Chapter Text
When I was alive, I loved the sun. I still do, only I cannot really enjoy it much these days. I steal away from time to time to bask in the remnants of a life lived not long ago despite the quickly fading memories and distant emotions of times gone by. That is not to say that I am not appreciative of my dad - the location was as much grounds for the move as was the rest of it. So I smile and thank God that dad doesn’t seem to look at me for too long as he leads me into the bedroom I used to spend my childhood summers in.
“I had the lady at the store pick out new covers for you,” he says, huffing under his mustache, his police jacket rustling distractedly as he gestures into the well lit room. Rain drums against the windows, making me smile ever so slightly despite my dislike for it. It’ll keep me safe enough despite the scalding burning in my throat that seems to grow in this weather. Wet humans… “Well,” he says, smacking his lips as he looks about. I mutter a thank you and pretend to breathe, turning to the room with true gratitude as he leaves. Every single item in here is part of fuzzy memories from before I turned. Dark wallpaper lit by string lights, my old desk. The bed that I won’t be using. I move into the room and the floor creaks; I position myself to look into the backyard, the forest that edges along the end of it. It looms with darkness and promises, and my body reacts to it immediately.
It’s been a moment since I’ve hunted, and as I hear Charlie reach for the doorknob to leave for work, I eagerly pry open the crusty windows to peak outside. The garden is entombed by trees, shielding me from prying eyes and witnesses - so I delicately climb out, barely maneuvering the window shut a bit to prevent rain from coming in before falling to the ground. I land with my version of grace, the grass wet beneath my shoes.
I didn’t like rain before, and I definitely have not grown to love it since I turned. It’s distracting, like Charlie’s jacket, dulling my hearing and limiting my sense of smell despite the growth in intensity. In fact, even as I walk to the border of the woods, I still cannot hear anything properly. So I’ll have to go in blind. I fly in between tree trunks, dodging every single one with ease, my shoes never catching on branches or bushel. It amazes me still how this newfound instinct can be so strong that it overpowers me, takes control entirely and erases my clumsiness. I let my nose guide me, my hands dig into bark and moss. The scent is weak, masked by falling water and uneasy strangeness - this is nothing like night hunting in Phoenix, and I find myself missing the openness of it, the straightforward way of living. It took more than my own isolation to make me move - it took my mom moving away with Phil. I shake my head, letting the walls of my mind come back down to the instinct. I ravage through a brook, up a tree. There. I turn my head, angling my head toward the faint sound of deer grazing in the wet grass about two miles away. Smiling, I let my body fall to the mossy underground and carry itself toward the four beating hearts pumping delicious blood.
I’ve yet to master not messing my clothes up during the hunt, and should’ve really thought about it before I left. Thankfully, the vast, gloomy state of Washington has enough rivers and lakes for me to wash in cold water. Or rather, skin temperature water now. I scrub myself clean at the edge of a lake with crunching black stones lining the floor and the beaches. As the rain lets up, the evidence of life becomes clearer to me and were it not for the fullness in my stomach, I am sure my venom would’ve presented itself as I catch a breeze containing a hint of bear. And… Something else. Entirely. It overwhelms me, scares me enough that I look about. The repulsing smell reminds me of a wet dog, though I don’t ever remember wanting to throw up at the smell before. It creeps into my brain, fogging it up in an unfamiliar way and I am quick to react, running back toward the house with speed and without ever looking behind me.
I brush my wet hair, the steam from the shower fogging up the glass enough that someone with worse eyesight than mine would not be able to distinguish oneself in the mirror. Despite yesterday's hunt, I have dark circles under my eyes and seem endlessly pale and fatigued. Fault of my human body, I suppose, which did not seem overly alive or glowing - being dead is certainly no help. Of course it is very helpful when you are semi-late for your first school day, even if it is the middle of the semester. I hurry into clothes, whip a hairband into my brown hair and let the contacts smear my perfect vision without too much strain. All within a minute. Charlie’s downstairs, foot tripping and head swinging. Probably to look at the clock in the kitchen. “Coming!” I call, just as I rip open the door a bit too roughly, crumbling the knob slightly. Good thing I’ll be home before Charlie. And I’ll have time to swing by a store too. Charlie’s present is exactly what it sounded like when he drove it up the driveway at five this morning; absolutely perfect. Old, red and looking like it has one foot in the grave already, I smile genuinely at Charlie as he presents me the keys with one of his shy, private smiles. My muffs shelter him from my coldness, but I cannot withstand giving him an awkward hug despite the burning and the risk.
