Haustus, page 1
Contents
Haustus
Content Warnings
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Author’s Note
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2025 by Gabriela T. Badra
Cover design by Gabriela T. Badra
Cover images by Pinterest
Interior design by Gabriela T. Badra
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
This is a self-published book.
First edition: August 8, 2025
ISBN: 9798297186866 (paperback)
Gabriela T. Badra
gabrielatbadraauthor@gmail.com
Haustus
By: Gabriela T. Badra
Content Warnings
This novel contains themes and scenes that may be sensitive or triggering for some readers, including:
Existential crisis.
Therapy sessions.
Supernatural violence and suspense.
Blood and vampiric feeding.
Explicit sexual content.
Explicit sexual content for convenience.
Loneliness and internal emotional conflict.
Reader discretion is advised.
For my friend Paola: here’s this dark novel, with the slow burn you love so much.
Mom and Dad Josue, if you’re reading this, please close the book immediately. There are scenes here that would deeply disturb me to know you’ve read. I love you both.
And to you, dear reader… enjoy, and prepare to step into a world steeped in silent darkness, desire, and bleeding secrets. Here, glances can burn, choices leave scars, and loneliness runs so deep it could swallow you whole. If you choose to keep reading… do so at your own risk.
Prologue
Heath Ashwyck
They always taste the same.
Sweet. Metallic.
Sometimes with a sharper edge—especially when fear floods their veins—but in the end, it all becomes the same: hollow warmth.
A warmth I never sought, yet one I need to keep existing.
It isn’t a choice. It never was.
It’s obligation. It’s thirst.
A chain that coils around my throat each night and drags me toward the very thing I despise most—becoming what they made me.
They say immortality is a privilege.
They lie.
The true curse isn’t eternity—it’s repetition. The unbearable monotony. The knowledge that every face, every scream, every final breath will, sooner or later, turn into yet another echo you can never forget.
And you remain there, dead yet living, unable to stop listening.
I forgot long ago what it felt like to choose.
Long ago, my will ceased to belong to me.
That’s why, when she appeared… when she looked at me without fear, as if something human still lingered inside me, everything changed.
I had no intention of letting her live.
But I did.
And that moment… was the beginning of my ruin.
Chapter One
I couldn’t believe the words coming out of my boss’s mouth on the other end of the phone.
“I’m so sorry, Sarah, but I don’t think I can keep you in the company. I don’t know… your skills just don’t convince me,” said Mrs. Mercedes, with that polite coldness only someone well-versed in breaking you can wield.
Was this woman seriously firing me over the phone?
“But… tell me what I’m doing wrong and I’ll fix it. I’ll work harder, try twice as much,” I answered, fighting to keep my voice from breaking.
“No, not really. It’s not going to work. I wish you the best of luck.”
And she hung up.
Just what I needed. Now I have no idea what I’m going to do. I had literally just started the job and, in less than three months, the stupid old woman tossed me out like it was nothing.
I pushed myself up from the couch, my body stiff, and crossed the apartment to shut the windows. Living in Washington, D.C. has its perks and its downsides. In summer, the weather is perfect—sunny, even inspiring. But in winter… in winter the cold seeps into your bones. And right now, snow was creeping in through the edges of the window frame, as if it too wanted to throw me out of my own apartment by freezing me alive.
My apartment is small but cozy—just enough for someone still trying to get their life steady. A light gray couch faces a shelf with scattered books and a plant that, to my surprise, is still alive. The walls are smooth, an ivory white that catches the soft glow of the floor lamp in the corner, and the kitchen—semi-open, with a light wooden counter—still smells faintly of cinnamon from a candle I lit last night. On the windowsill, a row of succulents has somehow survived the fall, and by the window, a knitted blanket I inherited from my mother hangs in quiet resignation.
Everything is simple, functional. No luxuries, but details that speak of me. And yet tonight, it feels as if this small refuge is far too big for my sadness.
It feels like nothing ever works out for me. Every time I think I’m about to achieve something—something that might finally make me feel like I’m moving in the right direction—the universe sees to it that it gets ripped away.
And as if that weren’t enough, I’m not exactly an expert in human relationships. I don’t have friends—at least not the kind you can break down in front of without feeling judged. I guess I have Kaylie, my sister, but I don’t want to call her. I hate being the useless older sister. I’m twenty-five years old and I’ve never even had a boyfriend.
