Dear reader. You can read the Chapter One HERE.

17:22.

That hour had remained frozen on the roasted face of the church’s tower clock, even since I left town a year ago. Now, the town itself seems to be roasted.

The church, in its humble grace, resembled a quaint model crafted with tender care for a school project. Yet, stood as a silent guardian over the plaza and countless stories of my early youth. Arched, narrow windows. Everlasting white in its walls. Thin columns sustaining the entrance wooden roof, elevated by a few steps down the street. Same street I was watching in case she passed over there, starting to get anxious waiting. No phone, no watch, and a stupid stuck church clock.

It appeared to be not that far from the actual hour, though. The last golden hues of the afternoon were covered by clouds, the breeze was turning cooler, and I was still sitting at the plaza, trying to guess the hour by the sun as entertaining.

Behind me, populating that main space of the plaza—that with the honorific Bolivar’s statue, the local symphonic orchestra was practising a folklore melody. It was marked by the impotent hoarsening of saxophones; slow, sometimes clumsy, like time passing by while I was imagining another possible approach of her arriving. Maybe she would blind me with her hands, —Surprise, little cat!, It’s me!

Still nothing. I started to feel my pulse as a compass tempo for the instruments.

The palm trees heading the plaza used to be gigantic umbrellas, now they are pruned and seem crestfallen. I gave up the watching, and stared at the floor. Cracks had grown over the polished graphite as well.

The whole town had been kissed by the passing of time. And maybe I was a time passenger, seating in a withered version of my once home, with null control over when or where the universe decides to split me out.

The wind smoothly passed over my face, and brought a faint scent of that baby powder with green flowers perfume. Of all the odds, I had not thought she would just sit by my side.

—Hi, Kenny.

Those little obsidian stones in her eyes were looking at me. Her smooth and protuberant lips arched into a tight smile.

—Hey you—. I said, correcting my posture as slow as I could, staring at her, unconscious of what was my face telling. Tried to smile, tried to breathe, but the perfume was overwhelming me with flashbacks. Morning sun filtered in her curtains, the perfume landing to her skin


—I brought this—. She ripped off my thoughts, extending with both hands a long sleeve buttons shirt, neatly folded. Wine-red cloth, blue stoked squares, more memories— It always suited better on you. And I am sorry I’d never gifted to you— she said, looking at the shirt—. Peace offering?

I swallowed a laugh, sounded like a cough.

—I’m afraid I did not bring something for you —I was saying while accepting the shirt.

—No need to—, she shook her head and kept the smile—. Just wanted to give it to you.

I nodded, and did not know what to do next, so I unfolded the shirt and put it on.

One sleeve, the other.

They fell loose on my arms, still a couple of sizes bigger than me.

Fastened buttons.

That smell of hers was laying all over the fabric, surely sprayed on purpose.

I fixed my glasses back to the top of my nose, and looked at her. Her smile turned lighter, slightly showed her teeth, the brackets I remembered were gone.

—Cute —she said, and stood up—. Let’s walk.

And we walked.

We walked all the plaza’s paths, up and down its stairs, crossing green areas yet with noT much green left. Passing through the lights of the remaining working bulbs on those antique lamps, while night was arriving over us. We walked over and over the plaza’s cracked ground in a loop while we were catching up.

She was in her second year at college, architecture degree. The university was out of town, in the city. She was seeing some guy, getting in trouble with her mom in the meanwhile. Her mom was okay, her stepfather as well. About me, I just said that it was a tough year. Then we stopped, already in the night’s dark, and sat on one of the plaza’s banks.

—I know last time I tried to apologize—, she started— it didn’t go well, Kenny.

—Oh, boy—I whispered.

The air just changed, as you could say.

—I swear, I wanted to go, but you don’t know how it was for me


—Bella, we were here before—I replied, and as I was talking I was feeling a kind of bitter humour, like a bad joke—. And it is not about if you felt comfortable with farewells or not. That doesn’t matter.

—What matters for you, then?

—I'm just saying, we already talked about that —I said trying to influence peace.

—Look. You are the first person on Earth I beg to forgive me.

Her eyebrows trembled in an attempt to no blink while she was trying to pronounce every word with deep emphasis.

