A Late Night Out (Peter Parkman)

[Harriet Opara (DELETED 8145)]

Harriet was four weeks into her suspension from work at the local police department, and she was feeling disgruntled and hopeless. She had no structure in her life without work and was hopelessly running out of money - but that didn't stop her from visiting a local dive bar almost nightly. She didn't get drunk, she didn't drink very much at all, just enough that her head felt lighter on the walk home. It was particularly late as she walked home this night, shoulders broad and her steps long and heavy. She had nailed the police officer walk.
The night had been pretty uneventful, and she had enjoyed her drinks, but suddenly it took a turn. She heard the scream behind her only faintly - it was quite a few meters behind her and round a corner - but she definitely heard it. She turned on her heels and took off in a jog, a little clumsily, and her boots clacked off the floor with each step.

Once she had tackled the corner she saw them - a young girl clearly on her way somewhere dolled up and a man, not much older, shaking as he held a handgun up at her and asked for her money.

In an instant, Harriet had her badge in her hand. This kid didn't know she was suspended. "Hey!" She snapped, her eyebrows furrowing. The young man visibly panicked as he saw the badge, shouting something about how she should stop because he had a gun. Harriet rolled her eyes, she had seen kids like this before, he would never go through with it. Filled with confidence, she took a step forward. He gave another shaky warning, which she ignored. She shooed off the girl that was the original victim, who scuttled off with breathless emergency. The man watched her leave helplessly.

He swore at Harriet, cursing violently, and she took her opportunity. She moved towards him ready to hit the gun away with an open palm and bring her knee to his stomach. She saw his panic - and then she didn't feel his abdomen when her knee should have hit it, and instead she watched him back off with a look of shock on his face. Then, she lost herself, and fell to her knees with a searing agony as she realised that the kid had pulled the trigger and clumsily shot right through her side.

She was suddenly very sober - and very sick - as she stared at her pooling blood and fell onto her side.

[Peter Parkman]

The routine was as solid as ever.

For a week or two, the routine had been disrupted, and for good reason. They had bound, though the connection did not make much of a difference to Peter. He had felt like a married man even before the ceremony; now he had the pleasure of calling Jersey his wife. But their nights now ran in the way they always had. Peter went to work and came home from work, he edited the entries for the journal and continued his research for his own articles. He comforted animals and thoroughly interrogated those who came to adopt; the animals sometimes came in injured due to inflicted cruelty, and Peter would do his best to keep them from returning to a hostile environment.

His own dogs were a mixture; a couple he’d had from when they were puppies, but there were a couple he’d taken in because no one else would. He’d taken them because they had been treated badly, and he wanted to prove to them that humanity was not so bad.

Peter was a logical man, however; he knew that he could only do his best to treat these animals with the respect and care that they deserved, but he had given up on trying to prove the goodness of humanity. Far and large, he’d given up on kindness as a default setting. He had given up on the world outside of his own, with his dogs and with Jersey – he had not seen Keara in quite some time. Whit, Jacey, and Sean lingered within the confines of his world, too, just, though he assumed they had worlds of their own.

Part of Peter’s routine included walking back to the cabin from The Asylum, his five dogs swarmed around him: Jack and Ellie, the Jack Russells; Hunter, the Great Dane; Lady, the blonde Sheep Dog; and KD, the Husky. They were disciplined, and they probably did not need the leads, but they were kept on leads anyway. When they started to whine and pull away, Peter had to pay attention. It wasn’t often that they became agitated.

Of course, it was the scent of blood that caused it. There was a body in Peter’s path; the dogs started to pant, wanting to go to the body, turning back to their master with that look in their eyes. Well aren’t you going to do something about it?

Peter had to hold his breath. He approached the woman – in the brief glimpse that he had had, he had determined that it was a woman – and crouched down beside her. A harsh and quick order was given to keep the dogs at bay, and Peter himself had his eyes closed even as he laid a hand on the woman’s shoulder. The blood always made anything like this difficult.

”…Are you alive?” he asked, his voice deep and filled with concern. His lips pressed tight together. He couldn’t determine how badly she was wounded, if alive, if he didn’t open his eyes. But what use would he be if he passed out right beside her?

”…should I call you an ambulance…?” he asked. It was a stupid question, really. But if she was able to answer, she might be able to tell him whether she was too far gone.

[Wearing]

[Harriet Opara (DELETED 8145)]

It was agony - gut wrenching agony. It must've gone right through her, Harriet thought as her head pressed against the cold pavement. She was clutching her side, with the advice to 'keep pressure on it and stop the bleeding' circulating her head from every movie she'd seen. She did have proper training in gun wounds - but the year long course wasn't breaking through the hot pain.

