The Thirst Within Read online

  The Thirst Within

  A novel

  By Johi Jenkins

  THE THIRST WITHIN

  The Thirst Within Series #1

  By Johi Jenkins

  Copyright © 2013 Johi Jenkins

  http://johijenkins.blogspot.com/

  All rights reserved: no part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  For my mother

  Sherry B,

  my favorite English teacher

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  1. Everybody’s Dead

  2. The Harrises

  3. An Outcast

  4. The New Girl

  5. Working Girl

  6. Those Goddamn Cliché Alleys

  7. The Phone Fight

  8. Tori, Interrupted

  9. Angel

  10. Don’t Even Go There, Man

  11. Fat Chance

  12. Angst

  13. Trespasser

  14. Sacred Silence and Sleep

  15. Inhuman

  16. Will

  17. These Violent Delights

  18. Somebody Save Me

  19. Hopelessly

  20. Interview with the Vampire

  21. Sneaking Out

  22. Nights in White Satin

  About the author

  A note from the author

  Prologue

  I barely remember the day that my parents died. You would think that I’d retain every detail of that fateful day; the pivotal moment that turned my future from potentially happy to miserable. Because I was happy then—the pictures prove it. Happy me, in my mother’s arms. Happily blowing out four candles on a birthday cake surrounded by people that look at me with adoring eyes.

  And now I am miserable—no proof required.

  The entire horrific accident should be engraved in my mind. But no, I was only four on that day; I shouldn’t even remember the little that I do. Yet I know I’ll never forget the vague details that I do remember; because who could forget the explosion, the blazing fire, the screams? The sirens, the grownups in uniform taking me away? Away from my dead parents. Away from the man with fire eyes.

  While I recall that there was a man that picked me up and stood with me near the side of the road as the gas station burned down, I cannot remember his face. I can hardly summon anyone’s face from when I was little, but still. I should know his. I’ve always thought that he saved me, since everyone else died: my parents and nine other people. My father’s body was found inside the gas station store and my mother’s in the car where I assume I was with her. So how did I escape? I don’t know. I remember being in the man’s arms, and him talking to me, trying to calm me down. Oh, I remember my wails. I was terrified of the fire, of the hot air, of the people screaming.

  But the man held me and talked to me. And try as I might, I can’t evoke my savior’s face. I do however remember his eyes. Not their true color—that was lost behind the powerful reflection of the fire in front of him; the fire behind me. To me, his eyes looked orange; they were ablaze, angry flames burning inside them.

  And finally, when the sirens were nearby, he set me down. He kneeled in front of me and made me promise him that I would stay put. And then he said something else, something I’ve never been able to explain, so I’ve always chalked it up to remembering it wrong. Because I think he said, “I’ll always keep an eye out for you. I’ll be back for you,” or something along those lines.

  Yeah, right.

  I’m seventeen now, and I never saw him again.

  1. Everybody’s Dead

  The barren landscape outside my window mirrors my feelings, augmenting the emptiness that threatens to consume me. It seems that I’ve had plenty of reasons throughout my life to feel this sense of abandonment, but today it’s like I’m grieving it all at once. Of course. I’m leaving behind everyone I’ve ever known.

  I’m an orphan, Part Two.

  The Social Services woman, a Ms. Leticia Johnson, unknowingly chose the wrong route to start our journey to my new home. We left the small town of Galena, Illinois, and are traveling all the way down south to New Orleans, Louisiana. After an hour on the road we passed the town where I grew up. The sign whipped by in a few seconds—ELDRIDGE—and I had to turn my head toward the window so that my escort didn’t see my tears. We didn’t stop. We didn’t go through town. We just passed it, one of many, many towns we’ll drive by on this trip. My last memory of my old life would be that lone green sign, pointing to a place that couldn’t even be seen from the highway. I wonder if Ms. Johnson even realizes that we passed the last thirteen years of my life, just like that.

  Not that I can complain about her. Ms. Johnson is a charming lady, probably in her late forties, and her Southern drawl makes me feel right at home for some reason. She’s dark-skinned and fit; quite the opposite of my most recent parental figure, my late father’s only sister: the overweight, pasty white Aunt Marie, whose cold words ring fresh in my mind. “I don’t care what you do with her; she can’t stay here.” I shake the memory away. Ms. Johnson is warm and friendly. She has a family of her own, and she’s not spending New Year’s Eve with them to take this orphan down to her new home. It’s a long trip, around sixteen hours, so we’re scheduled to stop about halfway in Memphis and stay the night.

  I have plenty of time to wonder how the hell did I end up here. After my parents’ death my whole life has been somewhat unstable, but I still managed to make it through. That is, until a month ago.

  My last surviving grandparent, Nana, died early in December. She was only seventy-four years old—sure, she was old, but a lot of people make it to eighty. None of my grandparents did. My father’s parents, the Greens, raised me: my Nana Fran and Grandpa John Green. After my parents died, I went to live with them in the small town of Eldridge, Iowa, near the Quad Cities. Grandpa John died a year ago; his bad eating habits finally caught up with him. And my Nana, bless her heart, as much as she loved me and would have wanted to see me grow up, she couldn’t recover from Grandpa’s death. Her health took a sharp decline, and she passed away last December on a Sunday morning. It was just her and me then, so I was the one who found her lifeless on her bed. I called the police. The police called her only living daughter, my Aunt Marie. She agreed to take me in.

