Waiting For Sunrise

“Top o' the morning to you, luv,” Cyrus greeted in a phony accent, tacking on an equally phony smile. Irene was dumbfounded to find Cyrus seated at her kitchen table. This was supposed to be a creature of the night. Then it dawned on her that it was morning when she found him. If only she had been too slow to help him, he might have burnt away. Pity.

“What are you doing in my kitchen?”

Irene watched the movement of his hand, as it waved nonchalantly in the air. “Change of scenery,” Cyrus casually responded. Irene crossed her arms and fixed Cyrus with a baleful look. In response, the vampire's bottom lip pushed out and curled down. Dark eyebrows, barely visible beneath his messy black bangs, drew so close together it looked as though some invisible hand were reaching out and pinching the upper bridge of his nose. He displayed the most pathetic, yet the most frightening pout Irene had ever witnessed. She looked away sharply.

After a pause, Irene grumbled, “go crawl back into your hole.” She snatched the keys from a peg in the wall and shoved them into her pocket.

“Ah so you finally admit that it’s MY hole!"

Irene drew in a sharp breath, trying not to begin her day with screaming. “Better get going before the sun rises,” she warned, fighting the urge to raise her voice. As she faced the front door she heard the obnoxious drumming of fingers on the kitchen table.

“I have time,” came Cyrus voice, which was followed by the creak of wood. At least the drumming had stopped. She put on her jacket, but listened closely to the sound of his footsteps, and then the whine of the fridge door opening. "By the way, is this your only pitcher?"

Irene turned to look. Strange. She didn’t recall making any juice recently. Her eyes squinted. That was not juice. Cyrus grabbed a cup down from the cupboard as though he had lived in the house his entire life. Sensations pricked along Irene’s spine as she watched him put the lid on the pitcher, turn it to block the spout, and shake the contents vigorously.

"If you think I'll just go 'poof' the moment the sun is up, you're wrong. Sure I'll burn worse than a red-head, but I like to leave it to the last minute before I hiss and scramble down into my hole," Cyrus explained as he poured out the red liquid then lifted the cup to his lips. "Got to get my thrills in."

Irene drew in another deep breath to keep her nerves calm. Foul was the monster that would keep blood in her refrigerator. Whose blood is it? Will my food be safe? What diseases are now cultivating in my kitchen? Her lips thinned and she turned around again. She was not going to say another word to him. There were more important things to do. With her mind once again focused, she quickly made her escape from the madness.

Running usually helped clear Irene's mind and relieve stress. But this was the sort of problem that exercise could not solve. Action was what was needed, not running away. However, she was still wary of involving the authorities. Insisting a vampire was in her basement would either be seen as a prank, or a need for psychiatric evaluation. If she reported a home invasion, they might come with weapons ready, but it was unlikely tasers and guns would be adequate against a supernatural being. Furthermore, Cyrus had warned that he'd kill any cops that showed up. She didn't want that on her conscience.

Still ruminating on what limited information she had, Irene set out to do some errands, seeking any excuse to stay out of the house. While shopping in the produce aisle, she looked at the fresh garlic. She treated most things in fiction as just that: fiction. But if vampires were real, then maybe some of their weaknesses were too. She tossed a few bulbs into her basket as she scoured her memory for other methods used to combat children of the night.

When Irene finally made it back home, she closed the door as softly as she could. The gloomy afternoon light that pushed in through the west-facing windows was already fading. Irene set down her shopping bags and took off her damp sneakers, holding her breath. She grabbed her bag and tip-toed to the kitchen. As she was unloading the groceries, she gasped and nearly dropped the eggs as she felt a tickle along her calves.

"Mew."

Irene set the eggs down gently, her other hand placed on her chest. Rubbing between her legs was Silver. "Sorry, no treats today old girl." She smiled at her own raw nerves. "How about you go stand guard at the basement stairs and scream if the nasty man comes up?" She whispered as she bent down and scratched Silver's ears.

Irene finished putting everything away. She transferred a few items to a cloth tote bag, not wanting the crinkling of plastic to alert Cyrus. Making sure she knew where Silver was this time, Irene tip-toed down the basement, testing each step for creakiness before putting down her full weight.

