"MOM!" Nikita's shout cut through the story, and I shook my head. In an instant, Galina's carefully painted scene dissolved. Her words had a hypnotic pull, immersing me in the past so vividly that I almost felt I had lived it myself. Every emotion, every moment, seemed to pass through me as if we were one.
"Nikita, it's not polite to interrupt your mother at the most interesting part," Galina chided gently.
"I don't like the way you talk about the woman who raised me. Show some respect," he snapped, his voice sharp with the defensiveness of youth.
Galina's lips curved into her usual, slightly unhinged smile, and she shrugged:
"Will my side of the story be fair then? I'm only telling you how I felt, and that's not something anyone can change. Of course, this woman—"
"She has a name," he interrupted, more forcefully this time.
"Yes, of course she does," Galina said, conceding, "and your attachment to her is understandable, as are your feelings. But can you expect me to feel the same?"
Karimov fell silent, crossing his arms over his chest and letting out a discontented snort. He had no rebuttal, and Galina nodded with quiet satisfaction before continuing:
"I watched my son for days as he tried to explain to her what the young vampire truly needed. For every desperate plea for blood, there was an equally desperate attempt to eat what human food could offer. Through the suffering etched on his delicate face, he finally finished his plate, rising silently from the table. Soon, the jingle of keys sounded, and Nikita bolted from the house. I followed, keeping my presence hidden among the treetops, observing his path to school. Day after day, the same exchanges repeated—the same struggle, the same silent pain. And slowly, I saw the toll it took: dark circles carved themselves beneath his eyes, his once-vibrant skin drained to a lifeless gray, his frame thinning with each passing week."
I hesitated to speak. How could I? What could I possibly say? "Hi, this woman isn't your real mother. I am. Let's be friends?" The thought paralyzed me. I had nothing to offer him, nothing to bridge the gulf that had grown over years. For what felt like an eternity, I remained a shadow, an observer on the sidelines.
Everything changed the day Nikita deviated from his usual route home. He was following the steps of a girl—probably a classmate—and the shy curiosity of a teenager masked the danger beneath. My instincts screamed, urging me closer, warning me of the impending disaster.
The warning proved true. In the narrow archway leading to the courtyard, among the faceless buildings, Nikita caught up with the girl. In a flash, he seized her from behind, pressing a palm over her mouth, dragging her toward the wall. His predatory gaze burned red in the dim light, eyes glowing as if dipped in fire. But within that glow, I glimpsed the truth: desperation, thirst, and despair had overtaken him. Immediate action was required.
I surged forward. Nikita, like a dog guarding its prize, prepared to sink his fangs into the girl's flawless skin. Without thinking, I thrust my hand forward, instinctively guiding him. His sharp teeth pierced flesh as easily as a hot knife through butter. For a heartbeat, his wide eyes locked with mine in astonishment. Then, surrendering to the nature I had finally understood, he drank—once, twice, three times. His grip loosened. The girl escaped, running without a backward glance.
Nikita clung to me, greedily drawing every drop. I stroked his hair, murmuring words meant to calm him. Color returned to his cheeks; the gray drained from his face, the dark circles vanished. He lay against the asphalt, sated, bewildered, staring at me as if to ask what had just occurred. I couldn't explain it. Instinct guided us both, as if fate had written the script in invisible ink.
"We need to leave," I said, offering my hand. Hesitant, he accepted, and together we melted into the shadows of the forest, far from prying eyes.
At first, Nikita rejected my story. Everyone he knew was human. He couldn't believe in what he'd seen, and his doubt hit me like a slap. Yet, I held firm. I had no proof beyond the mirrored reflection that showed our shared features. Could he truly see what was real?
Hunger, however, left him no choice. He couldn't sustain himself on human food, and eventually, he yielded to the compromise I offered: occasional, voluntary feedings. He recoiled at first, unwilling to harm anyone. Gradually, though, he understood that this was the easiest way to survive without cruelty.
Our rare meetings became a window into my life. I shared fragments of myself: my pregnancy, the sweet anticipation, the fleeting joys I had known. Slowly, he began to ask questions. The intervals between feedings lengthened, and I realized the forest was no longer a home, but a cage. I ventured into roadside bars and diners, hunting subtly, carefully, targeting transient truck drivers who were passing through. At first, luck favored me. My presence was soft, my actions unnoticed. Some men mistook the sensation for passion, their minds protecting them from the terror of truth.
But my restraint could not last. One night, in the cab of a truck, the hunger overwhelmed me. The driver's body went limp beneath me, his breathing ceased. I remembered the first life I had taken in the hospital and vowed never again to let blood claim another. Yet, the allure was irresistible. It called to me like whispered promises, sweet words that offered oblivion, urging me to drink until the emptiness inside me was filled at last.