The thing about Rasheen Perpetua is this: as much as he chooses to forget, he cannot help but to relive.

-

Time.

It's a funny thing.

Isn't it?

It's a languid thing, slowly passing, slowly eroding, slowly existing – untouchable to all. It continues moving in something that isn't linear, isn't possible to truly be graphed. It's like laughter liquefied, except not as content; similar to a wave's kiss, except not as silky; comparable to a gargled scream, except not as contained. And perhaps that's why it intrigues the lives of all who walk the earth. Maybe it's because everyone knows it's a concept made by physicists, wanting a measurement; or, conceiving it's due to the fact that time doesn't give one damn about the human existence.

But people care about time, revolve their entire lives around it.

Because how long did it take for him, with his left-winged liberal ways, to upset a right-winged conservative man? A day. Because how long did it take for him, with his quick-footed ways, to escape a literal bloodbath with pulsing legs? A few hours. Because how long did it take for him, with his eyes cast in a dream, to spend moments drenched in a nightmare? An hour. Because how long did it take for him, with gentle and benevolent thoughts, to crave the destruction of many of his own? A minute. Because how long did it take for him, with future-filled thoughts, to reminisce his past time of before? A second.

Because how long did it take for him, with loyal blood, to stay with his clan, to not turn his back on newfound family, to not turn back into the human he misses?

I...

He can't answer that one, because desires like those don't die or dim with the passing of time.

Rasheen could choose to forget it all, but he's living this reality; he has been for the past three years. He could have gotten over it, his deal gone wrong, he supposes, if it hadn't been for the pain he feels. It's nothing metaphorical, of course – he's not that whimsical. No, the pain he's experiencing is coming from the spot in which he broke dawn a little over three years ago: two, tiny teeth marks erupting from the side of his neck. Had it been like the sting from a sterilized needle, or even the gash left from a papercut, he's sure he could ignore it.

But it starts strongly, and he's sure it will only end in a worse condition.

Maybe if I...replace it with another hurt?

He remembers when he was young and would get chronic headaches, he would always start thinking of his tummy instead. He would think of a boiling ice and melting lava pit inside his stomach, rupturing and erupting. Somehow, those thoughts would make him forget about his head pain, and when he realized the ache was over, he could simply stop concentrating on his stomach. Certainly, he could have taken a pill as to not waste time focusing on an untouchable tangent, and he acknowledges this – but where would he be now? Where would he get a capsule for the stinging of a vampire's bite?

Nowhere.

He realizes that answers both questions, and he smiles ironically.

Standing from the sole chair in his apartment's living room, he makes his way over to the treadmill in the corner. When he bought it a year or so ago, the salesclerk had recognized him from school and asked why he needed a machine when he was always running outdoors anyway. Rasheen hadn't even considered that, honestly. So he replied with a meek, "I get cold sometimes." It was a lie, because the lack of blood running through his veins leaves him a constant state of self-cold, not a "sometimes" gig.

I feel warm at times, too.

Adjusting the settings to low, he steps on the tread and begins a slow jog. He stares out one of the various windows of his apartment, wanting the sunlight to begin to grace him soon enough because even his thoughts deceive him. His head whips to the side, eyes scanning for the clock's familiar hands. It's only one minute past six in the morning, and already he's disappointed.

He thinks it's too early, and then laughs because not even two hours ago, he was binge watching some cooking show, thinking that culinary arts may become his next profession if he has forever as a limited amount of time.

Don't get distracted. Get rid of the pain.

Without thinking much about it, his fingers hover over the machine's control panel again, switching all the gears to high. The familiar acceleration of the machine skims the bottom of his sneakers, and he lets himself smile. He likes this, the feeling of being rushed when he's been proven to have an unlimited amount of time – or perhaps, an unlimited amount of life, because at least he can measure that. And he doesn't really need to breathe, but he does so, heavily. His eyes refocus to a spot outside his window, and his arms pump as his legs move.

A small amount of sweat is breaking over his forehead, and it slowly begins to drip down across his face. At one point or another, he can't even tell the difference between sweat or tears – or why he's crying in the first place. All he knows is that they both taste of salty regrets and bitter memories, of something very Rasheen-post-promise-esque.

Maybe I can let go now.

Maybe he can.

So he does.

He completely halts his movement, stays frozen in place, and even stops his feigned breathing, all for the machine to continue speeding by under his stiff feet and buckled knees. He is swept by, legs thrown behind him, chin hitting the back end of the treadmill. He rolls over on his side, hard too, and he feels his hearing aid sink deeper into his left ear and pop out of his right.

