by Amy Cross
"Pull her hair up," says Emma.
Donna pulls my hair from over my face. "There," she says, feigning satisfaction. "If you did your hair like this, you'd look a lot better, Abby. Are you, like, trying to look bad on purpose? Do you think it's cool?"
Frowning, I try to work out where she's going with this. She's never, ever commented on my appearance before, nor has she suggested that I could 'hang out' with them. Obviously I'd rather eat garbage than spend time with people like Donna and her gang, but I'm still curious as to why she's offering what seems to be an olive branch. This is a new side to Donna.
"All you have to do right now," she continues, stepping back from me, "is say one fucking word. It can be anything. Door. Poodle. Table. Aardvark. Just one word, and we'll think you're cool." She smiles as she turns to the others. "Won't we?"
They nod eagerly. They're just a bunch of pathetic assholes who follow Donna around and agree with whatever she says.
"Just one word," she continues, walking around me and then leaning in to whisper in my ear. "Just one fucking word. Can you manage that, bitch?" She waits for a moment, and then suddenly she spits straight into my ear. I pull away, feeling that her hot, sticky saliva has gone deep into my ear canal. I stick my finger inside, but I can't wipe it all out, no matter how hard I try.
"Never mind," she says, walking back over to her friends. "Better luck next time, bitch. Hope you don't mind that I gobbed in your ear. Later." With that, she turns and walks away, her little gaggle of girlfriends hurrying after her.
Sitting down by the river, I tilt my head in an attempt to get the spit to dribble out. It doesn't seem to be working, though, so I reach into my pocket and pull out a paper tissue; I twist the end into a point and then gently slide it into the ear canal, hoping to soak up as much of Donna's saliva as possible. I'm pretty sure that this isn't going to work, and that it's going to take days before I feel like I've got my ear clean. Finally, as a last resort, I get up and walk right to the edge of the water, before kneeling down and dipping my whole head under the surface. After holding my breath for almost a minute, I sit back up, water pouring from my soaking wet hair. The shoulders of my t-shirt are soaked, but at least I feel like my ear's slightly cleaner. When I get home, I'll have to stand in the shower for a while and maybe wash my hair in an attempt to really fix this. I'll also use cotton buds to clean the ear canal. It's not ideal, but at least it means that by bedtime I should feel as if I've got my ear free of Donna's disgusting, slimy spit.
I sit for a while by the river. One of the problems with not being able to speak is that it's easy to drift into a kind of daze and forget that you're supposed to be communicating with the rest of the world. When the dentist proposed putting these braces on, to 'fix' my teeth and perhaps make it so I'd be able to talk, my first reaction was blind terror. I didn't feel as if I needed 'fixing'. Eventually, though, I realized I didn't have much choice. There's really not much wrong with my teeth, other than that a couple near the front are kind of sharp and fang-like. I feel like the specialists have latched onto my odd dentistry and decided that it's definitely the reason for my refusal to speak. Before, the psychiatrists were convinced I had some kind of hidden trauma, possibly something I experienced as a baby before I was found abandoned in New York. My whole life, people have been coming up with theories and ideas to try to explain me. I kind of wish they'd just leave me alone.
Eventually, as my hair starts to dry, I get up and figure it's time to start walking home. My foster parents are going to be wondering where I am, and they tend to be a little trigger-happy when it comes to panicking. It's as if they're convinced I'm gonna get kidnapped or murdered or something one day. I guess they've probably worked out that I'm being bullied, even if they've got no idea how to handle it. None of this is their fault; they're good people, and they've raised me well. It's just that... I have to admit, I'm a little odd. A little different. Everyone knows it, as soon as they meet me. I guess I give off some kind of weird vibes. It's like in a cartoon, when someone has stink lines because they smell; I have emotional stink lines, because deep down there's something that's not quite right. I just wish I knew what...