What did break through the pain however, was the hand on her shoulder. She couldn't turn her head but her eyes flashed around to see the person touching her - from the position she had crumpled into she could only see his lower body, and couldn't muster the energy needed to look up for his face. Harriet heard the noise coming out his mouth but the pain in her stomach was draining her concentration. At the end however, she heard the most important word. Ambulance.

She opened her mouth to very sensibly say 'Oh yes, that would be great thank you.' but all that came out was a strangled cry and then agonised gasps that almost sounded like "P-please.." Then a few whimpers, and then she was just back to regular painful breaths and hyperventilating.

What she did next, she definitely didn't mean to - she had been supporting herself with her hands a little, but she totally gave in and fell into the man next her, leaving her on her against his legs. Her blood had pooled beneath her, looking like nothing more than a puddle in the poorly lit street.

It's smell was overwhelming and black as ink even on her pinkish, pale skin. It had ruined her button up shirt and jeans, but that was hardly a problem for her. Surviving was a much greater issue than the amount of detergent she would need to get these clothes presentable.

If she even lived to wash them.

[Peter Parkman]

Peter had to look. The girl screamed and then uttered her plea, the weight of her body now supported by Peter’s. They were complete strangers but there was an intimacy in the contact; it was the way the human spirit worked, wasn’t it? That instinct for survival would trust any person. As soon as Peter had initiated contact, they’d become more than strangers. They were dependant and saviour.

Peter had not arrived in time to see what had happened, but as he finally opened his eyes to try to gauge the situation, he knew that the woman had either been shot or stabbed. Some vital artery must have been nicked in the process, given the amount of blood gushing over her hands and pooling on the ground beneath her. Peter, too, groaned – almost as if he had an injury as well, but it was merely a subconscious reaction to the nausea that threatened to render all his good intentions moot. He would do this girl no good if he were only to vomit before passing out.

Hunter nudged his overlarge body against Peter’s shoulder; KD whined. The dogs reminded him of where he was and what he should be doing. His long fingers shifted from the girl’s shoulder to press against her neck, where the pulse should be. It was erratic, and it was slowing down. Peter closed his eyes again as he simultaneously counted the seconds between the heart beats, and calculated the distance between here and the hospital. If he called for an ambulance, he knew that it would not arrive in time. She’d have lost too much blood. She was not lucky. This wound would be fatal.

Just as she had an instinct to survive, Peter had an instinct to save.

”My name is Peter,” he said.

”I am going to help you. I hope you won’t hate me for it. I hope that you don’t conclude that you’d have preferred to die. I’m sorry, but the ambulance isn’t going to make it in time. You have to trust me,” he said. And all of this he said with the least amount of breathing possible, and without looking at the blood. His eyes were steadfast on the street corner as he brought his wrist up to his mouth and grunted as he bit into the skin, releasing his own thick blood – blood that dispersed into wisps of shadow as soon as it hit the air, but which was thick and dark as it flowed beneath the surface. He offered his wrist to the dying girl.

”I know this is strange. I know you will want to resist but you have to drink this. If you want to live, you have to…”

[Harriet Opara (DELETED 8145)]

Harriet wondered if his hands were actually that cold as the touched her throat, or if it was just her skin burning. It definitely felt like the latter, and she gave a pathetic whimper as he pulled them away. She knew her pulse was wrong - it was a hurried countdown, pounding away with urgency as if it was wasting each beat and racing to her end. God, she wanted to vomit at the thought of being destroyed like this. She had achieved very little - she had no relationship, her only friends were just coworkers, and she had little success in her career because she was so new. She never wanted to die so.. Unfulfilled.

As the stranger began to speak again, Harriet tried harder to concentrate on him through the pounding in her skull and in her chest. She caught his name, and she liked it, the way it rolled off the tongue. And she caught that he wanted to help, even through the deafening pain she could hear it in his voice that he wanted to save her.

Thats just what people do, she supposed, through a thick panic. There was some relief knowing he was trying, but she watched him bite into his own wrist, the confusion and worry skyrocketted.

Of course the man who finds her on her death bed was a bloody maniac.

As his wrist was offered to her, the weight of her situation fell onto her and crushed her. Her chest felt like it was going to collapse, and each breath mirrored the trapped, strangled pain in her abdomen. She had had police training specifically to avoid this - and now she was going to die leaning on a stranger as her blood ruined her clothes.

As she looked at his bleeding wrist, and felt the sweat on her forehead and agony in each movement, she went mad. She took the chance. She didn't want to die. One hand moved to grasp her fallen police badge as the other remained on her wound, and she opened her mouth and felt his blood hit her tongue as she prepared to drink.

