The Drinker of Blood

Chapter Twenty-Three

I took Fallon home in early December after she'd spent several weeks in intensive care. Her injuries were so severe, and so numerous, that they nearly took her life. But, in the end, the doctors were confident that she'd make a full recovery.

Once back home, I nursed her night and day, cleaning her body, clearing away her bedpans, providing her nourishment, and feeding her soul. There would be a great deal of pain in her near future, and for several weeks much of my time was spent holding her hand and reassuring her through painfilled and frightened nights.

The gentle care I gave to her tender and battered body was a thing I did with great joy, and it was a task to which I happily would devote myself as long as necessary.

It was a blessing from God and from her skilled surgeons that there was no permanent damage from the injuries to her head. For but a short time, she had trouble finding and forming words, and her memories were sketchy for many weeks after she returned home. But the human mind is a remarkable thing. She soon again was her normal sweet, charming, and funny self.

The deep wounds that laced the right side of her face and body would heal with time, and though my friend at first lamented that she no longer would be a beauty queen whose photos people would cherish, she soon came around to my way of thinking. She was and always would be a great beauty, and she was my hero. And I would allow her to protect me as long as she felt I needed her protection.

At my encouragement and with my help, she charted online her slow recovery from the injuries she'd suffered during the terrorist attack on Foley Square. Her followers on social media went from 700 thousand, to one million, to two million in just a few months.

I'd never truly celebrated Christmas before, not in its modern form, but she and I did so together in her apartment not long after her release. With the help of friends, neighbors, and some online instruction, I made the holiday the best it could be for my tiny patient. It was the event of the season, a time of great joy.

There were many other things in our life. Throughout the next months, my friend learned an important lesson about winnowing the wheat from the chaff. A small number of her friends were by her side from the moment her injuries first were reported. A few came by every day, or nearly so, and helped however they could. But many others stayed away until all of the nursing and bedpans were finished. Those latter were the ones she decided she could do without.

I finally found the courage to write Freya-Lynn to apologize for the horror I had let loose on her life, and to my surprise she responded with a letter that was friendly and warm. She still held me in the deepest of affection, she wrote, and it gladdened my heart to learn that she yet had the sketch she'd made of me in Miami. But she no longer could be in my life. It simply frightened her too much—or rather, I think I did.

I didn't give up hope that one day she might have a change of heart, but neither did I press the issue. Time would tell. But I kept my notebook near at hand, and from time to time I would take out that lovely relic and leaf through its pages and hold it close. I soon after resolved to write down this story so that one day she might read it and think of me.

After some months had passed, Fallon was able to get up and move around on her own. She would require a crutch or a walking stick for some months more, but we began to venture from home, taking in the beauty of New York City in the spring.

By then, I was her girlfriend in the eyes of everyone, and I had Konrad send me a package from Houston. My new official identity was Bess Adia Porter, and I planned on keeping it forever.

For the first time in many years, I knew peace and tranquility. In the fullness of time, Fallon would realize I was not as I seemed. Until then, we lived our life in happiness and soon talked of moving into a larger place. The price at first caused her to balk, but I assured her that I was a woman of leisure for whom price was never an issue.

There was one minor hiccup during our search for the perfect home. The only townhouse my girlfriend truly loved, an exquisite brownstone that was five thousand square feet of perfection, was off the market before we were able to make a bid. 

Her sadness at that event was short lived. The gorgeous place soon was back on the market after the original buyer, some Wall Street whiz kid, met with a sudden and unexplained death the day before closing. She and I moved into our new home in July.

God helps those who help themselves.

No one knows what the future will hold, but I refused to allow anything to dampen the joy and serenity I'd found with my sweetest darling. I would stay with her as long as she needed me, and I would leave when she sent me away. It was sad that our time together would not last forever. But nothing ever does.

The End