—Bella


—I tried to talk to you when you were gone—, and then she just spat all the rest, her voice higher with each following word—: and you bitch me and kicked my ass out of your life for a whole year.

I opened my month to say to calm down, but thanks to Lord I did not.

—And even when I knew from the girls that you were back—she continued—, the first thing I wanted was to call you, see you here, and say that I’m sorry. Again!

—Listen, I don’t—she literally stopped my lips with her index, and continue.

—I was hoping that now, in person, this conversation turned different. But you keep seeing yourself as a poor victim —she sentenced, abruptly calmed, with the eyes closed, like a priest saying God’s revelation over my life.

I waited for her eyelids to raise again, and her finger leave my lips.

—It is not that I cannot forgive you. Or that I am still mad at you.

—What it is, Kenneth? —she sounded defeated, irritated—. For Christ’s sake, you really don’t know how fucking hard it is to know what you are thinking. I only tried this time because I am–

At the moment, my throat closed the path to any air, and could not talk. So as hers, I thought.

She left the sentence to fade away, and then faced to the empty bank a few feet in front of us, just to avoid looking at me, I would assume.

—Because I still regret saying no
 —she whispered, crossed her arms, and made a deep breath.

I swallowed a gallon of saliva and achieve to carry air to my lungs again.

—I also tried —I managed to say, and she saw me out of the corner of her eye.

—You tried?

—I tried to be your friend.

—Oh! Let me see. Yeap. Being a horrible friend is included in the list. Want a copy?

—Okay, hold on, please —I was cold and processing the time as fast as a falling feather, not enough oxygen in my brain, probably.

—I am listening —she arched one eyebrow.

I exhaled slowly, trying to calm my heartbeat and do not cut myself in the middle of a sentence.

—I tried to be your friend even when, you know, and I stayed until the last minute in this damn town because I was in love with you.

She turned all her body towards me in a single movement, eyes wide opened, almost with fear. I remained in my position, shallowing more saliva.

—Please, do not act like it’s a huge revelation —I said—. You say you regret it, but never actually pretended to say yes. Do you?

—I
 I don’t know.

—Don’t know?

—It is not that easy, Ken.

—Well, I don’t know why it always needed to be complicated.

—You don’t understand that it actually was.

—You are right, I don’t —I replied, and for a second, found a spark of hope in her words—. But how ‘bout now?

I turned myself towards her, too. We were facing each other.

—Would you say yes now?

—What do you mean?

—I am back, probably going in a week. But I hoped to have a reason to stay.

—Are you serious? —she replied, stunned.

—What’s all this drama for, then? I don’t even know if you’ve really thought about me in that way.

I felt the urge to stand up, realizing I was actually embarrassed just by saying that. My heart travelled back to high school, just a naive puppy following its tale. What was I thinking? I should have just stayed at home on the days I needed to be out. I was there for papers, not for her.

Trying to not looking straight in her eyes, I kept talking.

—If all you want is to be forgiven for how you hurt me, it’s okay—I said, ready to walk away.

—Ken, that’s not what I


—I do forgive you —I interrupted—. I had to endure worse than that when I was away, and I didn’t want you to feel bad. So, I apologize, too.

—Wait —I felt her gentle touch on my forearm.

I kept my sight out of hers. All the rage and sadness I once felt turned into a sense of sorrow. I realized I was hurt not for her, but myself, living in the hope of something would never happen. And even at that moment I was falling in the same hole.

—Just forget about the idea that I can still be around. After all, I simply can’t.

I looked toward the path leading back to the obscured streets of my town, out the plaza, hoping to make it home in one piece. A replica of that night a couple of years ago, walking from her house in my way back to home, alone and ashamed of myself to even think she could feel the same.

—I’m sorry—, I concluded.

I took one step forward, the next hanging suspended in the air. Isabella clasped my hand, using it to rise to her feet. With her other hand, she gently turned my shoulder, guiding us into an alignment where our gazes met directly, face to face.

—Ken, I do think of you in that way.

Then she kissed me.

With eyes closed, I surrendered to the silent ballet of our lips, the tender duel of our tongues, and the whispered waltz of our breaths. All into a blind choreography.