It was different, almost addictive, and if she had enough blood left she would have blushed in embarrassment. She hoped to God this whackjob had magic blood or something.

[Peter Parkman]

Peter didn’t see the police badge. He didn’t see much of anything as he prayed to logic and to reason, to all the numbers in the universe, that she would do as he suggested, and that she would do it quick. The quicker that they got away from the blood, the easier Peter would be able to focus. Though, the blood was all over the girl. It wasn’t as if they could run away from it.

He shouldn’t be focusing on that, anyway. Instead, his other arm drooped over Hunter, whose body leaned heavily against Peter. The dog’s ears were pressed flat to his head, his tongue lolling from his mouth. He knew that something was wrong. He was worried. Even now, he turned to look at Peter, as if to reassure his master that everything would be okay. Peter’s fingers curled into the dog’s fur even as the girl latched on to his wrist. His fingers flexed, helping the flow of his own blood as the girl drank. His blood would soon enter her system, and it would heal her. It would fix her.

Peter knew nothing about her. He didn’t know whether she was religious, or what her beliefs about death were. He didn’t know whether eternity was something that she would prefer, but it was the risk he would have to take. If he had the chance to save every being worth saving like this, then he would. Every dog on the side of the road, every cat left in a sack. Sometimes, he had to let them go. But this? He didn’t have to let her die. Even if she turned out the same as the others – even if she was as independent as Whit, as Sean and as Jacey, it was better than nothing. None of them had complained about what he had done to them. None of them had blamed him. They still came home, every now and again. Though that didn’t stop him from worrying.

When Peter himself began to feel dizzy, he gently pulled his wrist away.

”This … is different for everyone,” he said, his hand again on the girl’s shoulder, reassuring. ”You might feel like you’re still dying, but please just trust me. You won’t die. It will be okay,” he said. Stupidly, he took a breath. The scent of blood caused him to sway, the darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision. He buried his face into Hunter’s fur, sucking in the scent of the canine. It helped, while he waited for the inevitable – waited for the magic in his blood to ignite the transformation.

[Harriet Opara (DELETED 8145)]

It was one of the worst things she had ever done. Harriet wasn't squeamish - she couldn't be really, she'd seen enough dead bodies working with this place's police department - but the blood was thick and disgusting in her mouth. She couldn't stop though, and when the wrist suddenly wasn't there anymore, her mouth opened and closed a couple of times as if she missed it.

There was nothing immediately different - only her pain started to fade. It was so gradual that at first her tears didn't stop, and she could still focus on nothing but the twisting agony. But soon her breathing slowed from gasps to that of someone sleeping and her heartbeat faltered, but not in a way that caused her dread. She knew she was dying but not quite in the same way that she knew it before. It wasn't like she was fading out anymore, it was like she was being swallowed, but at the same time nothing felt permanent.

She supposed it could be delusion. She was leaning against a stranger, having probably ruined his night, drenched in blood and sweat and tears in an alley with the coppery taste of his blood in her mouth like a constant reminder of what she had lost, and consequently had to take. Black clawed at her vision and a sickness came to her, overwhelming the wound in her gut. Her blood flow had stopped completely, not that anyone would've been able to tell because of how much was covering her. Harriet fought to stay awake but it became impossible, and her head rolled back like a dead animal and blackness took hold of her, but not for nearly as long as she thought it would.

The next time she opened her eyes, she expected to be alone. To her that blackness had been an inky uncomfortable ocean, lasting a thousand years, but in reality only a collection of minutes. The stranger was still there, with his face buried into one of the dogs that he had with him that Harriet hadn't noticed before that moment. It was impossible not to notice things now. The alley looked so much different - both darker and lighter to her. Her hand moved to her side where the bullet had pierced her to find the skin had consumed the wound and taken it over, forgetting it.

"But..." She clawed for words, but the moment her mouth opened her hunger hit her. It was unlike anything else - it was like a knot in her stomach and a desert in her throat. The only thing that matched it was her exhaustion. She had been shot, she had been shot, yes? Unless she hadn't. She didn't know anymore. She just knew a hunger.

Fogged with confusion, she reached out and grabbed her stranger's arm.

[Peter Parkman]

The breeze drifted down the street, pushing at Peter’s hair, touching his skin, bringing with it the scent of salt and pollution. Though there was a freshness to it, too, the exhaust of the city intermingled with the sweet pine and foliage of the surrounding wilderness. These weren’t things that Peter would have been able to identify before. Humans aren’t all that concerned with the intricacies of the life around them; not all the time. They were concerned only with what was right in front of them. The breeze brought with it a sense of clarity, a brief reprieve from the blood.