Shit, shit, shit.

His plan was to get hurt with a couple of bruises he would get over in a day; he never intended for himself to actually get hurt and have a throbbing wave of pain take over his head. He gets up slowly, hands aiding him as much as the rest of his body. With cautious movements, he bends down to pick his aid up, gently holding it in his hands. He raucously makes his way over to the bathroom, the mirror working perfectly for him despite most myths.

With toilet paper, he cleans his machinery, making sure to swab the tiniest corner of blood. He turns his head to the side, grimacing at the amount of blood coming out. Despite being a vampire, he isn't prone to blood – he hasn't since was a kid and became a devout vegetarian, and he isn't now as an adult with the same mindset and living condition.

Becoming slightly light-headed, he takes a seat on the toilet, one hand pressing against his ear to create pressure and to keep the blood from flowing, and the other creating friction against the wall so he won't fall over...again.

Wouldn't want myself getting hurt, would I?

Despite this continuing throb, he does. Because the pain he feels from the left side of his head isn't real pain. If anything, it's a pesky annoyance he can't wait to get rid of. Even the ache coming from his split – and now-bleeding – chin doesn't bother him as much as it should. The upcoming formation of bruises along his chest and abdomen are completely ignorable, too. All of this combined aren't even a sliver of a fraction of the amount of pain that the old pain from ten minutes ago is bringing him.

Get over it, he tells himself.

He walks over to the mirror, hands now gripping the sink for support. Looking himself over, his chin and left ear both founts for river-like blood, he mutters, "You did this to yourself."

I did this to myself.

I did this to myself.

I did this to myself.

He's not wrong.

Because it took a day for him, with his left-winged and liberal ways, to upset a right-winged conservative man. Because it took a few hours for him, with his quick-footed ways, to escape a literal bloodbath with pulsing legs. Because it took an hour for him, with his eyes cast in a dream, to spend moments drenched in a nightmare. Because it took a minute for him, with his gentle and benevolent thoughts, to crave the destruction of many of his own. Because it took a second for him, with his future-filled thoughts, to reminisce over his past time of before.

He did this to himself because it took a lifetime for him, with loyal blood, to stay with his clan, to not turn his back on newfound family, to not turn back into the human he misses. It took nothing, yet it took everything, for him to give himself over for people he hasn't seen in a belittled fraction of his forever.

He supposes that, in his lifetime, he could have accepted the tempting girl's offer.

I did this to myself.

And he supposes that, in another lifetime, he did.

I did this to myself.

And he supposes that, in these two dueled lifetimes, something went wrong.

I did this to myself.

He's not wrong; but he's not right, either.

He's not wrong because something went askew. When asked, "You want your human life back, don't you?" he could have easily given a yes or no answer. Instead he replied, "I choose my...life. I-I...I choose them." But what was this said life? His life as a vampire, or as a human? And what of this said them? Them as in his clan, or everything he's missed?

He meant his life as human, reconciled with everyone from his past as a mortal. And he knows the girl understood; she smiled wickedly, told him to meet her at the same spot, twelve hours later. When he showed his face, though, he received the worst news of his life, and was left beguiled and tricked.

Then again, he's not right either because this happened in this lifetime, something short of three years ago. Has he forgotten? Possibly. Is he reliving? Maybe. He doesn't really know at this point, thoughts clouded and muddled with something indescribable, the only word coming to mind being "searing."

No image of himself is required to be present; the disgust is already there, and has been for quite some time.

I did this to myself.

No finger is required to go down his throat; the vile comes on out, all on its own.

I did this to myself.

No released grip to hold a mere stance is required; he falls down on the floor, withering and searing in pain – stronger than that which he felt when Caroline died, and he was left to swim in the dark corridors of his brimmed mind.

I did this to myself.

It takes a second for him to close his eyes, feigned breaths back; it takes a minute for him to compose himself enough to at least lay down with his eyes facing the ceiling; it takes an hour for him to stop bleeding, the crimson liquid pooling around him in a dangerous amount; it takes a few hours for the pain to stop, the withering and burning and yells of angst coming to a halt; it takes a day – no, less – for him to stand up, mind ignoring the pain of his neck and of his head, refocusing on an ache he would rely on as a child: his stomach.

With every imaginary growl his ears pretend to pick up, his eyes blink red. With every thunder of his belly he imagines himself hear, his eyes blink red. With every feigned quiver of his stomach he thinks he can distinct, his eyes blink red.