  It wasn’t so bad at first.

  Aunt Marie lives in the town of Galena, Illinois, about one hour north of Eldridge, Iowa, where I grew up. She visited often. My late father’s sister married young, but never had kids. Growing up I was situated comfortably enough with Nana and Grandpa that I never even thought about living with Aunt Marie, even though the many times she visited with Uncle Antoine they were both nice to me. I never wondered why they didn’t take me in after my parents died, since they didn’t have kids of their own.

  But I found out last Christmas.

  I had just moved to their house after finishing the first semester of my junior year at North Scott, my old high school. When Nana died, I only had three weeks left of school, so Aunt Marie moved in to my grandparents’ house. That allowed me to finish school while she took care of my house—our house, and my grandparents’ estate. For those three weeks everything was normal. We were mourning Nana. After a tearful goodbye to my friends, the house I grew up in, and the town I knew, my aunt and I left Eldridge on Christmas Eve. Aunt Marie drove the hour-long trip from Eldridge to Galena hauling a truck full of my stuff and other things she couldn’t part with. She was quiet most of the way there.

  Uncle Antoine greeted us warmly and welcomed me into his home.

 
; Then that very night, a week ago, he crept into my room while I slept and asked me to move over so that he could sleep next to me.

  I was shocked and intimidated, but I wasn’t a child he could molest and force to keep quiet. I am seventeen. So I scrambled off the bed, reaching for my glasses automatically, and looked at him defiantly. The gleam in his eyes as he looked at me in my PJs sickened me—the asshole seemed like he was excited. I yelled at him, as quietly as I could; I told him to get the hell out, or I would scream and wake up my aunt. He said there was nothing wrong with what he had asked, that I was reading too much into it, but he left anyway.

  I locked the door and went back to bed while my heartbeat slowed down to normal. I couldn’t fall asleep for hours, afraid he’d be back, that he could unlock the door. I shoved an old rocking chair in front of the door so that it would at least wake me up if he tried.

  I debated telling my aunt—I felt it was the right thing to do, because the man was clearly messed up in the head. But I didn’t want to ruin her marriage, the very first day after I’d moved with her; especially not if he had understood that I wasn’t going to let him, and he wouldn’t to try anything again. Plus I didn’t know if she’d believe me. What if she took his side? What to do, what to do? I tossed and turned for hours.

  But in the morning the answer was presented to me. I awoke on Christmas morning to screams from Aunt Marie. I shoved the rocking chair out of the way and unlocked the door, ran out of my room following her screams, and found her cradling Uncle Antoine’s body in the living room. He was dead. The paramedics came and declared him so. He’d had a heart attack.

  I couldn’t believe it. I knew, I knew it had to do with me. He must have gotten too excited over something—maybe he thought I would tell on him and was afraid—and had died. Regardless, I was free. It would be my aunt and I, the way it had the last few weeks back in Iowa.

  Nope.

  I really didn’t see it coming when she kicked me out.

  She claimed she was perturbed and could not deal with her husband’s death so close to her mother’s. That I had to find a new home. She turned bat shit crazy in less than one day. Social Services were called. My one remaining living relative, my mother’s brother Roland Harris, was contacted. The situation was explained. If he didn’t take me in I would end up in foster homes. He said yes. He’d take me in.

  Uncle Roland lives in New Orleans, Louisiana. I don’t even remember what he looks like. I know he has two kids, a stepdaughter my age and a boy about seven. It’s off to this house, so many miles away, that I’m being escorted by Ms. Johnson of Social Services.

  To a guy who never cared for me. To his wife and her two kids.

  My unknown cousins.

  In the freaking South.

  2. The Harrises

  As scheduled, Ms. Johnson stops in Memphis to spend the night. We stay in a roadside hotel, thankfully not too shabby. I have the lamest New Year’s celebration of my life, and I grew up with old people, so that’s saying something. Still, I manage to show a little excitement when Ms. Johnson hugs me good night, and wishes me a happy New Year.

  But I’m really a mess of nerves inside.

  I’m going to live with my obscure relatives on my mother’s side. People I’ve never met. My mother was from the South; her parents and brother still lived there when she had me. After she died, my contact with her family was almost severed. My maternal grandparents both died before I turned ten. Grandpa Sal Harris was a grumpy old man who smoked too many cigars and always reeked of them. He died only a few years after my parents, so I barely remember him. I just remember not wanting to be around him. Grandma Rose died when I was nine, and she was very sick the last few years of her life. So my guardians—Nana and Grandpa—never took me to see her.

  Grandpa Sal and Grandma Rose had one other child, my mother’s brother Roland. He never cared to get to know me. He didn’t even invite me to his wedding, which was the year after Grandma Rose died. From what Nana told me, his wife was a young widow who already had a girl my age. The girl was a junior bridesmaid in their wedding. Not too long afterwards he had a son with his new wife. This son is actually my only cousin, yet I’ve never even seen a picture of the boy. I don’t even know his name. They are all strangers to me.

