3. Juliet

What isit about food that makes people burst into happy noise? Because even on a day where we're about to get strapped down and milked for blood, the cafeteria is abuzz with laughter and conversation. Humans line the rows of tables, sunshine streaming in through the windows. The smell of coffee and bacon wafts through the air, the breeze drifting in through the open windows already warm at 7am. It's going to be another scorching day.

The ridged metal of the bench digs into my thighs, and I wriggle back and forth, trying to get comfortable. I curse how bony my ass is now. I've lost so much weight since they brought me here and I hate it. It's not even down to a lack of food, food production was definitely something the feeders kept up. But it's monotonous. I find no joy in food anymore. Or anything else for that matter.

Goddamn, Juliet, throw yourself more of a pity party.

I sigh heavily, and Gina gives me a wide smile.

"You ok, sweetie?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine. It's just hot already," I reply.

"Did you sleep well?" Her smile remains, beaming at me from over the edge of the white cup she's cradling in her hands. How is she always in such a good mood? She's always smiling and laughing and trying to cheer us all up. It's sweet but jarring. Maybe I'm just tired.

I shrug, pushing the scrambled eggs on my tray around with my fork. "Not really, it was too hot."

"Yes it was," she says, tossing her long dark curls over her shoulder. "I really hope they get that air conditioning fixed, it's been so long since they said they would."

"Yeah." I gaze out of the unbarred window at the sunshine. My hair is frizzing in the humidity. I claw it up on top of my head and secure it with a black band I have on my wrist. It's so fucking long now, but the feeders don't let us cut it very often. They claim something about hair being a good indicator of health, so rather than argue we all just look like Woodstock Reimagined. I wonder what the hippies would think about this future.

I feel eyes on me. I look over my shoulder, and feel a shiver down my back. One of the feeders is staring right in my direction. Just staring, his arms crossed over his chest. I'm imagining it, but the way his gaze intensifies when my eyes meet his tells me he is definitely looking right at me. I quickly turn around and look back at Gina's smiling face.

"Are you sure you're alright?" She asks in that motherly tone that makes my heart flip just a little.

"Yeah I'm fine. Just tired. And not looking forward to draining."

Gina takes a sip of her water and shrugs. "At least we get to sit down and don't have to work outside, huh?" Yep, she always sees the bright side of things. I prefer working outside to being stuck with needles and watching the feeders take as much blood as they can without killing me.

I glance back over my shoulder, and the feeder is still fucking staring at me. His eyes are that weird rusty red color all the feeders' eyes are. He's young, or at least he looks young, maybe 25 or so. He could be 200 for all I know. He's leaning against the wall, wearing that stupid green military uniform all the feeders wear to make it appear that they have some sort of authority. Someone walks by him and I realize how tall he is. He has to be 6'5" at least.

And he's still staring at me.

Uneasiness creeps through me as I wonder if he was the one who paused by my bed a few nights ago, who sniffed me out while I was getting myself off. Fuck. I shiver at the thought. Then I realize I'm still staring right back at him.

The horn sounds above us, signaling that it's time to head over to the clinic, making me jump and diverting my attention for a second. When I glance back at the wall, the feeder is gone. I breathe a sigh of relief. Fucking creep.

Gina hums as we head to the clinic, and I chide myself for finding her positivity irritating. We all have to do what we have to do to get through this, right? I shouldn't be mad just because she's trying to make her day a little easier.

The sun is beating down, dark grey storm clouds lining the horizon. Green fields spread out as far as the eye can see, and I allow myself a chuckle. Whenever I see those green fields, I always think of the label on the eggs Mom insisted on buying because she wanted eggs from happy chickens - "free range".

In the early days after the Affliction took over and destroyed the world, the feeders kept us locked up inside for fear we'd revolt and run away. It was ridiculous and miserable. It didn't last long, because after a few months of no sunshine or fresh air, we were all anemic and delivering low-quality blood. Low quality blood, sick humans, and by default, weak feeders.

They moved us out into compounds just like this one, where we could get fresh air and sunlight, along with a diet of farm-to-table foods to ensure our blood was of the highest quality. Healthy, happy feeders, and supposedly healthy, happy humans.

I wonder just how happy those free-range chickens really were.

We're ushered into the clinic and assigned our royal blue reclining chairs behind white curtains, it's so weird that they put up barriers between us for this but not when we want to shower. Feeder logic, there is none.

