Chapter 7: Henry's Past.
585 Words
That Friday evening, after work, Peter came to pick Lilith up as usual. But this time, he wore a playful smile that made her raise a brow.
“Lilith,” he asked as they walked to his car, “what plans do you have for the weekend?”
“None,” she shrugged. “Do you have any?”
“Actually…” he paused, then glanced at her. “Do you take alcohol?”
Lilith laughed. “Of course I do. Why?”
“It’s just—I’ve never seen you drunk. The way you usually behave… I want to see your reaction today.”
She burst into loud laughter. “Oh no. You don’t want to see the drunk me. You can’t handle it.”
“I’ll handle you properly,” he said, his tone suddenly firm but gentle. “I’m here. Go all out. I’ll pick you up, keep you safe, take you home.”
“Fine then,” she smiled. “Let’s go.”
Peter took her to one of the high-end clubs in town. He ordered food first, acting all responsible, and Lilith didn’t suspect anything. Soon they were talking, laughing, and he kept refilling her glass—slowly at first, then insistently.
Eventually, Lilith got completely drunk. Not tipsy. Not silly. Dead drunk.
She climbed onto tables, danced wildly, hugged random people, laughed until she choked on air—chaos in human form. She remembered none of it.
Peter eventually dragged her out and drove her home.
The next morning, Lilith woke up in her bed, alone. For a moment she thought Peter had slept over, but the house was empty. Her head throbbed violently and her body felt drained—as if she had run a marathon in her sleep.
She stood to clean up… and froze.
On her palms and feet were tiny cross-shaped cuts, fresh yet strangely healed—no pain, only faint marks glowing against her skin.
“What day is it?” she whispered. “Did I get drunk last week and only woke up now?”
Confused, she checked her phone.
Saturday.
“What the hell are these cuts then?”
She called her boyfriend to apologize for the chaos she must have caused. No answer. She assumed he was busy.
She showered, cleaned the room, made breakfast. She even tried reading her novel to distract herself. For two hours she sat, flipping pages… until she suddenly felt thirsty.
She poured herself a glass of water. Drank it. But the thirst didn’t leave.
Another glass.
And another.
By the fourth glass her hands were shaking.
“What is happening to me?”
She glanced at her liquor cabinet and her eyes locked on a bottle of red wine. In that moment it didn’t look like wine.
It looked like blood.
And God help her—she craved it.
She stumbled back, horrified by the thought, shaking her head to get rid of the image. She tried to focus on anything else, but something inside her felt wrong… changing… awakening.
Meanwhile Peter never called.
She texted.
She called.
Hours turned into days.
Nothing.
Then one afternoon, she realized she had been blocked.
She forced herself to act strong. “Relationships don’t last anyway,” she told herself.
But deep inside…
She knew something had happened that night—something she couldn’t remember, something that wasn’t normal.
And that was only the beginning of her tragedy…
and the tragedy that would soon swallow her entire family.
- Writer