It’s not that I’m unattractive—I know what I see in the mirror. But there’s something… something that always cracks before it can begin. I never truly connect with anyone. Not with any man, at least. They all seem cut from the same cloth: hollow, predictable, chasing the same shallow things.
Sometimes I wonder if the problem is me. Or if I simply haven’t met someone who makes me feel like there’s more.
And then, in the silence, when the world outside is sinking under the snow and everything inside me goes still, that voice comes. Not the rational one—not the one that says “everything will be okay” or repeats self-help phrases. No. The other one. The one that whispers:
What if there’s nothing waiting for you? What if this is all there is?
I breathe in deeply, but the air feels hollow.
I don’t know who I am. I don’t have a solid career, no partner, no five-year plan. I don’t have a community, or certainties. I live in a rented apartment with a plant that’s barely hanging on and a list of goals I wrote in January that I can’t even remember where I left. I don’t wake up with excitement. I don’t fall asleep with peace. I’m floating in a constant pause, caught between who I was and who I’m supposed to be.
Sometimes it feels like the world is moving forward and I’ve been left behind. Like everyone else is walking straight lines and I’m just tracing circles.
And the most painful part isn’t being lost—it’s the feeling that no one notices. That I could disappear and it wouldn’t make a difference.
Is this what growing up is? Is this what being an adult means? Learning to fake control while everything inside you is falling apart?
I don’t want to call Kaylie because I know exactly what she’ll say—that I’m strong. That I always get back on my feet. That this is just a rough patch.
But I don’t want pretty words. I want someone to sit with me on the floo
I think of Kaylie.
The one who always seems to have her life together. The one who speaks with a steady voice, even when she’s scared. The one who sends me memes when she senses something’s wrong, even if I don’t say it out loud.
She… she is light. She’s always been more social, more fearless, more free.
I was the responsible one, the one who was supposed to set the example. The one who had to “be someone” first.
Spoiler: I didn’t make it.
I don’t know when she became stronger than me. Or maybe she always was, and I just convinced myself otherwise because I needed to believe I had some kind of control.
She always looks at me with that mix of pride and worry, as if she thinks I’m brilliant and yet too fragile to realize it. And that hurts. It hurts that she admires me. It hurts that she still has faith in me when I have none in myself.
I could call her right now. All it would take is dialing her number and hearing her voice to know I’m not alone. But I can’t. Not today. Not when I feel so small, so useless, so… defeated.
Because if I tell her what happened, I know what she’ll do. She’ll drop everything. She’ll come here. She’ll hug me and tell me none of this defines me—that I’m more than a lost job and an existential crisis. And I don’t want to be a burden to the only person who still believes I’m strong.
Or maybe… I just don’t want her to see how broken I really am.
Chapter Two
Waiting in my therapist’s lounge, I watched people come and go with tired faces—some anxious, others with that vacant expression that clings to you when you’ve been fighting too many battles on the inside.
And I wondered: how do people who don’t go to therapy do it? How do they breathe, how do they survive, how do they walk through life without coming here once a week to sit in front of someone and slowly take themselves apart?
I’ve been coming for years, and I still feel like the useless one in my family. The loose piece. The mistake. So I don’t even want to imagine what I’d be like without this.
The irony stings: to have someone truly listen to you—with all their attention, still and present—you have to pay them. You have to book an hour, confirm an appointment, justify your tears with a bank transfer.
I don’t like telling people my problems. Not because I don’t trust them, but because I know—with a cold certainty—that most don’t listen. Most are only waiting for their turn to speak. And even if there are people who genuinely care about me, when I tell them something difficult, they immediately want to give their opinion, fix it, explain it, intervene. And sometimes… sometimes you just want to be heard. Not analyzed, not corrected. Just seen.
The room is neutral. Very white. Very quiet. The walls are in those beige tones supposedly meant to soothe, but to me they feel clinical. The background music is barely a whisper of instrumentals, designed not to distract or bother, but it reminds me of an elevator. There’s a shelf with old psychology magazines, an artificial plant trying to look alive, and a water dispenser that drips every so often.
I’m sitting in one of those chairs that pretend to be comfortable, elbows on my knees, hands clasped, body slightly hunched forward.
I feel exposed.