After walking along the river for a while, I turn toward the park and cut through a short wooded area. I've always liked being out here, as if it's somehow more of a home than my foster parents' house. Today, however, something feels a little strange. It's almost as if I can sense something nearby, as if someone's watching me. I stand stock still, listening out for any sign of movement. I can't explain it, but I can feel eyes burning into me. Can everyone feel things like this? Sometimes I wonder if I'm a little bit more in tune with the world around me. Still, it's an imperfect skill. I know someone's nearby, but I can't see them, or work out exactly where they are. In fact, maybe it's all in my head.
"Hey," says a voice behind me.
I turn to find Donna standing there. How the hell did she manage to sneak up behind me?
"You clean your ear out yet?" she asks. She's staring at me intently. Glancing around, I see that her friends aren't here. She's alone, which is unusual. She always has her little army of bitches with her; I never thought she'd be brave enough to pick on me alone.
I start to walk away, but she grabs my shoulder and pulls me back. Something feels different this time. I feel my chest start to tighten. The last thing I want to do is strike back and hurt her, but she might not leave me much choice.
"What's wrong?" she says. "Your hair's all wet. Don't you like having my spit in your ear?" She smiles. "I tell you what. I'm gonna cut you a deal. Let's try a little intelligence test. If you don't want me to punch you in the gut, tell me and I won't do it. Just say the words."
I stare at her. I know exactly what's coming.
"No?" she continues. "You're not gonna say the words? Well, then that must mean you want me to do it." There's a pause, and then she slams her fist into my stomach so hard that I fall down. I immediately try to get up, but she's totally winded me and it's all I can manage to take a series of sharp, deep breaths. That was way, way harder than I expected. I didn't know Donna had it in her. Something's definitely changed.
"I bet you wish you'd asked me not to do it now," she says, standing over me. "I bet you've learned your lesson. I tell you what, let's test it out. I'm gonna kick you in a few seconds. If you don't want me to kick you, tell me and I won't do it. Just tell me. Just a few words. No trick. No lies. It's a simple deal."
I take a deep breath, readying myself for what's coming next. I could stop her, of course. I could lash out and hurt her, but I have to keep my strength under control.
"No?" she says after a moment. "Weird." She lifts her foot up and brushes it against the side of my face. "Yeah," she mutters, "right there." She takes a step back, and suddenly she kicks me hard in the side of the face, sending me sprawling across the forest floor. I land on my back, staring up at the sky with a ringing sensation in my head and a sharp pain where her shoe connected with my cheek.
"How you doing down there, you fucking moron?" Donna asks, coming closer and looking down at me. "Are you starting to realize that it might be a good idea to speak? That brace in your mouth is really fucking stupid. It's holding you back." She smiles. "I know it's probably, like, screwed into your teeth and all, but maybe it's time to take it out for your own good." She kneels next to me. "I know it'd hurt if I just ripped it out, but it might be better for you in the long run." She reaches a hand out to my face, but I turn away.
"Don't you want my help?" she sneers, leaning closer. "Open your god-damn mouth, Abigail, or I'll force it open and I'll rip that fucking metal out." I can feel her hot breath on the side of my face. "Do you understand me?"
I force myself to take deep, measured breaths. I feel as if I could easily pick her up and throw her into a tree, but I have to keep a lid on my emotions. Reacting would be a terrible mistake.
"I don't know what's wrong," Donna says suddenly. "I've always hated you, but lately it's like I can't help myself any more. It's l
ike, whenever I see you, my blood just fucking starts boiling and I wanna smash your stupid face in. What's wrong with you?" She grabs my shoulders and tries to force me to look at her. "Why do you give out this vibe of being so fucking creepy?" she continues. "I'm genuinely curious. There's something about you that just..." She sighs. "I tell you what," she says eventually. "I'm gonna be nice to you. I'm gonna let you keep your braces in for now, although I reserve the right to rip them out whenever I feel like it. Instead, I'm gonna spit in your ear again, and this time you're gonna leave it in there. Frankly, I was insulted that you were so keen to get it out before. So this time, you're gonna keep it in there all the way home. I'm gonna walk with you, right to your door, to make sure you don't try to clean it out." She puts her hands on my head, to hold me in place, and then she puts her lips to my ear; a moment later, she spits a large gob of saliva straight into my ear canal, and then she holds my head firmly while I feel the slime dribble deeper and deeper down.
