Two Glasses of Wine

In the unseen realm, I have no form. No hands, no legs, no head. No heart. No fangs. Just pure energy that hangs in the fog. Grey clouds that dance between this weird state that I can be found.

I also have no dreams. I suppose that one day I had, but not recently. Although there is no way to be sure. If I try to hard to remember… nothing comes besides a weird and intimidating sentiment. Only that lonely scene comes to me — my father being murdered by my own mouth. I ate him, bit his skin, chew his flesh. And he choke on his own bright red and sweet blood, loking at me with terrified eyes.

The memory punches me into somewhere cold and distant. I float in shadows, finally becoming part of them when my eyes open.

Light invades the room like it conquers the crimson walls and wood floor. It hurts looking at the brightness of the morning. The sun in all splendor entering trough the open window.

The first thing that I feel is not the softness of the blankets or the comfortable pillows. It is the dry throat. I groan, pushing my body to the side of the bed. In the nightstand I find water, but it's far from being enough. The cold liquid goes down my body, refreshing me, but then vanishing. I crave for something that was given to me yesterday.

Oh, this night.

Right. The dinner. The awakening.

I mumble something that even myself can't understand and throw my legs out of bed. It's a massive one, crammed with silk, fur and the glory of an old king who died in war. Have I ever slept in such a bedchamber, with golden chandelier in the ceiling? Maybe. Who knows.

Peace comes to me when I close the velvet curtains and the light partially goes away. Not all of it, of course. Light is like an earthworm that crawls in all the space that can get. There is a small bathroom that I find when the door next the wardrobe is open. I look at my reflection in the dusty mirror, the opaque eyes, the messy hair, the pale skin.

A dead boy's face. It makes sense — I don't feel alive. If I truly was, I would be only God knows how terrified with the remembrance of last night. The blood in my mouth, this dammed thirst. What did I just became? What is this?

A frustrated scream leaves from my lips before my hands bring water to my face. The cold doesn't affect me as much as the thought of the man and his crooked wicked smile. Where must he be at this time of day? And much more importante: what kind of place is this?

I ponder if it's smart to take a bath at this time. Maybe, if the rules of good etiquete must be followed. But there is no other way to discover mysteries in a haunted place like this if not leaving when I have chance. For God, is the door even unlocked?

I run to it and try the door handle. It spins with noise, old and forgotten. The dust of the corridor comes to my irritable nose, but I can hold a sneeze in the last second. It's dark here, no light, no window, no hope. My eyes adjust naturally for the shadows as I take the first steps to be part of them.

This place is grandiose in antiquity. The perfect place to go if you want to disappear. I suppose that was the man's intention after all — he doesn't look like someone with too many acquaintances. A shiver comes to me when I notice that even his name I don't know. He has a face, a crooked smile, a strange accent and the weird need of letting clear he is my father. What makes no sense. The memory I have is clear, leaving no doubt behind.

After some time wandering between corridors, I finally arrive at the curled staircase that we followed last night. But now an incredible light comes from the glass ceiling, hurting my eyes, making me hesitate. I can't remember why, but there is a phobia inside my body of the sun.

Different from last night, there is silence. The things that screamed inside those walls must be sleeping — wandering in the unseen realm, with no face, no soul, nothing. Pure energy. Like stars.

My feet wander in this old shining house. It doesn't look so scary now, with the sunlight everywhere. There are paintings from people I never saw before. Using clothes from different times, with different stories inside their hearts. Statues, ornaments, bookshelves. And then, making my heart stop for almost one tire minute — a big dark door, the entrance of this nightmare.

I don't think twice. My hands go for it, but when my skin touches it's surface, a scream gets out my mouth.

"What the-"

I look at them with heavy breathing and tears. It burns. Like I just sank my hands in boiling water.

"Son?"

The voice makes me jump in pain. I turn to find the man in his sleeping clothes, more old and grotesque than ever. Purple circles down his narrow eyes. The bony fingers. The mouth that becomes slowly a smile.

"What are you doing?"

I hide my hands while heat takes my face. "Nothing." It annoys me that I act like a child in a situation like this, but I am one. There is no need of memory to understand that my body is still in development. Maybe fourteen years old? Fifteen?

"Were you trying to run away in the middle of the day?"

His voice is so damn cruel. And of course this monster is enjoying every second of this scenario.

"Who are you?" Rage and fury burn in me. "Let me leave!"

"What kind of atitude is this?" He looks at me with unbelief. "This is way of talking to your own father?"

"I AM NOT YOUR SON!" I scream, tears rolling in my cheeks. "I DON'T KNOW WHO ARE YOU! JUST… STOP!"

His laugh gets everywhere. Again, it climbs walls like little demons. I shrink, my own arms embracing myself in this search of security that I cannot find right now.

"Stop…" I cry out, closing my eyes.

But it takes a while before that. When he is done, the man looks at me with pity.

"Son of mine, sometimes I forget how funny boys your age can be." He takes his hand to his temple and massages it with a sight. "Stop with this childish atitude. And follow me, so we can have a proper conversation."

I don't want to go, but like an enchantment, I follow his figure again to the corridors. A door is open and a splendid library reveals to my tired eyes.

"I am your father." He says with such confidence that for one moment I doubt my own memory. "I made you."

"The why I have memory of other man?"

He looks at me with bored eyes before serving wine in two glasses. One he gives to me while drinks from the other.

"You suffered an accident. The memories you have are not from this life."

"You cannot be my father. We…" I point to him and then to myself. "We don't look like each other."

He laughs once again and gives his old body rest when decides to seat in an ancient chair.

"I am your father." He repeats. "There is nothing else that you need to know beside the fact that your blood came from mine. If that was not the case, why would you be able to drink mine in such despair like yesterday?"

My heart stops beating.

"I did not drank… that."

"HA!" He laughs, shaking his head. "Poor child of the night. You did drank blood. Look at this." The man shows me his hand where a terrible scar stared back at me. "This is your deed."

"No!" I grow the wine glass in the floor, scarlet staining the greenish carpet. "I did not do such a thing!"

He looks at me with interest, studying the emotions in my face. "You did. You are a monster just like me."

"I AM NOT!"

And with those sharp words I manage to attack him with the nails. Trowing them to his cheeks, catching his peaceful moment off guard. A screams leaves his throat as he pushes me to the other side of the room.

"STOP WITH THIS NONSENSE!" He says, suddenly grabbing me by my neck. "WHO DO YOU BELIEVE YOU ARE TO DO SUCH A THING WITH YOUR OWN FATHER?"

"Let, let me… GO!"

He increases the pressure in my neck, taking out my breath. "Stop…" I cry, feeling pain, not death. "Let me…"

He finally leaves me, but before his palm wounds my cheek with such a strength that darkness spins in my sight. I fall hard on the floor, shaking with fear and fury.

"You…"

"Listen to me. This kind of situation is unacceptable in my house. As punishment, no blood for you this day and night. You shall be by your own. Locked in your bedroom. And tomorrow, by the twilight, we must start out work."

"I am not…"

"You will." He says, grabbing my hair. "You will do what I tell you, and no complains. Or else you'll suffer terribly for it."