aware (peterick)

6

Waking up alone with broad daylight streaming in through the windows was not something I'd been prepared to experience. Idiot. I'd gone through all possible measures to make sure the windows and doors were locked tight last night, and yet I hadn't thought once about closing the god damned curtains.

In a frightful panic, I prepare myself for the wrath of failure, for the sight of charred bones and black blood coating my living room floor.

But it's clean. The entire room is spotless, just as I had left it.

I check the time. It's eight thirty; the sun hasn't been up for too long. It doesn't settle my nerves, though. Where the hell- A horrendous crash from the back of the house jolts my skeleton out of its skin.

Balling my hands into fists, I jump to my feet and scramble out into the hallway. From the direction of my bedroom I can hear a scraping through the walls, the obnoxious sound of a heavy object being dragged across the floor, and for the first time in my life I'd like to thank God for making me a lazy snob who never bothers to open his curtains.

The door is cracked slightly open, and upon peeking through the gap, I see that I seem to have acquired a practically unusable bedroom. Opening a door should be one of life's simplest tasks, a task that's now near impossible with the hulk of the bed shoved up against it. Extra points for practicality, though, as it's cleared a convenient space for the wardrobe to sit, lying on the floor with its closed doors facing the ceiling.

Considering he can't remember how to walk or talk, the kids got clever instincts. Actually, I've come to think that the sneaky bastard has been hiding the fact that he can walk ever since he got here; I mean, unless he crawled through the house on his hands and knees, how else could he have found his way in here?

Tucked away in his makeshift coffin, I decide to let him rest. I don't suppose it's too comfortable in there. I'll make a note to buy some blackout curtains next time I'm out shopping.

I'm halfway to the couch when the doorbell rings, and I groan, staring longingly at the piece of furniture like it's a useless mirage in the middle of a desert. Only somehow I know that the front door behind me is a lifesaving reservoir. I take the bait and answer the door.

I stare right passed the woman with the clipboard on my doorstep to speculate the lorry parked up in front of my house. It has a red cross printed on the side labelled 'Temperature Controlled Delivery,' but there are no phone numbers or addresses, as other such vehicles would have; the public can never know why. I wonder what they think all this blood is being used for...

"Who gave you my address?" I demand of the tanned, brunette woman on my porch.

"You tell me," she clucks briskly. "You filled out the form before they let you take him."

"I was going to call in an order today."

"And we realized you have priorities. We have a few boxes for you," she explains, gesturing behind her at the three stacked cardboard boxes. "That should be enough to last him a month, so we'll be back in four weeks' time to stock you up. Every month, for as long a time as you need. All free of charge, of course."

I yawn. Those boxes look heavy. I'm already dreading the effort of hefting them inside. "How do you have so much of this stuff, anyway?"

"Donors," she beams, her smile that of a proud mother whose son has won the certificate for 'most well behaved student' at school. "We decided on type O, as it's the most common. But it doesn't really matter. Blood is blood. I'm sure it tastes no different. I hope you've got a big refrigerator," she laughs. I don't. She drops her smile and she clears her throat. "I just need you to sign this document..."

"Uh, of course." Hesitantly, I take the clipboard and pen from her hands and sign my name on the dotted line at the bottom of the page attached. I hand it back to her, and she scribbles down her own signature next to mine.

"Think of this as an agreement contract," she says. "We won't tell if you don't tell. All for keeping the vampire society safely hidden away from prying human eyes, right? Pleasure doing business with you."

Before I can thank her or shake her hand, or even bid her farewell, she pivots on her heel and walks hurriedly back to the lorry, climbing into it and driving away. My face contorts into an expression halfway between a yawn and an eye roll. This world homes far too many annoying people. But hey, I've got that all-important lifesaving reservoir out of it. Completely free, too.

One by one, I heave the cardboard boxes into the house, tripping over all three of them at least twice before there's enough room for me to shut the front door. I repeat this process a number of times until they're stacked back on top of one another next to the door in the kitchen that leads to the basement. I have neither the time nor the effort to take them any further. I do have a large fridge freezer down there, which was already installed when I moved in, but to be honest I'm not really a fan of dark, scary basements.

Fuck temperature controlled distribution, and fuck cardboard boxes, too. A refrigerator only takes an hour at most to cool something down from room temperature. And if the kid wants it hot, I have this thing called a microwave.

Oh man, I can feel four hours of sleep catching up to me.

I better be heading back to that mirage...