"Remember," she says, "you're not allowed to clean your ear out until midnight. If you try to fix it sooner, I'll find out and I'll hurt you." She pauses for a moment. "You're pathetic. You don't even struggle. Come on, get up. Time to go home."
I haul myself up and start walking. It'll only take ten minutes or so before I'm back home, but I can hear Donna walking right behind me every step of the way. All I want to do is clean out my ear and then run, but I know that would just provoke her. I thought I had her sussed out, but her behavior right now seems out of character. It's almost as if she's not really herself. I guess the best thing to do is to let her feel like she's winning. I don't care about revenge. I don't care about hurting her. I just want her to stop, at least for today. So I walk home with Donna's spit in my ear, knowing all the time that she's right behind me, until finally I reach the driveway in front of my foster family's house. Evan is just getting out of his car as I walk toward the door.
"Hey, Abby," he says, before looking over at Donna. "Hi."
"Hi, Mr. Parlour," Donna says with a smile. "I was just walking Abby home."
"That's nice," Evan says, clearly shocked at the thought that I might actually have a friend. He turns to me. "Abby, maybe Donna would like to stay for dinner?"
"Oh, that's nice of you," Donna says, "but I don't know if Abby would really want that. We haven't known each other for long. It's best not to rush these things."
"Nonsense," Evan says, heading into the house. "We'll add an extra plate at the table. Come on in."
Once he's gone, I turn to Donna. The thought of having her in the house makes me want to scream.
"Relax," she says, "I don't want to come into your stinking home and eat your rat-shit food. Not today, anyway. Maybe another time. Tell your fake Daddy I said thanks but no thanks." She takes a step closer. "That's right, isn't it? They aren't your real parents, are they? What happened? I guess your real parents took one look at you when you were born, saw you were a fucking asshole, and got rid of you." She smiles. "They made a good choice. They're probably having a much better life without you. The only miracle is that they didn't just put a blanket over your face and finish you off." She leans close to my face. "Don't clean your ear out until midnight. Got it?" With that, she turns and walks away.
Heading into the house, I shut the door and take a deep breath. Finally, she's gone. I don't know how much more of this I can take. Donna was right about one thing, though: my real parents are better off without having me around. Whoever they are, and wherever they are, I hope they're happy.
Shelley
New York.
It starts with a phone call in the middle of the night.
Incessant and loud, the ringing breaks through into my nightmares and pulls me back up into the conscious world. Emerging from a deep sleep, I groan as I reach out to the bedside table, fumbling for the phone; after a moment my hand knocks it to the floor, where it continues to ring. Sighing and still kind of drunk from last night, I decide to just let it ring out. I mean, what kind of person phones someone in the dead of night and expects them to answer? It's inhumane.
Finally the ringing stops and I'm left in peace, but moments later it starts up again. The light on the front of the phone is flashing, lighting up the whole damn room. Why won't this person let me sleep? Sighing, I stare up at the dark ceiling and wait until the ringing stops. There. There's no way they'll try again. And yet, moments later, the phone starts ringing again! I take a deep breath, determined not to answer. This person has to learn that you simply don't phone people at 3am, 4am, or whatever time it is. The ringing stops and I wait, and the room stays silent. Well, that took long enough. I roll onto my side, close my eyes and try to get back to sleep.
"You should have answered that," says a voice nearby.
I literally leap out of bed, running over to the window before turning and looking across the dark room. My heart pounding in my chest, I finally see a dark figure standing on the other side of the room. Realizing that I'm at a distinct disadvantage, I cautiously step over to the bedside table and reach down for the drawer. Fumbling around for a moment, I manage to find the small gun I keep in there for emergencies. After quickly removing the safety catch, I switch on the bedside lamp, raise the gun, and turn to find a guy standing there. He's younger than me, probably early twenties, and he's smiling at me with a bemused expression.
"Do I need to introduce myself?" he asks.
"Depends," I reply. "Are you what I think you are?"