Settling down in these blue chairs always reminds me of going to the dentist. Every time it gives me that tiny jolt of almost normality, a distant memory of my old life. I gaze at the fluorescent light above me, watching it flicker ever so slightly. The feeder comes in, dressed in scrubs, thick gloves on. She doesn't say a word, just gestures for me to give her my arm.

First comes the depo shot, and it barely stings. The feeders say it's so we don't have to deal with menstrual hygiene, but I also know the blood of pregnant people can send them insane. They have to know that what happened the other night between the couple in the dorm is bound to happen, no matter how forbidden it is.

She puts the brace around my arm, tightening it almost painfully. "Make a fist," she says sternly.

I obey, not looking at her. I know the drill. It's been almost five years of this.

She puts the needle in my arm, and it stings. These fucking feeders all suck at taking blood, a fact so ironic it almost makes me laugh. But then a shiver breaks out down my spine as I think of the alternative harvesting method, the one that's no longer allowed.

Some girls at school talked about the bite once. One of them insisted her cousin had been with a feeder, and that the bite had been better than sex. There were a whole bunch of folks who got addicted to the high a feeder bite gave them, and the thought makes me sick. Having a feeder touch me in a benign way like this, with gloves while they're taking blood, that's bad enough. The idea of letting one touch me intimately, letting one fuck me or bite me, or make me come?

No fucking way.

The curtain pushes aside, and a figure walks in that has me wishing I wasn't tied down to a chair right now.

It's the staring feeder from the cafeteria. His rust-red eyes take me in curiously, moving over my body almost languidly. It gives me chills. He's looking at me in a way that someone who doesn't know me shouldn't be. He pushes his dark hair from his forehead, revealing a tattooed hand and more tattoos emerging from the sleeve of his uniform. Even his neck is tattooed, and he has a small silver earring in his right earlobe. I don't know why it strikes me as strange, a tattooed, pierced feeder, is that even weird? Maybe he was some sort of rockstar before he was turned.

He's tall, I could see that before, but he's also just so big. Broad and muscular, his size so imposing it makes me feel incredibly small and vulnerable. I'd heard that vampires could gain strength from their makers if they were old and powerful, and from the looks of this guy his maker was one of those.

Finally his eyes stop moving all over my body and settle on my face. Wait. Did he just lick his lip?

"Everything alright here?" He has a British accent, a deep voice that's almost a little husky. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

The female feeder nods absently, filling out a chart, writing my number at the top of a form. We're all just numbers here. No names. Only amongst ourselves.

"Contraception was administered," she says, adjusting the clipboard in her hand to fill out some lines further down the form, "and we will be taking 500 mls of A+."

The man nods, his eyes staying on me. His skin has a hint of tan, and when he grits his white teeth behind his full lips, it occurs to me that I'm staring at his mouth. He's attractive I guess, or he would be if he wasn't dead and didn't have freaky red eyes, or fangs.

"I'll be right back," the woman says, and rises to her feet, pushing through the curtain, which parts with a metallic hiss.

The man watches her go then turns his attention back to me, his hands staying firmly in his pockets.

There are people just a few feet away, but I feel incredibly fucking alone right now. He's just staring at me. My throat goes dry and I swallow, trying to produce some saliva so I don't start coughing everywhere.

"Is there something wrong?" I finally ask him.

He shakes his head, the first movement he's made with something other than his eyes or his lips. "Not at all."

"OK, so why are you staring at me?"

He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Am I?"

"Yes. You were staring at me in the cafeteria too."

"Just keeping an eye on everyone," he replies.

"I'm not everyone." I'm glaring at him now, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. "And you feeders usually aren't this chatty."

"Hmmm." He takes a step towards me, his eyes flickering to me when he sees me flinch. He looks over the needles in my arm, and his mouth twitches for a moment, like he's judging the other feeder's handiwork. Then he shakes his head and takes a step back, his eyes meeting mine again.

And the staring continues.

The woman shuffles back into the cubicle, and checks the bag slowly filling with my blood. "How are you feeling?" She asks me.

I shrug. "Fine, as always."

"Good." She doesn't care, she's just saying it because she should. Even feeders still have residual small talk built-in, saying shit they don't mean in the name of being polite. She's probably not very old.

I look at her for a moment, taking in her blunt black bob and brown eyes, and I wonder who she was before this all started. How long before the Affliction was she turned? Was she a doctor? She has that demeanor about her.

