Page 34 of Love Immortal

Thirty-Three

T he first few days following the massacre don’t feel real.

It’s like I’m watching my life happen to someone else, like I wasn’t there in that mansion, one of only two humans to survive the deadliest Halloween in the history of Camden.

The police return to campus, and this time, it’s not just local cops. The FBI, national and local news, and flocks of true crime fans all descend on Camden. Crying parents, shocked students, and baffled authorities are everywhere.

I hide out, mostly in my dorm or in the library, until things quiet down. Once the police finish their first round of questioning, the swarms of reporters grow bored and move on to the next American tragedy, and as they leave, the exodus of students and faculty begins.

“My parents are pulling me out of school for at least a month,” Fiona says. We’re in my room, sitting on the edge of my bed. My door is tightly shut. This is the first time I’ve seen her since the night of the massacre, since we promised to tell nobody where we spent Halloween.

“They’ve invited you to come too,” she adds quietly, but she already knows my answer, and she knows it’s better this way.

“I think I’m gonna stay here,” I say.

She nods. For a moment, she’s unusually silent.

“About that night…” I start.

Fiona turns to me sharply. “We can’t ever talk about this, Jonathan. Ever. You understand?”

I’m taken aback by how intense her voice is, bordering on panic.

I couldn’t believe how fearless she was when she strode into that murder mansion and stood up to those bloody vampires to save me. But just because she was brave doesn’t mean the experience didn’t affect her. She saw her roommate killed and couldn’t do anything to stop it. She must be traumatized and grieving. Besides, Dacian was right—it really isn’t safe to talk about it. Five dozen kids’ lives ended in that mansion. The authorities will look for the killer, and when they don’t find one, they’ll need to save face and find someone to blame. Even if all evidence of Fiona’s and my presence at the party has been destroyed by the fire, we can’t afford to be reckless.

“Okay,” I acquiesce, though it breaks my heart that the victims will never see justice and that their families will never know what happened. But no matter how much I want the truth to prevail, some secrets must remain secret forever.

But not everything hidden must stay that way.

“There’s something else,” I say tentatively. “Something I’ve never told you about my life before Camden. But I want to tell you now.”

“Go on,” Fiona says hesitantly.

“My ex-boyfriend, Clay, he…he didn’t dump me. He killed himself,” I finally confess.

As my story spills out of my mouth, something inside me fractures. My eyes begin to burn as pain floods my chest. After days of silence, of no contact with Dacian, the inescapable reality that he’s gone is setting in, and I don’t know how to handle it. I’m beginning to question everything that led me to this point, every decision I’ve made and its consequences. I used to be so sure that I was doing the right thing. But if that’s the case, then why am I so alone?

“Now all I have left of Clay is this box of letters, and I don’t know what to do with them,” I say, my voice starting to crack. “I couldn’t burn them like he wanted me to. But maybe keeping them is wrong. Maybe all my noble intentions are actually just me being selfish because I don’t know how else to live my life.” Tears stream down my face freely now. I don’t even know who I’m talking about anymore—Clay, or Dacian, or maybe both.

Fiona waits for my sobs to subside before she replies, “There’s this concept in logic called survivorship bias. It’s an error that occurs when you look only at success stories, when you draw conclusions from studying only the so-called ‘survivors’ of a process. They coined the term after World War II when engineers were studying bomber planes that returned to the U.S. bases from the front lines. They were trying to figure out which parts of the planes needed to be reinforced. But at some point, it occurred to one of the guys that what they should really be looking at were the planes that had never made it back. Because those planes had been hit in their most vulnerable places, and those were the parts that needed reinforcement. If we concentrate only on those who survive, our understanding of the world gets distorted, and we make mistakes going forward. It applies to history too. You can’t draw the right conclusions if you hear only one side of the story.”

“But Clay is dead,” I say, sniffling. “There is no one to speak for him anymore, other than his letters.” And Dacian is no longer here , I don’t say aloud. And maybe I’m the one who drove him away.

“That’s exactly why I think you’re doing the next best thing,” Fiona says softly. “You’re keeping the letters because they’re a piece of the truth that would otherwise be lost forever. You’re making sure they are never forgotten. I know it’s not an easy choice to stick with, Jonathan.

“You know, my mom’s family immigrated to the U.S. in the late fifties, but on my dad’s side…well, his ancestors were brought here on slave ships. They are doing this project at Emory, using cargo notes to create a database with all the information we have about those ships so people like my dad can look up which ships their ancestors were trafficked on. And yes, it’s very painful to look at. But should we turn away just because it’s difficult to confront? Should we let the dead stay dead and move on? Or do those people deserve to be acknowledged?” Her sad eyes glisten.

I throw my arms around Fiona’s shoulders and squeeze tightly. “Thanks. For everything,” I say. “For coming back and saving me. For sticking around. For being a true friend.”