As if even the silence is staring at me with judgment. My heart beats slow, heavy. No tears, but a fatigue I can’t explain. Not physical. It’s a weariness of the soul. The kind you can’t sleep off.
And as I wait for them to call my name, for the door to open so I can sit in front of someone who will pretend all of this matters, I feel like a draft of a person. An attempt. An unfinished sketch.
And yet… I’m here. Because sometimes, the bravest thing I can do is simply not stop coming.
I see a patient walk out. His face is sunken, his shoulders tight, a paper bag pressed to his chest. Behind him appears Mrs. Carmen, with that presence of hers that, for some reason, always eases the knot in my stomach a little.
She’s Mexican. And while I know I shouldn’t generalize, the truth is Latinos have always given me a kind of instinctive trust. They have something—a warmth that doesn’t feel staged. Even though I’m painfully aware I pay her to listen to me, Mrs. Carmen has that look that makes you feel she genuinely cares. As if there’s something human beyond the professional role. And I suppose that, in a world like this, that’s saying a lot.
She’s short, with warm brown skin, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a low bun. Her body is round and kind, like she is. She has the air of a grandmother who’d make you hot chocolate without asking why. The sort of person who, if she saw you cry, wouldn’t rush to give you solutions, but a blanket.
She gives me a small smile—not the kind meant to cheer you up or change your mood, but simply to keep you company.
“Sarah, please, come in. It’s your turn.”
I return the smile with a slight nod. I stand and walk toward her workspace—that place I’ve never quite known what to call. Office? Consulting room? Emotional meditation chamber? Internal-unraveling booth with incense scent?
I have no idea.
And really, I think that’s the least important thing.
What matters is that, for the next forty-five minutes, I’ll be able to exist without having to pretend I’m okay.
I sat down at the same time she did, sinking into that cushioned chair that already carried my shape after so many years of coming here. Carmen settled into her seat across from me, notebook in her lap, opening it with that careful way of hers, ready to write down… I don’t know what. My madness? My existential crises? Thoughts I shouldn’t be having? Maybe a little of all of that.
“How are you, Sarah? How have you been? In our last session you told me about your new job… how’s it going there? Have you settled in? Made friends?”
She looked at me with her usual expression, that blend of tenderness and understanding that disarms you before you even say a word. That gaze that doesn’t judge, that simply exists.
Ouch. Right in the wound.
“I don’t even know where to start, Mrs. Carmen,” I said, with a dry laugh—one of those that don’t come from humor, but exhaustion.
“I’ve told you many times you can call me Carmen. Just Carmen.”
She’s said it, yes. Many times. But I’ve never felt comfortable with it. I don’t know—maybe it’s her age or my way of keeping a barrier with people who see too much of me.
“Well… I got fired yesterday.”
“Oh… and why’s that?”
“Great question. I have no idea. My boss—well, ex-boss—said I didn’t have the necessary skills. Though if I’m honest, I think she just realized how useless I am faster than I expected.”
She stopped writing. Lifted her gaze, the way she always does when something feels important. Her voice was soft but steady.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Sarah.”
I wanted to answer. Something sarcastic, something sharp. But nothing came out. Just that lump in my throat—the one that doesn’t allow you to speak because if you do, you’ll cry.
“Why are you so hard on yourself, Sarah?” she asked when I stayed silent, in that gentle tone all therapists seem to master. The way they ask exactly what you don’t want to answer. The way they make you speak about what you most want to hide.
I sighed—the kind of sigh that carries years in it. And then, I broke.
“Carmen, let’s be honest. I understand your profession. I know you’re trying to make me feel better, it’s your job, and maybe you even do it with care… but think about it. I’m twenty-five years old. I’ve never been married—God, I’ve never even had a boyfriend! I’M A VIRGIN, CARMEN!” My voice trembled, but I didn’t stop. “I’ve never had a job I’ve lasted in for more than a year. I have no friends. Not a single one. And when, as the older sister, I’m supposed to have my life together to set the example, I’m the complete opposite. An example… of what? How not to do it?” I swallowed hard. The next part hurt more. “Look at my younger sister. Married to a man who loves her exactly as she is, living in England, working as a nurse… and she doesn’t even have to kill herself working because her husband takes care of everything. And I feel like a terrible person for thinking this. I love her, Carmen. Truly. I love my sister. I’m happy for her. She deserves it. She’s a wonderful human being.”
