TITLE: Nightingale (v.2) CHAPTER: 8.ii/12 CHARACTERS: OC, vampire!Taemin, Kai GENRE: Vampire!AU, Secondary/HS RATING: PG-13  WARNING!: bloodplay (consumption, non-descriptive gore), mild psychiatric events, bad juju WORD COUNT: 4,955   Author’s Note: This chapter was rewritten 13 times and revised a total of 27 times. Holy Krisus.   Chapter VIII.ii       Bea wakes with a start.

The immediate reaction is to rub her eyes repeatedly and stumble half-blind into the nearest washroom. Preplanning courtesy of autopilot.

Prickles dance inside the sensitive flesh of her eye sockets; not the lid, but the physical organs of her eyeballs are irritated. She squints to lessen the irritation and maybe it’s her imagination, but all she sees is red red red.

Oh, it’s not a mirage, but the red isn’t gore. Ruby linen, the sheet of a bed is wrapped around her frame and there’s a firmness that isn’t a pillow underneath her head. Her limbs come to life slowly, each sending a signal to her brain saying, I’m attached! Except one arm that registers as a pillow.

Still squinting, comes apart from the inside, tongue detaching from the roof of like Velcro, taste-buds peeling off with the sense of sandpaper. The X amount of time she spent unconscious has to accumulate to at least 24hours, if not more, which ultimately guides her decision in locating a water source.

Water. Yes, water sounds lovely.

The ArmPillow crossed underneath her head is heavy with sleep when she uses it to push herself up, an unnatural series of cracks sing from elbow to wrist. Her legs dip over the edge of the bed along with the bedspread, the linen not doing anything to protect her bare feet from the coldness of the floor. She lazily drapes the remainder of the bedspread over her shoulders, trying to retain warmth. It’s so cold.

Her head is hung low, eyes closed as she rotates her neck slowly. To the West, around to the East and back again. Crkk crrk crrack. She makes a pleased sound and breathes in deeply, releasing it in an impressive yawn.

Pre-tears tickle in her ducts as her eyelids unpeel, eyes focusing on the interior of the room--

“What the ?”

Everything is a hazy, fuzzy warp of shapes and colours. She closes her eyes and rubs them, aiming to remove all rheum that blocked her from seeing. No luck, the nightstand to her left is the clearest piece of furniture and even the object on it is blurry. She reaches out to touch it and bites her cheek after jabbing her fingers on the woodwork; it’s closer than she thought. She reaches for the cylinder object, her fingers don’t curl correctly the first time but at the second attempt she seizes a bottle of water and chugs it down.

The water is warm but it quenches her thirst nonetheless. Her chest heaves after the lack of oxygen and she blindly sets the empty bottle back on the nightstand, but it lands on something potentially not made out of wood and bounces to the floor, rolling somewhere unknown.

Ignoring the litter she shuffles close to the ‘stand, knee bumping its leg. She searches for a lamp when there isn’t one and her stomach calls her stupid by rumbling. Food is the next thing on the agenda--after vision, of course--a meal to satisfy the hunger that has been stirred awake.

Her hand lands on a cool squishy pouch, no wait, two, no, more than that; they’re stacked. She picks one up and brings it close to her face--anything farther than arm’s length is unclear--and it’s just as she expected: a dark pouch full of blood. Type AB.

At the top of the plastic is a niche where it’s meant to be torn; at the edges near the airtight seal the fluid flows in little vein-like streams and bubbles. Blood really doesn’t look like what it does in films.

Vital essentials to survive; live; are blood and water. We’re already 70% water, but more is needed daily; different from blood cells that do not multiply like skin cells, which is why a mass loss of it is deadly.

As of now Bea dismisses the intake of blood she was forced to ingest (and regurgitate) as a sick initiation. With an incoherent sense of sight and ¾ of a mind to process, just litres and litres of water is not considered heavy enough to sustain from the mild turbulence going on in her stomach.

Bea squeezes, the plastic following the groove and open spaces of her fingers. The bubbles multiply into smaller bits and flow about the seal. Wouldn’t it be daft to let this fine portion of thick plasma go to waste? What better way to take control than to consume [ill] donated blood on her own terms? (Force feeding is completely and utterly, almost regrettably, a dominating act. One in which this protagonist is not accustom to).

She makes up her mind before it side-tracks to the negatives and sets a list of humane morals.

At the same time her breathing pattern changes on its own, into short wisps. Her heart beats quicker, and she thinks of how it would taste; fresh animal versus preserved human.

Hot versus Cold.

She swallows thickly and exhales sharply. This is it. The niche fits between her teeth--(and it occurs that she could use her fingers instead)--and gives under the pull, tearing quietly like the predetermined cut should. She stops midway and carefully handles the half-open pouch, using her nose to move the flimsy piece out of the way.

The bag tips before she realizes, tongue raising to taste-test just a globule of bittersweet iron and when they meet she straightens herself and the bag. Tongue out in the open, she slowly closes , letting the drop of blood weave itself around the forest of her buds.