"I take it you were expecting us."
"Yeah," I say. It's kind of true. For the past sixteen years, I've known that they'd turn up eventually. "You could have knocked, though."
"You could have answered your phone."
"Not in the middle of the night, I couldn't. Call me crazy, but that's when I like to sleep."
He smiles. "Sorry. I just wanted to make an impression."
"Job done," I reply. "In case you haven't noticed, it's four o'clock in the fucking morning."
"How are you doing, Shelley?" he asks.
"I've been better," I tell him, putting the gun on the bedside table and walking over to the door. "Give me a minute, okay?" I head into the hallway and then through to the bathroom, where I switch on the harsh white light and turn to look at myself in the mirror. Damn it, when did I get old? I mean, I look good for a thirty-six-year-old woman, especially considering I've got a fucking hangover, but I'd kill to get rid of these faint wrinkles and the rings under my eyes. Grabbing a dressing gown to put over my pajamas, I turn on the tap and splash some cold water onto my face before walking back to the bedroom.
"Hey," I say, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from the table in the corner.
"You smoke?" he asks.
"Yep," I reply, lighting up. "I also eat red meat, drink wine and whiskey, have unprotected sex and wander alone through dark alleys. Sometimes, all at the same time."
He smiles. "Well, you're a real bad-ass, aren't you?"
"Shut up," I reply. "What do you want?"
He pauses for a moment. "Benjamin sent me."
This is the moment I've been waiting for, and dreading, for so many years. I knew it would come, but I tried to ignore my fears by getting lost in a chaotic life of drink, drugs and parties. Still, no matter how drunk I got, I was never able to forget that somewhere out there, there were people like Benjamin doing their work, and that one day they'd come back to tell me that they're ready. I guess somehow I was hoping things would sort themselves out on their own.
"So..." I take a long drag on the cigarette. "What's going on?"
"It's started," he replies. "We've been watching Patrick, waiting for a sign. Finally it happened, last week."
"How can you be sure?"
"We're sure."
"How?"
"You think we don't have our methods?" he continues. "We've been following Patrick for centuries. The Watchers know everything about how vampires operate. Even when he went into the mountains after the incident with Sophie, we kept track of him. And it'
s finally happened. He's done it."
I pause for a moment. "How long?"
"Five months. Maybe six. It's not an exact science. Vampire physiology is a subject area that requires a lot more study." He takes a deep breath. "But it's definitely started. According to Benjamin, the first signs were detected a couple of days ago. Also, Patrick has begun to come down from the mountain. It's pretty obvious that the moment is here. Added to that, there's the fact that Abigail turned sixteen last week. Everything's starting to come together and it all adds up. The Age of Chaos is getting closer and closer."
"Fine," I reply. "Well... good luck with it. Let me know how it works out."
"You know it's not that simple," he says.
"I don't want to come," I tell him.
"Are you scared?"
I nod. "Aren't you?"
"No," he replies. "I'm not remotely scared. I'm ready for this. I've been training for over a decade."
"Yeah, well, that's great," I say, before having a small coughing fit. "I haven't been training," I tell him after a moment.
"That's pretty obvious."
"Thanks." I stub the cigarette out in the ashtray. "I smoke about twenty a day," I continue. "My lungs are probably fucked beyond all belief. Do you really think I'd be any use to you at all?"
"You were Sophie's best friend," he replies. "You owe it to her."
"She's dead," I say bluntly.
"I know."
I stare at him. "It must be easy for you," I say. "She was my best friend. To you, she's just a name."
"Maybe," he replies. "Maybe not. But this isn't about Sophie. She's dead. This is about her daughter."
"So you've come here to play the blackmail card," I say. I knew he'd try this angle, but there was a part of me that had hoped perhaps he wouldn't be so cruel. He must know that I've always blamed myself for what happened to Sophie. I should have been in Dedston when she needed me; instead, I was here in New York, starting a new life for myself. I swear to God, not a day has gone by in the past sixteen years when I haven't relived - over and over again - the moment I heard that Sophie's body had been discovered.