Beyond what leaked through the basement door, there was no light. Unsure how to utilize the garlic, Irene pulled apart a few cloves, scattered them at the threshold of the basement, and put what remained in her pockets. Next, she retrieved a wooden crucifix from her bag. It wasn't as large or as ornate as ones she saw in movies, but it was all she could find at the thrift store. Irene still didn't believe in God, but hopefully that wouldn't matter.

Once Irene's eyes adjusted, she shuffled as quietly as she could towards the bed. She could not make out details, but Cyrus appeared to be asleep. Creak went the mattressl Irene held her breath and stepped aside to obscure her silhouette. Her racing heart made it difficult to keep her breath in, but still she fought the panic brewing in her chest. She waited, looking for signs of movement and listening to any further noises.

Silence.

False alarm. Shakily, Irene exhaled. Once her frayed nerves would allow it, she continued her approach. Soon, she stood over the cot. In the darkness she could not make out where his chest was. The ties of her bag were looped over her elbow, keeping it pulled closed and awkward to reach in and find the stake she'd borrowed from a construction site. She justified her act of petty theft as a means of survival. The long shaft of wood got caught on the folds of the bag. She grew more frantic at each successive failure to untangle and retrieve her weapon. Two hands would have made it easier, but she refused to let go of the crucifix.

Another creak and movement caused Irene to stumble back. She barely avoided falling by overcompensating with a forward motion, ending up on her knees instead of on her butt. She expected to see his vague form rise and loom over her, but he remained dormant. Irene set the bag down, pulled the ties apart, and carefully removed the stake.

Irene stared down at the vampire. Her hands shook. The stake didn't seem all that sharp. It was only meant to drive through soil. Irene held the cross out, lowering it until she felt it rest against him, expecting a reaction. To her disappointment, he didn't convulse or thrash. What am I even doing?

Irene shook out her doubts and raised the stake. She was determined to end the menace. But he was asleep. I can't kill a sleeping man in cold blood. Maybe I should keep these things ready for the next time he tries to bite me? It'd be self defense then. But I can't go around with these things on me all the time; they're too bulky. What am I doing? What do I do? A lump formed in her throat. I can't. She despised Cyrus, but she was too afraid to strike.

From stillness to action, an explosion of movement elicited a yelp from Irene. Before she could dash away, a familiar grip caught the hand holding the stake.

"Now that's just cute, Irene," came Cyrus's taunting voice. There was a clatter as the crucifix was knocked onto the floor. Irene held the stake tight while trying to pull her hand free. But it was to no avail; he was too strong.

"Let me go." Irene knew she had no real leg to stand on. She was attempting to kill him; it'd be only natural for him to defend himself. Her heart raced as a million possible outcomes slammed into her mind at once, all of them gruesome.

"Alright."

What?

The pressure on her wrist released. Irene pulled her hand back, taking several steps away. She didn't have time to be confused. Irene scampered for the door, only to halt as Cyrus' silhouette blocked the scant light from upstairs. The door shut them both into perfect darkness. Before she could fall back from the sudden halt, she felt a cold hand along her back supporting her.

"What's the hurry? Weren't you down here to try and kill me? Go on, Irene, finish what you started." With his free hand he turned on the light. Irene shut her eyes reflexively.

"...You left me no choice," she muttered, blinking while she waited for her eyes to adjust again.

"You have choices, dearie. I will admit, though, they aren't very good choices, but you have them. Remember, you have agency, but also responsibility for your actions." Cyrus placed his fingers under her chin and leaned closer, his cool cheek brushing against hers as he whispered into her ear. "Go on. Give me your best shot."

Irene flared her nostrils as the anger returned. She was further incensed by his smug expression as he leaned back. He pulled down the collar of the shirt he wore to expose his chest. Irene gripped her meagre weapon but hesitated. Is this a trick? Or is it reverse psychology? What happens if I strike? What happens if I don't?

Cyrus chuckled. That was all it took.

Buzzing sensations harassed the base of Irene's skull; her eyelid twitched. All she could see was his heaving chest, her vision tunneling to her target. She slammed the stake as hard as she could into his inviting flesh. He didn't even wince. His laughter grew louder. Irene screamed and pulled back, trying to stab him again. And again. And again. The rough wood was rubbing her hands raw. But she barely broke his skin, leaving only superficial abrasions. She finally threw the stake aside in frustration.

Seeing this, Cyrus opened the door, keeping on the far side of it and gestured for her to leave. "Accept that you are powerless, Irene, and life will get much simpler for you.

Powerless.

