse, but Elliot, being Elliot, tried to hide it. Tried to ignore it. He assumed nothing could be wrong, because, well—he was a vampire. What could possibly be wrong? Every now and again, however, he felt like he had a fever; his cold skin heated up, but he didn’t tell anyone. Why? Because he enjoyed it. It made him feel more human. He revelled in the sickness because he couldn’t get sick anymore, could he?
Maybe Pi had noticed. Maybe. The night before, he’d had trouble swallowing. When he’d retracted his fangs from her neck, the blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. He’d walked away without explanation—had ended up spitting the blood from his mouth because he couldn’t physically swallow it.
And, the last couple of nights, forget playing the guitar. Forget the piano. ****, forget singing, even. Something was wrong. Something was terribly, awfully wrong, and Elliot knew he should tell someone. He should do something about it. But what? No. Instead, he ignored it. He want to work, even if every tiny thing seemed to irritate him. The money didn’t balance, and he was almost certain he made Jessica cry. Jessica didn’t deserve it. It wasn’t her fault.
But his body didn’t feel like his own. It spasmed and kicked at odd moments. He swore to hide the odd tics. In the office, he could hear the pub outside, the revellers and the clink of glass, the clack of the balls on the pool table. There was a live band on the stage—was it Skylar’s? He couldn’t remember. His brain was all over the place, and he couldn’t… he should apologise to Jessica, is what he should do.
Long limbs unfolded from the chair as he stood and made his way out behind the bar. The lighting was dim, and no one paid him any attention. His head itched—why was it itching? He couldn’t remember the wound, where the rusting street sign had whacked him over the head. It had healed within hours, but he hadn’t noticed the infection beneath the skin. The poison that had taken hold. Oh, his blood had tried to fight it, of course. It was vampiric blood, that believed itself superior to any kind of human illness. But, in the end, that vampiric blood had failed. Entirely, and completely.
The last thing Elliot saw was Jessica’s startled face. She hadn’t been crying. Her eyes were clear. Of course, yes, she was stronger than that. Within a month she’d be gone, moved on to some other country and some other job. This one didn’t mean anything to her.
A shout passed Elliot lips as his entire body locked; his shoulders were thrown back and his chest thrust forward. His fingers clawed into mangled fists, his ankles lifting from the floor. The veins in his neck stood stark against his skin, while his teeth ground together.
He had no idea what was happening, as his eyes rolled back into his head, and finally he went down. In a shower of glass and vodka (he brought a tray of ready-to-go drinks down with him) his body hit the ground, shoulder and hip first. But, without Elliot’s bidding, his body was thrown onto its back. Spasms wracked his long limbs. He clawed at the ground, glass ravaging his skin. He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t control his own body. There were shouts around him, gasps of surprise. Someone even laughed. Elliot’s voice was trapped in his own throat. He wanted to shout, to tear his own voice box out if it would make the pain subside—it felt as if all his muscles were trying to tear themselves apart, as if his spine were trying to break itself. ****, he wanted to scream, but he couldn’t. Just a lame duck, unable to help himself and at the mercy of those around him.