“Thank you!” I say, sure that I look like an idiot with a smile plastered on my face. I don’t do that too often anymore; smile. Not since Arizona.
“I’ve made sure it runs,” he just says, scratching his hair with a dismissal. “Drive carefully, and Bells?” “Hmm?” I carefully open the car door, the fragile metal and paint almost falling off just from touch. “Just,” he says, trailing off enough that I actually look at him again. Is something wrong? His heartbeat is steady, his skin dry. I even dare a sniff, not scenting anything beyond the normal. I swallow too loudly, sinking down the venom. “Good luck on your first day,” he decides at last, leaving me puzzled as to whatever that was about. “Thanks,” I say as I force the beast of a car to roar into servitude. He slaps the car twice, making me worry about the paint, before he heads toward the police car he’s parked inconspicuously along the roadside.
Forks High School smells horrible. Don’t get me wrong; there’s enough blood here to feed me for an eternity, but the rooms themselves smell like deodorant and floor wash. Sterile almost, despite the sweat and blood and hairspray. I learn to yearn for the faint tobacco smell in the car’s tan seats quickly - particularly as a dorky boy named Eric catches me outside the office, eagerly sweating as he extends his hand to mine. To his credit he doesn’t shy away from the coldness of my touch, despite the small frown.
“Where are you going for first class?” He asks, eyeing my papers, all crumpled up atop my books.
“Biology, I think,” I say, producing the paper. “Though I am not sure where exactly it is.” It makes him smile a little too brightly for my taste, like he counted on me not being able to find it myself. I am, for sure, though not as quickly as he could probably help me. He mutters a half-confident “come along” as he turns on his heels, leading me down the hall where every student seems to gawk at me with such peculiar interest. I understand why. Despite my efforts, I recognise the effect that I have on people. I scare or intrigue them. Something about me lures them in so easily, much more so than it ever did when I was a human girl. It annoys me to no end, especially as the whispers begin when I’ve passed a group of girls with tight ponytails.
“Do you think the other freaks will like her?” One girl asks her friend, making me direct my attention to them.
“Perhaps the good doctor’s gone and adopted one more weirdo,” her girlfriend laughs in return, making me frown slightly. I shake my head and remind myself that it’s best I don’t form any types of friendships at all, so it doesn’t really matter what they say. Besides; I’ve been called a freak ever since I stepped into a school. Being pale doesn’t change that at all. If anything it makes it worse. Eric’s stopped in front of a red door, gesturing for me to step inside.
“Thank you,” I say, which makes him bow theatrically.
“You can sit with me and mine at lunch,” he retorts, before giving a slightly awkward wave goodbye and heading back the exact way we just came. As the bell rings, I pity him slightly. He will be late because of his detour, which I could’ve avoided entirely. The rain thuds against the windows in the classroom, reminding me to get moving, so I take one last deep breath of horrible soap and delightful blood, and hold it. I am not interested in the warmth and closeness of the classroom intensifying the smell, at least not if I can help it. So I step in, the noise of the many teenage humans still all my age, sounding loud in my ears. The smell creeps into my nostrils despite my efforts, and with desperation I hold onto my books, searching for a free spot. The teacher hasn’t noticed me, which is good all the same. I might not have to go through the whole “this is bella and she is new”- spiel I know way too well from my childhood. I find a free spot, middle row. Without too much ado, I hurry along, stepping through the wind of the fan, and quickly plopping down my books on the gray, sturdy table near the window, barely taking notice of the boy sitting in the inner seat. In fact, as the noise and scents all grow, I find it exceedingly difficult to concentrate.
Did I greet him? It doesn’t matter, I think. Not until the vibration of 25-ish students die down at the calm hands of the teacher, making me slump slightly in gratitude. It makes me relax thoroughly, enough to take out my newly acquired biology book and quickly identify the relevant topic in the index.
As I flip the pages, I allow myself a small breath, knowing fully it will burn. Everything will burn, everyday for as long as this last bit of high school needs to last.
Then I’m out. Moving on. So I breathe it, expecting to find blood, sweat and perfume.
Instead I find a scent I haven’t smelled since I was transformed.
Another vampire.
In the seat beside me.