Then I become aware of eyes on me again, and the man's still standing there staring at me. I"m about to ask him what's going on, what's wrong, what he wants, when he suddenly pushes through the curtains and leaves.

Fucking freak.

Once the bag is full of my blood, the woman removes the needle from my arm and puts a band-aid over the hole left behind. She tells me to stay seated, and leans out of the curtain to call for a tray. Another feeder comes in with a tray containing a milkshake and a donut.

"Eat," she says, gesturing at the tray placed by my side.

More things I can't stand now, that I loved before I came here. I remember my brother and I driving to the donut shop in town that was open til midnight, sitting on the hood of his car, him always stealing my strawberry frosted donut even though he insisted the plain glazed were his favorite.

The donut gets caught on the lump that forms in my throat as I think of him, of Kaden, my twin. My dad used to call us Raggedy Ann and Andy, even though neither of us had red hair. "We got one of each," my mom would say lovingly whenever she stroked her hands over our heads, over Kaden's dark hair, just like hers, and my blonde waves, just like my dad.

My eyes sting and I choke down the tepid milkshake. I still remember Kaden's voice when he called. "They're dead, Jules." He was sobbing. "I don't know what to do. What do I do?"

Then he was dead not even two weeks later.

And I was alone.

There's the clatter of metal on the ground, and I'm torn from my memories as shouting erupts from one of the neighboring cubicles. The woman rushes out to see what's going on.

"You can't do this!" It's a man's voice, it sounds like Larry, and he's protesting loudly.

My head spins as I grasp on to the headrest, hauling myself to my feet even as my face flushes and bile rises in my throat. I stumble to the curtain as more shouting erupts.

"What's going on?" I hear the woman's voice as I poke my head out of the curtain.

"His veins are no good," another feeder says, a man in dark blue scrubs. "They're collapsing. He's done."

"No!" Larry is suddenly pulled out of the cubicle, his eyes wide with terror. "What are you doing? I can still work, I'm still of use!"

The woman shakes her head. "No blood, no use. Take him off."

My stomach drops. "What are you doing?" I call out, stumbling out of the cubicle even as my head fills with that floaty cotton wool feeling.

The feeders turn to look at me, and the woman points with her index finger. "Go and sit down," she orders, "this is none of your concern."

"Well, it is my concern."

She glares at me. "How so?"

I take another step out of the cubicle. "Come on, he's one of us."

Larry latches on to this and looks at them with wild eyes. "She's right, I am, I'm one of them and you can't just get rid of me like this! I have people here, who care about me. I can be of use, I can cook and clean and help with the medical equipment. Before all this I was a lab -"

"Off." The woman points, and two feeders grab Larry, lifting him almost off his feet as they carry him outside.

"Hey!" I move to go after them, white lines floating through my vision. "Hey, where are you taking him?"

I follow them out of the building, making it to the bottom of the stairs of the clinic before a hand grabs me. I look up into the face of the staring man, and flinch.

"Where are you going?" He asks.

I gesture after Larry, who's screaming and begging for them not to hurt him. "Wherever they're taking him."

He shakes his head. "You don't want to do that, trust me."

My heart begins to pound in my chest, and I notice the man's rusty eyes flickering to my chest. "They're going to kill him, aren't they?"

"He's aged out," the man replies, his voice so neutral it's almost cold. "His veins are no good. Time to be replaced."

I shake my head. "You can't just kill someone," I say, realizing as the words leave my mouth how stupid they are. They can do whatever the fuck they want. They don't care about us. We're assets, bloodbags. Nothing more.

I look over to where they dragged Larry away, and there's a high pitched shout. I jump involuntarily. I look back up at the man, who's just staring at me again.

"It's just how it is," he says to me, his hand still on my arm.

I try to yank my arm out of his grasp, but his grip is like iron. "Let go of me." I say in a low voice.

For a second his grip becomes tighter, and I almost think he's going to draw me closer. But then his hand falls away from me, and he straightens up. "Go back to your dorm."

"I'm not going back to that fucking dorm," I snap, and storm off in the direction of the garden. Before I can even reach the edge of the building, a gunshot rings through the air. I don't know if it's shock, or the lack of blood, but the ground sways beneath me. I try to steady myself, but suddenly my feet have left the ground.

I hate draining week.