Tears welled up in Irene's eyes, but she would not let him see. She ran out of the basement as quickly as she could. No matter what I do, I'm always powerless. I couldn't do anything for Monica. I can't do anything for Jordan. I can't even save myself. Irene stopped at her bedroom door. I won't cry in my room and feel sorry for myself. Irene breathed deeply to steady herself. Jordan... I can't do this alone.

Irene quietly tip-toed over to Jordan's bed at the hospital. Raspy breathing greeted her ears; he was taken off of oxygen at last. A comic book lay splayed on his stomach. Likely he had drifted off while browsing. She bit her lip. How will he react?

“Irene…” a sleepy voice greeted.

Irene instantly put her hand on his and smiled reassuringly. “How are you feeling?”

Jordan's eyes closed for a moment as a subtle crease formed between his eyebrows. “Fine, all things considered,” he responded reluctantly.

Irene shook her head, but did not surrender her smile to her skepticism. “All things shouldn’t be considered. If you’re in pain, it’s alright. Complain away." She picked up the comic book and set it on the tray beside his bed.

“It hurts a little worse today… but I know it will get better,” Jordan admitted.

Irene nodded and stroked his cheek gently. Instantly, a dimple formed in that very cheek, as half of his face glided into a smile – although it could not maintain itself very long. “Of course it will." She glanced back at the comic. "A little light reading?" The gaudy colours and impossible proportions of leotard clad superheroes popped off the front page.

"Keith lent it to me. He comes by and lets me know how the team's doing." Jordan glanced away as Irene lifted a page, staring at the grotesquely large-breasted heroine featured on a splash page. “What about you?”

“Well..." Irene stalled, dropping the comic page as if a spider had crawled across her hand. "Things could be better, but they could also be worse,” she muttered. She slipped her hand back into Jordan's. He responded with a weak squeeze. Sadness awakened in Irene every time she felt how feeble his hands had become; they were once so strong.

“So... house guest. Your Uncle Henry didn't come back, did he?” Jordan asked, shifting a little in an attempt to sit up. Irene flashed him a stern look, and he laid back down.

“No. Last I heard he was somewhere in Columbia, and good riddance." Irene chuckled in spite of herself. At the moment she would take her trouble-making Uncle over a vampire in the basement. Better to deal with the devil she knew than the devil she did not.

"Who else would drop in when your father is away? You don't really have any other family as far as I know." Jordan raised his eyebrow in perplexity. He winced and rubbed his temple gingerly, careful not to disrupt the bandages.

"I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't experienced it myself…” Irene needed to prepare Jordan for the truth. However, she knew nothing could really prepare any normal person to accept the supernatural. Wait. Am I no longer normal? Just by being exposed to the supernatural?

Jordan’s eyes peered at her with intense curiosity and concern. “Go on Irene, I won’t laugh."

She clenched her teeth. “To be frank, there is a vampire living in my basement.” It sounded absolutely ridiculous to her, and she could feel her face growing hot with embarrassment. However, she could not tear her gaze away from her boyfriend's face. His eyes stared into hers, vacantly. His gaze drifted away a moment, and then cautiously returned. A hint of a dimple appeared on his cheek as he tried not to smile, then he glanced down at his hands. All the while Irene wanted to go hide.

“A vampire… is that a metaphor?”

Irene shook her head sadly, pursing her lips. His incredulous expression halted her and shook her resolve. I can't do this to him. “Yeah, a metaphor. I found an injured guy in the woods, and tried my best to give first aid. I was going to call the ambulance, but he admitted to being here without papers and begged me not to." She watched as Jordan furrowed his eyebrows, showing interest and concern. "I guess because he was a victim I didn't look beyond that."

He glanced down, cringing. “Irene… you brought him home, didn't you?”

Irene nodded dismally and looked away. “He was very persuasive. I know it was foolish, but I couldn't leave him like that." She looked back at him, worry lines etched on her forehead. "What if he died?"

Jordan stared at her with his mouth agape. “Irene…” he sighed. "I'd expect that from Merle, but you're usually more savvy than that."

She looked down. "I know."

Jordan reached out and lifted her chin so he could look her in the eyes. "Has he caused you any trouble?"

Remembering Cyrus's touch, Irene looked away. "Some... and he's still there. And I don't dare call the police now because..." Irene looked back at Jordan, seeing the hurt and confusion in his expression, "...what if they somehow blame Dad for not being home? I just need to wait until Dad gets back."