Waking up feeling Bella’s lips was a desperate attempt of my subconscious to push this nonsense away, but there still were the corpses of my parents, painted in red.

My dad’s head shamed. Mom’s neck eaten. I was laying over the backyard’s floor, its irregular texture marked the half of my face’s skin, some rock fragments stuck, and fell off when I managed to stood up again.

Isabella.

Another stream of adrenaline ran over my spine.

The screams of those people pierced the night again, this time with more distance—what was unfolding out there? I thought of the girls, Johnny, mom’s family, even Charlie. Were they all vulnerable to the chaos that had erupted here?

The moon hung high in the late-night sky, casting a pale glow over the backyard and our land. My understanding of the events was hazy at best, and the town’s street are mostly darkened at night. Making the idea of venturing out utterly impractical.

Glancing down at my parents, I knew there was only one thing for me to do at that moment.

Time became once again a distant sense, until at last, the sun's nascent warmth traced a line of fire across my back, heralding the dawn.

Amidst the untamed expanse of our land, I stood drenched in sweat, shirtless, bitten by mosquitoes, with a grimy shovel gripped firmly in hand. My old man always said he were never leave the house, and there I was, only a few shovelfuls left to fulfil his wishes, and to fill where my parents would lie.

I decided to dig a single hole wide enough for both of them. I had never dug something so large before and wanted to get moving as soon as possible. Yet, I was actually impressed to find myself finishing by the clear light of morning.

Once done, what I needed was to clean myself. It was Thursday, so did not expect water in the shower, I was a little sorry to have to use the water in our containers, I required a large bath.

As I walked back to the house, I stepped on my glasses, which I had dropped where I fainted last night. The lenses were cracked, and the frames bent under the weight of my shoes. I cursed under my breath; the last thing I needed was to confront hostile creatures with impaired vision. But then, an absurd realization struck me. I could see perfectly in the night, and even at that moment. In fact, my vision was so clear that I hadn’t noticed the absence of my glasses.

Bewildered, I locked both the back and front doors and left the shovel in plain sight in the living room before heading to my parents’ bathroom.

The cold water washed away more than the heat, sweat, and itch. I felt lighter, but still the fact of renew vision was making trouble in my head. I draped the towel over my shoulders and walked out of the bathroom naked, gazing upon my parents’ empty room.

It was somewhat rustic, like the house itself, but it had lacked love for the past two years. The paint, once a vibrant apple-green, was now succumbing to moisture and peeling. The updated curtain failed to block the light streaming through the window. It was the task of the old television, perched on a small coffee table, to halt the lines of light before they reached the beds—two of them. One was double-sized, and the other, a single, was added when my mother and I arrived. They were the only elements that bore signs of life in the room, meticulously arranged by my mother, who possessed the talent to smooth out any wrinkles in the sheets.

As I turned towards the closet, I was abruptly halted by the reflection in my mirror. I had grown accustomed to the sight of a vampiric figure: nearly six feet tall, pale, with well-defined arms yet a slender frame. However, the man in the mirror seemed to reach the full six feet, his muscles having doubled in size as if he had gained nine pounds and two months’ worth of workouts overnight.

I placed both hands against the wall and leaned in closer to the mirror, entertaining the thought that perhaps all recent events were merely a dream. It was undeniably me—my face, my brown, wavy hair, and dark eyes. Yet, there was my body, inexplicably toned, not chiselled, but noticeably developed. I scrutinized every inch of my skin, ensuring all my scars were in their places.

But as nearly an hour passed, reality set in; I was not dreaming. I continued to gaze at my unclothed, transformed self until the instinct for survival stirred once more.

The metallic clamour of the house entrance’s gate was followed by erratic knocks on the front door. Then came the most harrowing voice I had ever heard, struggling to articulate my father’s name. I could hear his footsteps encircling the house like a wild animal, followed by another, and yet another steps. More screams ensued, each more hoarse than the last.

—NO, NO, NO, NO, NOT HERE. NOT HERE, —the pounding on the back door grew frantic—. ANTONIO, TELL ME YOU ARE IN-

And then, that scream.

That scream tore through every fibre of my being, a cacophony of death amplified by a torrent of icy water cascading over my skin.

They were devouring him.