  I have no idea what to expect, and I dread meeting my uncle and his family tomorrow. Because if this one doesn’t work out, that’s it for me—no more family. When I finally sleep, I have dreams filled with anxiety.

  The next morning we resume our trip. By sunset we’ll be in Nawlins, like Ms. Johnson calls my new city. Her stories cheer me up immensely. The whole trip she talks about Nawlins’ great food, festivals, heritage, charm, and makes my future seem so bright that I almost feel excited—almost—when we finally make it to Lake Pontchartrain, because according to Ms. Johnson the lake indicates that we are very close to the end of our journey. As a treat to me, we cross the lake via the Causeway, which Ms. Johnson tells me is the longest bridge continuous over water, and she says we didn’t have to go this way but did anyway because she thought I may like it. And I do. I marvel at the wonders that humans have created and feel better about life, as my excitement grows. The bridge seems endless, the blue water stretches left and right of the Causeway, making me feel alone but part of something bigger.

  When we finally make it to my uncle’s house, my eyes widen in disbelief as it comes into view. We cross a white wooden gate that someone left open and drive up a long driveway, at the end of which is the very pretty house. Ancient-looking oak trees line the driveway, their solemn branches filling me with an eerie nostalgia. The gardens are full of exotic plants and are well manicured even though it’s the winter and everything should be bleak and gray.

  “Fancy, isn’t it?” Asks Ms. Johnson. “You’re in one of the nicest parts of the city. I hope you’ll love it here.”

  Then all my previous enthusiasm vanishes and I cry. I already feel like an outsider, and the only person I know in New Orleans is the Social Services lady, and she has to take off and leave me. I feel orphaned all over again.

  “Now, now, child, don’t cry. The Harris are a nice family. I interviewed them for this responsibility, you know. You’re going to have the closest thing to a sister. A stepcousin your age! Isn’t that nice? Aw, come here, baby,” Ms. Johnson says kindly. She leans over to the passenger seat and puts her arms around me. “Everything’s going to work out. There’s something strong about you, I can see that from a mile away. And me, I can usually tell with these things.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Johnson,” I say as I wipe my eyes pathetically.

  “You need any help, anything at all, and you call Ms. Johnson, you hear me?”

  “Yes, Ms. Johnson,” I say, and I already know I’ll want to, but I probably won’t.

  She helps me bring my bags up to the front door. My uncle Roland—I’m assuming—opens the door sporting what looks like a genuine smile.

  “Tori,” Uncle Roland says my name in singsong, and walks up to me and hugs me tightly, but briefly.

  I’m still not one hundred percent sure this man is my uncle, so I simply reply, “Hi.” I detect a little bit of a twang in that single syllable. I must’ve picked it up from Ms. Johnson in the last thirty hours we’ve spent together.

  He extends his hand to Ms. Johnson and says, “Thank you for delivering her. It’s good to see you again.”

  “Not a problem at all, Mr. Harris,” says Ms. Johnson, tacking on his last name quite possibly for my benefit. “Your niece here is a darling young lady.”

  No one else comes out to greet me, and I assure Ms. Johnson that I’ll be fine, so she doesn’t take up Uncle Roland’s invitation to stay for dinner. I know she is eager to get home, and she has another half an hour of driving to do, back to her family. After all, she didn’t see them for New Year’s Eve. So I take a deep breath as I hug her, trying to clear my head and suppress the foolish desire I have to cry again.

  Then she leaves, and I’m left on the d
oorstep with two huge canvas bags, which contain my entire wardrobe, plus a handbag, my backpack, and my purse. Some boxes with the few personal items I possess should have been delivered here already.

  “Wow, little Tori, you’re all grown up,” my uncle says to me. “You remind me so much of Lisa.” Lisa is my dead mother. “It’s been a while since the last time Ms. Frances sent any pictures of you.”

  “Well, she was a little distracted after my grandpa passed away. And before that she was busy taking care of him,” I reply. I don’t know why I feel the need to defend my Nana, when the correct answer should be if you wanted to see me, you could’ve gone visit me. Asshole.

  “Of course, of course,” he says, waving his hand dismissively, as if he never cared about the pictures in the first place and was only making small conversation. “Well, let’s get you in, shall we?”

  He grabs both of my large bags and I grab the small ones. I follow him into the house. It’s huge, and I immediately feel threatened. I was raised by retired people, living off their small pensions. I always had enough, but at school all the kids had nicer clothes than I ever had. I never asked my grandparents for the pricier brands because they always complained things were so expensive “these days.” I felt just a little ashamed of not having brand names when my classmates did. Entering this house feels like that, but a hundred times worse. Like I’m not enough, and I possibly smell.

  “Hello, Tori,” a chirpy voice says to my right. I turn and see a striking woman. She’s wearing makeup, something shimmery that makes her look other-worldly, and intense blue eye shadow. I wonder why she’s wearing makeup in her own house. She’s got beautiful olive skin, dark hair, light green eyes, and thick eyelashes. This must be my new aunt of sorts. She’s prettier and younger than I expected her to be.