Under a Silent Moon

17

Chapter Seventeen: Blood and Water

LANA

I try to pry Zack's fist open to lead him away, but they're too tightly balled at his side. I realize with terror that the only way to distract him from Gemma is to cut my palm--again. I tug out one of my earrings and use the sharp edge to slice open my healing wound. I attempt to do this nonchalantly so as not to draw any attention to us, but I can already feel the eyes wandering in our direction.

Zack's pulled from his trance when my damp palm makes contact with his arm. He looks down at me as if to say What the hell are you doing? but my eyes are pleading with him to follow me.

He does, and I lead him out into the hall. I need to find a secure place out of sight, and the only thing that comes to mind is the boy's locker room. My palm outstretched, Zack trails closely behind me, his focus on the blood that's beginning to spill over my cupped hand and down my arm. I feel as though I'm taunting a dog with a bone, and he's lying in wait for me to throw it.

There aren't any classes going on in the bigger gym this period, thank God. I only hope that there aren't any miscellaneous students in the locker room.

I shout "Hello!" into the rows of lockers and receive no response. Coast is clear. I go to the sinks and rinse my hand off, all the while keeping my eyes on Zack. His pupils are still large and dark. I'm about to say something when his hand shoots out and grabs the one I have drenched under the water. He's holding my wrist in such an unnatural position that a stabbing pain shoots up my arm.

I attempt to struggle free but it's no use.

"Zack, please. Please let me go!" The mixture of blood and water trickles down my arm and soaks into my shirt.

To my complete and utter horror, he brings my bleeding palm to his mouth and begins to drink.

The pain is so consuming that my knees buckle and I fall to the ground. Zack bends down with me, my hand still at his lips. His eyes are closed as he savagely feeds on my blood. I scream and thrash and beg him to stop but it's like he can't even hear me. Either that or he ignores me with ease.

All of the commotion I'm making alerts a nearby teacher who peers into the room asking, "What's going on in there?"

I'm in so much pain I can't even form the word "help."

Zack detaches from my wound. His lips are bright red. Despite my agony, I reach forward and quickly wipe his face with my sleeve. The teacher runs up to us, sees the blood, and says, "I'm getting the nurse."

"No, no." My voice is back. "I'm okay. I hurt my hand in class and he was helping me clean it up."

"Why are you on the ground then?" he asks. "And why are you in the boy's locker room?"

"I-I didn't want to disturb the other students. It's kind of a mess, as you can see." It's the first lie that I think of.

The teacher's brow is furrowed. He doesn't believe me.

"I can walk. I'll go to the nurse."

"Okay . . ." he trails off. "Do you need me to go with you?"

"Nope, we're all good here." I stand and pull a wad of paper towels from a nearby dispenser. Wincing, I press it lightly to my laceration.

Zack stands too, suddenly aware of his surroundings. He doesn't turn to face the teacher. Instead, he brings his T-shirt up to his mouth to wipe off any remaining blood.

"I'll walk with her," Zack says, turning only his head in the teacher's direction.

"I'll be out here setting up for my next class. Holler if you need my help with anything," he calls down to us, pausing a moment afterwards before the doors swings shut behind him.

Zack releases his weight onto the bench sandwiched between two rows of lockers, resting his head in his hands. The scene eerily reminds me of what he looked like on the bench outside of the mall.

Not this again, I think to myself.

"Lana," he says, and for a second I think he's choking up. "I'm so sorry."

"Practice," I tell him, catching my breath. "It was only more practice at controlling your urges."

"Dammit!" he exclaims, throwing a fist into a locker, denting the blue metal. "I can't control my urges. I failed. Again. And you got hurt. Again."

"Hey, hey," I say, taking an apprehensive seat next to him. "I told you I'm here to help. It's only my hand."

He glances down at my still-bleeding cut, and promptly books it to the opposite side of the locker room, faster than I've seen any human move before.

"I'm sorry," he says again, softly. "I'm sorry I'm so fucked up."

"We're all fucked up," I implore. "Trust me. You've no idea."

After a minute of complete silence from the both of us, Zack insists he walk me to the nurses to get my hand bandaged. On our walk there, I can see him glance at me several times. I think I even see him open his mouth to say something once or twice, but words evade him and he keeps his eyes fixated ahead.

The nurse doesn't believe my story about cutting my hand in gym class. I'm not sure why. Maybe I'm just a horrendous liar. But she doesn't press the issue after wrapping my hand and sending me off to second period. Zack and I part ways in the hall. I urge him not to worry about me, that it doesn't even hurt anymore.

"Your first day back started shitty, but cheer up. I told you I was a good setter. Don't be such a sore loser." He returns my smile but it doesn't meet his eyes.