Page 27 of Poison Sun

Dust particles dance in the light, and streaks of dampness stain the walls around the narrow, rectangular windows near the ceiling that look out to the top of the sidewalk. A glance at the kitchen—which is simply a few ancient appliances lining the far wall—reveals puddles of water on the floor near the hot water pipe.

The apartment looks like it’s been through the apocalypse.

Damien frowns, making his way through the space to inspect the damage. “The building’s maintenance has clearly been lacking,” he says.

Now that I’m seeing him here, it hits me that he’s never seen this apartment. He looks so out of place in it. Like an alien from an advanced planet examining the comparatively uncivilized living conditions on Earth.

Earlier, I thought the brownstone where the Guardians live couldn’t be more different from the Fairmont if it tried. But nope—I was wrong. Because that was nothing compared to the differences between my grandmother’s basement studio apartment and the Fairmont’s shiny skyscraper.

Oh well. Nothing I can do about it now.

“I should call and get someone to fix everything,” I say.

“No. I’ll send some of my people to get it cleaned up,” he says. “I should have been doing that to keep it maintained from the start.”

“You’ve had a lot more to worry about than the state of my grandmother’s apartment.” I wander over to the dresser, where a picture sits of my grandmother posing with me as a toddler, the two of us next to one of the maple trees in the backyard of my house in Vermont.

Damien’s behind me in a heartbeat.

It’s quiet for a few seconds, and I can feel his cool breath on my neck.

It strikes me at that moment that I’ve never worried about him losing control and tasting my blood.

Before I can think more about it, he asks, “How did she die?”

I let my finger linger along the frame, my thoughts drifting away from Damien’s potential bloodlust to when my mom sat me down to tell me the news about my grandmother’s passing.

“I didn’t know her well,” I start, as if that makes it less tragic. “I don’t think I’d seen her since I was the age I was in this photograph.”

“I see,” Damien says, not pressing further.

I hear him step back, and I place the picture back down on the dresser, turning to face him. He’s watching me with sympathy, and in that moment, I want to tell him.

What can it hurt?

“It was a car crash,” I finally say. “Her taxi was on West Highway when it happened. The cab ignited soon after the crash. The driver got out, but my grandmother was trapped in the back. So… that was that.”

I shrug, trying to brush away the haunting images that cross my mind as I think about the accident.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know how hard that must have been for you and your family.”

His eyes speak words he doesn’t say.

It reminds me he’s been alive for so long that he’s seen countless people come and go. Family, friends, comrades, and probably lovers.

After all, I can’t imagine he’s gone so long without having loved.

I swallow hard, nodding, and focus back on the present. “Thank you,” I say. “Even though we weren’t close, she was still my grandmother. It’s a strange sort of grief—mourning someone you didn’t really know, but who you feel like you should have known. It’s hard to explain.”

“Grief is a complex creature,” he says. “It doesn’t matter how well you knew the person. Loss is loss.”

“Yeah,” I whisper, grateful for his understanding.

We stand there for a moment, lost in our own thoughts.

Then, as if remembering why we’re here, Damien steers the conversation back to where it started. “Do you want to keep looking around?” he asks. “There might be something of hers you want to keep.”

I consider it, glancing around the cramped space that holds the last physical traces of my grandmother’s existence.

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