It tastes just as she remembers: rusty.

She blinks. “Huh.”

The pouch is to her lips once more and another, this time a splash, displays itself across her tongue. The fluid is thick and sticky, a swipe of her tongue cleans it all up and she’s reminded of winter outings and bitter dark chocolate in drinking form.

“What. . .?”

Bea blinks again, no longer straining to focus, to find that the room isn’t as dark as she thought it was. The washroom door is closed and a dim light comes from behind, but before turning around Bea places her lips over the opening of the pouch again and lightly squeezes the middle. Copper seeps over her oral cavern and with each swallow her eyes blink away the itchy haze.

Interesting. All she needed was a few drinks of this and her vision is clear. She stands, pausing to ensure no fallout and walks to the washroom, but the closer she comes to the door the stronger a fetid scent becomes and when it opens her nose stings.

Rounded shapes are laid about in unusual places; on the sink, toilet, the tiled floor and over the edge of the shower area. The smell is strongly familiar and when Bea flicks the light switch she slaps a hand over .

The scene is gag worthy--not in the funny sense, mind you. Used towels are scattered around with reminders of The Incident, her clothes from then are dumped torn and soiled in a mess beside the shower and as she steps in further the washed-out stains seem more prominent. Around the shower drain are small bits of unknown matter that didn’t fit through the holes.

Skeptically she touches the hair by her neck and brings strands to her nose; it’s dry and stiff, and smells faintly of moss. Instead of using the mirror she looks down at herself, at the sleepwear she brought from home. The empty plastic is dropped and forgotten.

Every light is , every handle twisted and every cubicle opened as Bea discovers that someone took the liberty of storing her belongings in a neat fashion. Clothing, accessories, as well as unmentionables are even organized by colour. Heat raids her ears. She slams the undergarment drawer shut with more force than necessary, releasing an exasperated sigh and hoping this is female’s handiwork.

“Oh my god, I swear.” Bending down, she picks up the discarded plastic and gives it a look, not even bothering to mind that its contents are in her stomach. She tosses it in the wastebin without looking in the mirror and as fate would have it, someone knocks on the door.

“Who is it.” She answers with every right to be rude and annoyed because come on, someone has seen her .

The response is two more sharp knocks. Like whoever it is purposely doesn’t speak to annoy her further.

Chances are it’s one of three students, neither of which she wants to see yet; or a deranged vampire, quite likely; or maybe it’s Kai, she would be glad if it is.

So she huffs and puts on a straight face before opening the door. “What? Oh.”

The person she sees is not Kai, but a version of Kai that she’s never seen; maybe she caught a glimpse of this Kai when he belatedly ignored her at dinner(breakfast?), but this Kai is a far cry from the jovial one she met in the beginning. He is a mirrored reflection on cracked glass.

“A good morning to you, Miss. I do hope you have enjoyed a long rest. Do you require my services or shall I return later?”

Her mind jumps in several directions before he says, “Housekeeping, Miss.” And she breathes out.

The only indication that he meant cleaning--and not his body--is the trolley to his side; it’s stocked with spray bottles, condiments and extra towels. It doesn’t help that his collar does nothing to hide two small, but noticeable bruises, and his whole air is obviously worn out. He looks beyond tired, and the dark circles he wears are only a sign of sleepless nights.

She swallows thickly, guilt riding her system. “Um, the washroom is a…mess. I didn’t do it though.” She steps back.

He nods, rolling in and immediately setting to work. Bea takes a seat out of the way and watches him toss soiled towels and ripped clothing into the trolleys hamper. He chooses a purple spray bottle and green sponge, squeagy noises coming from a rough scrubbing. Stains of vomit and blood and God knows what else disappears under the pressure.

Kai erases the disgusting sight and smell so fast Bea doesn’t know what to say when he starts replacing the towels and dumps the wastebin too. He pauses and she thinks he’s spotted the empty plastic when he sets the tin in its spot and turns around. Her stomach flips.

“May I change the sheets?” he asks in a voice so flat, unrolling sanitation gloves and tossing them.

She hesitates to say no, but it’s not like she had to. He took her silence as a yes and has already started pulling them off. He comes near her to lift the mattress on the end and the angle of his neck provides her with a better view of the tattoo hidden under his hairline. It is indeed circular in shape, but with a fanning swirl blowing counterclockwise.

“Does that mark on your neck mean anything?”

Kai stops, shoulders tense.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“. . .thank you.”

“For what?” Bea’s just glad he spoke.

He resumes dressing the bed, mouth closed.

She tries again. “Would you possibly know what happened to me? I mean, I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep or how the washroom got that way.”

“About thirty-six hours you’ve been asleep.” He drapes fresh linen across the mattress, expression dull. “As far as I know it was due to a fainting episode.”

36 hours, incredible.

He puffs the pillows before folding back the duvet. He looks at her then. “If there is nothin