She sniffles, returning the hug. “Call me, okay?”

“I will,” I promise.

A month passes quietly, but Fiona doesn’t return to Camden. I don’t think she ever will. I wonder if I would leave too, if I had a place to go. But Camden is all I have, even though everything here reminds me of him .

To cope, I bury myself in my studies. My dreams are so empty that most nights I don’t feel like sleeping at all. I stay up and read, and read, and read. Not just class assignments—novels too. I try to remember as many titles as I can from Dacian’s stacks of books. Reading the same stories he read is like a ritual that keeps me connected to him in some nebulous way, even though he has chosen to stay far away from me.

It also helps to pass the time as I wait, which is the one thing I do the most.

I don’t know what I’m waiting for, exactly. For the seasons to change? For this clawing ache in my chest to go away, to get buried underneath the snow like the piles of fallen leaves?

It’s unclear, but still I wait. And wait. And wait.

Thanksgiving passes. I spend it alone in my dorm with my books. The first snow falls, resetting the colors around me to a blank white slate, as though this place is ready for the start of something new, or at least the death of something old. Some of the students who left campus trickle back in. Maybe they were unable to transfer somewhere else, or maybe they realized that every college has its tragedies, so why bother hightailing it to somewhere new?

Finals are approaching. But as time crawls forward, my heart remains suspended, unable to move on. Everything that mattered to me before has faded. Only reading still holds my interest in this endless procession of monotone days.

One chilly December morning just before finals week, I check my campus mailbox. As I sort through the stack of class correspondence and holiday flyers, I find two strange letters. The first one is from the Oxford Office of Admissions. I stare at it for a moment, mystified. I check the name on the envelope, wondering if I got someone else’s mail by mistake, but it’s addressed to me.

I open it and skim the contents. I don’t understand. I start over from the beginning, this time reading slowly and carefully, and yet it still doesn’t make sense to me. Words like congratulations and your transfer application has been accepted jump off the page. There’s a mention of my requested major, which is conservation with a special emphasis on books, and information about a private scholarship I’ve been awarded so I can pursue my studies full-time. At the end there’s a phone number to contact the Office of Admissions. Also in the envelope is a welcome brochure detailing the next steps I must take in order to enroll for the spring semester.

I gape at the letter. Is this real? But how could it be? I never applied. I never even told anyone that Oxford was my top college choice. There was no point, considering my financial situation. Yet somehow, it’s all taken care of—my scholarship will even cover room and board. Am I dreaming?

Suddenly, a memory comes back to me. There’s one person I did tell that early October afternoon on the bench by the pond. My pulse speeds up. It bounces in my rib cage with an irregular rhythm as I move on to the second letter. My hands shake. The cream-colored envelope is luxuriously thick and expensive, not your average post office stationery. But there is no return address on it and no sender, only a name written in the most beautiful and achingly familiar cursive— Jonathan .

My throat constricts. I clutch the letter to my chest as I stumble out of the mail room, not trusting myself to open it in front of other students. I don’t make it back to my dorm, though; I’m not that patient. I find the first empty bench on the green, wipe the snow off it, and sit down to read.

My dear Jonathan,

I have started this letter so many times, only to find myself unable to put into words the things that must be said.

I am not a good man. I have countless regrets and crimes I must atone for. The rest of my eternity may not be long enough to accomplish that. In the end, I couldn’t even stop myself from hurting you. To this day, it remains one of my biggest regrets.

I’ve had some time to contemplate what you said that night.

I spent centuries in the shadows, yearning to be found and set free. But it turns out that it is easier to remain unseen than to bear the possibility of being rejected for what I am. After all, becoming your true self is not a gate one simply opens. Instead, it is a long road to travel, mostly uphill and in bad weather. I must come to terms with these truths. Yet I know now that the only way to move forward is to try.

I hope you will forgive my impudence in contacting Oxford on your behalf.

I’ve always wished someone would come along and show me the world, but I’m beginning to realize that maybe I should be the one showing the world to someone else. And I hope that someone can be you. If you will still have me, I am yours.

Love,

Your immortal

D

By the time I finish reading Dacian’s letter, my fingers are trembling, and my eyes are blurred with tears. I wipe them with the back of my hand to avoid accidentally marring the beautiful ink. Flurries start to fall from the shimmery gray sky as I sit on the bench, not able to move, just holding on to the letter like it’s a lifeline. Conflicting emotions swirl inside me.

I want to punch him for disappearing without a trace, for using his powers on me without my consent, for leaving me alone all this time when I could do nothing but wait.

But then, after I punch him, I’m going to kiss him. I will kiss him senseless. I will kiss him and never stop kissing him for all eternity, every inch of that stubborn, infuriating, unbearable, and beautiful vampire.

But first, I need to make a phone call and buy a suitcase, because I, Jonathan Evergreen, am going to Oxford.

THE END.

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Kit