Red.

Red.

Red.

Didn't someone say that red is the color of desire? And didn't Rasheen say that desires like those don't die or dim with the passing of time?

Time, your relevancy remains. Time, you've tricked me again. Time, you don't give one damn about the human existence; yet, we care about you and revolve our lives around you.

Time, I think it's time for a change.

And maybe his mind is more muddled than alert because he's not sure what change he's thinking of, or more alert than muddled because he's not sure if it'll be worth it. He hopes it will, though, because he did this to himself: seeing red as time progresses.

He looks at the clock. It's only ten in the morning, and he smiles because of this.

If he went back ago in time three years, he knows exactly where he was.

Three years ago, he was back in his city's outskirts, the dense trees of the forest obscuring him from a girl who held a promise and a cure.

Three years ago, he waited for the girl, smiled as she got closer and closer to him.

Three years ago, she said, "I'm sorry. Our clan can't deliver anymore. The anecdote...we're using it on someone else."

Three years ago, he asked, "What? Is this some type of joke? Dude, don't mess with me like that. It's not funny."

Three years ago, she replied, "No, Rasheen Perpetua. It's not a joke. We're using it on...m-my father. He recently got bitten, and it's the only way for him to be safe from everyone else. I'm sorry."

Three years ago, he cried, "You promised."

And two years ago, he went back to the spot in the forest where he and the girl with a broken promise and an undelivered cure talked for the second time. It was that year that she told him what happened with her father. He died, and Rasheen was glad. It served him right.

And one year ago, he went back to the spot in the forest where he and the girl with a broken heart and an undelivered smile talked for the third time. Only that year, she didn't show her face around. So he looked for her. And once he caught her smell, he tracked her down – he found something much better than her, too; he discovered she had a little sister.

And during this year, he's starting to find that his false stomach pain is becoming much realer; it's growling, thundering, and quivering for one thing in particular: flesh of the innocent, the same way in which his conservative tuner craved the blood of a liberal boy who spoke his mind.

My mind is no longer alert and muddled. Today my mind is, and it's in control.

He steps outside, almost daring to go into the deli and getting a meat lover's sandwich, even if he knows it'll be useless. Cutting through alleyways and deserted streets, he makes sure that no one can see him as he runs – during his lonely years, he's improved his mile time, cutting down from its original five-twenty-five to a four-thirty – and once he's certain, he runs as he never has before.

There is direction in his mind – the forest – but his feet are the ones that travel – their house.

He's not shocked to find the tiny one-story house empty; it is Sunday, after all, and they are a very religious family despite the monster living under their roof. The girl isn't a creature of the night because she's like him, though that may be part of it; no, she's a horrid beast because she stays with her family, very well knowing the danger she's putting them in.

Danger like me, he thinks, smirking.

In his mind, he repeats: it takes a day for me to track a family. There is a car pulling into the driveway, and two females step out.

It takes a few hours for me to observe them. He climbs up a tree, watching them with his eagle's eyes.

It takes an hour for me to show myself. Ringing the doorbell, he waits for the older sister to open the door. When they make eye contact, he punches her in the face and watches as she almost crumples to the floor. He catches her just in time, drags her in and places her on the couch.

It takes a minute for me to make my way inside and into the girl's room. His hood is off because he wants the little girl to recognize him, and when her sister wakes and realizes they're both the same, he wants her to tell the other of the crime committed against her innocent self.

"Reece?" he hears a soft voice call out, thinking she can't be any older than twelve.

He replies, "No," in a clear and crisp voice.

There is a quieted gasp, and then, "W-who are you? Where's Ree –"

Perhaps she had more to say, and had more to see in life too. But Rasheen doesn't know that, and neither does she. She's on the floor before any of them can notice, and he's holding her down, one arm across her chest and the other straining her hair. Her eyes, much like her sister's, stare at him, completely empty but some tears.

"This is because your older sister doesn't know how to keep promises." He inches closer to her, breathing down her neck and enjoying how she squirms. "She should try harder next time." A hand covers her gargled screams.

Time now controls the way he laughs because with each ticking-chuckle, his teeth sink further into the little girls' neck; with each tocking-giggle, her screaming becomes fainter under the pressure of his entrapping hand. And time also controls the way he finishes his meal because, in a second, it's over.

And so is she.

-

The thing about Rasheen Perpetua is this: as much as he chooses to relive, he cannot help but to forget.