That one hit Brennan right in the gut. Somewhere, the Dr. Morris in his head was saying something about narcissistic, emotionally immature parents, but Brennan couldn’t hear her. He stood up, needing to move, pace, run.
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Brennan said. “I’m on top of things. Look, I should go—”
“Okay, me, too, but you know you have my credit card for anything you need, you don’t have to ask.”
He made it a few feet before something else caught his eye, something bright pink in the grass to the side of the road.
Brennan crouched and picked it up. A pink scrunchie. No tags, no labels, nothing distinguishable. But it was something. It might have even been the thing the girl was looking for. Why, though? What did she want? What did sheknow?
“Brennan? Did you hear me?”
Brennan shoved the scrunchie in his pocket. A problem for later. More questions for the journal.
“I don’t need anything,” Brennan insisted.
She was already paying his rent since he’d lost his tutoring gig last semester. He knew she had money now and they were in a realm of living comfortably, but clipping coupons and counting quarters to get groceries when your mom forgot to (and then went to an out-of-town conference without you) was a habit that died hard.
“You need toeat.Coffee doesn’t count. Order some DoorDash on me. Any night of the week. You look like you’re starving. I must look like a terrible mother.”
She hung up, and Brennan stared at theCALL ENDEDscreen for a moment too long.
He went through a slideshow in his mind of reasons he loved, respected, and was proud of his mother. She was a hard worker, she instilled a value of knowledge in him, and sometimes when he was a kid she’d pull him out of school to take field trips to the zoo or the aquarium or the library because she always said life outside of the classroom was as important as life within one.
And with that appreciative disclaimer out of the way, he allowed himself to shift to the stormy cloud of negativity that hereallyfelt. He let the anger drive his feet as he headed home.
That was one thing Brennan couldn’t stand about surviving his attempted suicide in March: everyone wanted to relate it back to them. He had barely processed his own feelings about trying to off himself before he had to juggle everyone else’s—the concern, the worry, theHow can I help?s and theBut you’re better now, right?s. All he wanted to do since then was move on, but with each passing month, people kept wanting to hear that he was doing better, that he wasgood.
But to be honest? He’d been fucking better.
Except no one wanted to hear that. Hell, Brennan didn’t want to hear it, either.
Brennan’s throat returned to its natural state of severe burning, and that was when he sped past the angst and bullshit and focused on something else his mom had said.
Because Brennan knew what it felt like to drink water when you were hungry.
When he was twelve, he had his first existential crisis, and spent daysand nights mainlining Gatorade and familiarizing himself with every popular idea of life after death. He didn’t realize he hadn’t eaten for a week until he passed out in front of thirty unforgiving seventh graders while presenting a book report onThe Book Thief.
Drinking the blood of animals felt a lot like that. Enough to soothe the ache for a moment, but not enough to stop it. And Brennan had a theory about whatwouldsatisfy the craving.
Worse, that voice of the girl crying in the library rang in his head. Someone had gone missing around the same time Brennan woke up and realized he was a vampire. Brennanmaybeneeded human blood to live, and hemaybehad a block of lost memory between getting hit by a car and waking up in his apartment, a totally reasonable eight hours during which to commit murder.
In typical Brennan fashion, he briefly contemplated suicide. In a cool, totally low-key and logical fashion, thank you very much. But he guessed somehow, somewhere along the way,someof the therapy must have worked, because not being alive wasn’t an appealing option. At least, it was less appealing than being—undead.
And really, just that feeling was novel. As someone who tried to kill himself six months ago, “optimistic” wasn’t a word he freely associated with himself, but this semester he’d been almost hopeful.
The guilt and the angst were par for the course. But trying to do something about it? Having hope? Wanting to keep fighting? To keepliving?
That was pretty new to Brennan. He’d only just gotten those things back.
Brennan shuffled back toward the bridge and sat down on it with his back to the rocks like he used to do. He squeezed his eyes shut. Did eight counts of a breathing exercise he’d learned from the therapists at the in-patient facility he went to after his attempt. Opened his eyes.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the journal he now stowed there at all times.
If Brennan dared to want to exist on this planet, he’d have to drink human blood. Which meant morally gray situations and committing minor felonies, things Brennan generally tried to avoid.
He couldn’t drag anyone else into this shit the way he used to dragpeople into his moods or make his mother worry. This was his problem, and he’d figure it out on his own. And he’d do itwell: if he had to be a vampire, he’d be the best damn vampire this side of the prime meridian.
Because yeah, of course he had a plan.