Jordan placed his hands on his lap, turning away from Irene for a moment. He tapped his fingers, then looked back at her. “Am I going to have to rough this guy up when I'm better?” he asked, his eyes growing intense. She let out a monosyllabic laugh at the thought, although the idea frightened her. "Irene... are you sure he hasn't hurt you? That's your 'being tough and hiding how upset you are' laugh."

Irene stared up at the ceiling, releasing a shaky breath. She did not wish to lie, but she didn't want to tell him the truth. Intense discomfort overcame her every time she tried to find the words to describe what had transpired; she worried over how to accurately reflect the reality without making it too light or too severe. Furthermore, as disconcerting as it was to say what had happened, she could only imagine the distress it would cause for Jordan to hear it.

“He's just been a nuisance. You know how I feel about my personal space." Irene shrugged as nonchalantly as she could muster. Her throat was tightening, and she could feel that she was close to losing control of her voice as she tried to hide the fear, shame, and disgust. However, she continued to strain to keep herself from crying. From the heat her face was giving off, she knew her nose and eyes were red. She inhaled sharply, and faked sneezing into her shoulder.

"Bless you." Jordan sat up and held out a box of tissues. "I hope you aren't coming down with something."

"I should go; I'd hate to get you even sicker." Irene stood up, wiping her nose.

The patient took in a few deep breaths. "You really should call the police. Injured or not, I don't like the idea of you being alone with a strange man in your house. Don't go back there until he's been taken away. Ask Mrs. Crowe if you can stay with her. I'm sure she'd understand."

After a moment of silent contemplation, Irene gave one loud sniff and nodded her head. “You're right, I can't go back there. I’ll go ask Merle if I can stay with her.” To shield her ailing boyfriend from her intense emotions, she spoke in monotone as overcompensation.

“Or you could ask Mom if she’ll let you stay there for a while. You could stay in my room; I’m not using it,” Jordan offered.

“I couldn’t!" Irene gawked at Jordan. Staying in his room would only make his absence more obvious. "Your mother is beside herself with stress; she doesn’t need me around. Besides, your father doesn't like me."

“Father… well… he just thinks a girl who is on her own so much is…" Jordan meandered through the words to justify his father's behaviour, "...well, will be too needy and that you would not be good for me. He just needs to see he's wrong. This would be… this… the…” Jordan’s words began to fade out.

"I've worn you out, I'm sorry. You get some rest, Jordan. I'll be fine," she reassured as best she could.

"Irene... no... I..." his eyes bulged and he wheezed.

"Jordan? Jordan what's wrong?"

Irene placed a hand on the guardrail of the hospital bed, clutching it tight. Tingling erupted into all of Irene’s extremities as she watched as Jordan began to gasp for air. Quickly she spun around, shouting, "Nurse! NURSE! Somebody, help!"

Irene watched in horror as his back arched violently, throwing his chest up into the air before it came crashing down on the bed. His face contorted with pain, his eyes flashing and wild, and yet vacant.

Irene remembered the call button and dangling beside his bed and grabbed it, smashing the button. Again his whole body convulsed. Irene’s eyes were glued to him as he thrashed and gasped, like an epileptic fish out of water. It wasn’t until a large brown hand grabbed her and pushed her aside that she could tear her gaze away.

Irene put her hands to her ears and continued to back away, keeping her eyes down. The screaming of the machine, Jordan’s plead for air, the nurses yelling orders at each other and scrambling for the right equipment, all of these things were too much. She could not watch.

This is all my fault. I shouldn't have burdened him. What if he doesn't recover? What if this is it? I can't... I can't...

“He’s stable… for now.”

The words pulled Irene out from within herself. She slowly let her hands drop from her ears and looked over. Lying, exhausted and messy, was Jordan. The collar of his gown was saturated in drool, and his face was wet with perspiration. An oxygen mask covered his mouth. She frowned as the nurses lingered a moment before going to report. Irene slowly walked over to Jordan. His eyes were closed.

“Miss,” she heard a voice behind her. A warm hand was placed on her shoulder. “Let him get some rest.”

“Yes…” Irene whispered. "Rest." She looked down, then at the nurse, "Thank you." The nurse nodded. Irene didn’t want to ask what happened. She could not bear the truth if it was connected to stress. Irene pulled away and hurried out of the room.