How many minutes passed? And there was Peter, a coin spinning on its edge, propelled by anxiety. The blood, the time passing, what he had just done – it was all so far off course, so far outside of his scheduled routine – he had to cling to Hunter like the dog was an anchor to sanity.

It was only when the body leaning against him came to, when she clutched at his arm and stuttered that one single word, he knew that it was time to move. In one swift movement he stood, his arm stretched down to help the woman to her feet. Her clothes were covered in blood but given a swift walking pace and the further passing of time, that blood would dry and become stale, and would have less of an effect on the ironic vampire who was so repulsed by it. At least they would be moving.

The plans clunked heavily into place in Peter’s mind, the schedule for the evening having been so rudely pushed aside. But this, he scolded himself, was better than letting a woman die. The unravelling of his schedule would lead to less insanity than the guilt of not saving someone when he could have. The what ifs would plague him for the rest of his immortal life. At least this way, even if she hated him, the what ifs would not plague him. They would become very clear to him.

”Come on,” he said, a little more brusque than intended. The dogs responded to it, however, all rallying around him, some tugging on their leads to be on their way. Peter made sure to collect the handles of said leads all into one hand.

”I’m sorry, but – we should go home. I mean my home. I have a home. It’s safe. You can get cleaned up and we can talk. We can…” he swallowed, and closed his eyes, counted to five. Calm, Peter.

”You need blood. It’s not pleasant. Not for me. I’m sorry. But we should go,” he said, tugging lightly at the woman to encourage her forward.

[Harriet Opara (DELETED 8145)]

The confusion and panic got a little too much for Harriet, and she pulled away from him far quicker than she intended. Her brain wasn't moving as fast as her limbs as she skitted backward. She saw the concern and slight panic this caused on the stranger's face and forced herself to breath outwards. It didn't feel like she needed to at all.

"I... I was shot.." She almost vomited the words. "You.. You helped me? You.. What did you do to me?" It made no sense at all - her hands gripped at her damp shirt to pull it apart and get to her stomach, which was as toned and clear as always, no sign of a wound, just the blood. "I know I was shot.. It hurt so much..." Her voice died, and quietened, and became far less accusing. The man had saved her, that was all she knew for sure.

So, Harriet decided to trust him, at least a little.

"Why your house, why not mine?" She didn't mean to sound harsh, but she definitely did. The dogs were all pulling and ready to go, and in her slight daze, she let the stranger pull her out of the alley. The light from the street lamp made her flinch and cast her eyes away. "How do I know you won't.. Uh.." She lost her words and glanced at the dogs, some of them big and a couple small. A thought of being mauled by them went through her but they didn't look vicious, not at all. Hit by a strike of neediness, she reached out and felt the fur of the husky just for a moment.

"No, wait.. You said blood? Why do I need blood?" She couldn't focus on one question for even the slightest moment, her eyebrows furrowing together and her eyes filling with tears, her usually quite mature face becoming much younger. "God.. what has happened?"

Harriet's eyes desperately searched him.

[Peter Parkman]

What did you do to me? That question always acted like a knife, twisting somewhere in Peter’s chest. It was anxiety, crawling into a salted wound, and he cringed. He had saved her, yes, but at what cost? And would she appreciate it? The questions would always repeat themselves, echo in ways he couldn’t change. Not until they were answered. The other questions that she had asked were easier to answer, and so Peter started with them.

”Because I don’t know where your house is. And I know that my house is exactly three thousand, four hundred and sixty-eight steps from here – though it’s probably three thousand, four hundred and eighty-eight steps because we have to go back that way,” he said, gesturing to the street he had just come from. He would have to back track, and the number was an approximate.

”I know exactly how long it will take to get to my house, and I don’t know whether the path to your house crosses any bridges. And I can’t cross bridges. I have to stay on this side of the river,” he explained. It didn’t cross Peter’s mind that he was probably confusing the girl more than he should. But these were all the bare facts, and to him, they were perfectly reasonable reasons why they should go back to his place.

”The dogs also need to be fed at exactly three-fifteen, which is when I usually get home. But I will get home later, tonight, and I don’t think they will like it. I am nocturnal, they are forced to be nocturnal, too. You will be nocturnal now as well – the sun will burn you,” he said. He was trying to lead her back toward the street but he didn’t want to force her. The last thing he wanted was for this woman to think he was leading her into the wilderness to be slaughtered and fed to the lions. But he did have a cabin out there. And that was where they were going. It probably wouldn’t look good at all. Especially after Peter answered the last question.

”I need you to think logically. You were shot. You were going to die. You remember the bullet, the wound is now gone. You drank my blood. You need to believe me when I tell you that you are a vampire, now. And you will be thirsty. You need blood. We have some at home….”