《Needletongue, Carrotcake》


 Chapter 1, It wasnt a kiss

    Once I¡¯ve stopped sniffling I only have to wait an hour or so for the school to go dark and quiet, but I stay perched on the closed toilet, hugging my knees to my chest. Even though my hoodie is still wet I don''t move for the toilet paper. It¡¯s almost out so it wouldn¡¯t be much help anyway.


    In the darkness I can¡¯t tell what the time is but nobody has come into the men¡¯s toilet for a while so it must be past eighteen. Just a little more and I can go home. Those guys usually don¡¯t stick around the school past seventeen but I didn¡¯t want to risk it. While the minutes tick by in slow motion, I count the seconds on my fingers, up to five on one hand and then flipping up one finger on the other before beginning again on the first. One, two, three, four, five, flip. Again.


    Right as my hand was about to get to the ring finger, the door creaks open, letting a stream of light arch across the tiled floor visible from below the door. I shut my mouth. A shadow moves in the centre of the light and with the flip of a switch, light floods the bathroom again.


    I glance at the door to the stall I¡¯m hiding in. It¡¯s locked. Good.


    The elderly janitor outside moves across the floor slowly, checking the stalls as he goes. His hand finally falls on the knob of mine and it turns with a plastic clatter. He makes a small sound of confusion before sighing.


    ¡°Luis, is that you in there?¡± he calls. I press my legs closer to me and he sighs again. ¡°You can¡¯t keep doing this,¡± he says tiredly. ¡°I swear, if I catch you in here again I¡¯ll call Mr Freighthold and make you clean that stall, you hear me?¡±


    But I don¡¯t answer, and with yet another redundant sigh, he turns away. He begins cleaning the other toilers and despite his threat I know he won¡¯t call dad. He hasn¡¯t yet, and although he isn¡¯t especially trustworthy otherwise, I know he pities me too much to say anything to anyone. The thought makes my stomach churn.


    The janitor cleans the toilets for around ten minutes before exiting, leaving the lights on. I wait an hour or so before sneaking out of the stall, angling my ears toward the door to see if I can hear anyone. Edging closer to the door, I press the right side of my face against it, drawing and holding a breath as I spy for any sound. Nothing.


    Relieving my breath, I push the door open and slip outside and into the dark, freshly mopped corridor. Other people would probably find it a bit eerie at this time of day and the realisation that I don¡¯t makes something in my chest cramp.


    The janitor has clearly already moved to the other side of the school so I feel little apprehension at padding down the hallway and towards the front entrance. On days when the janitor doesn¡¯t notice my presence the front door will usually be locked, but today it isn¡¯t and I easily press it open and escape into the lukewarm summer evening. Even though the spring recently ended, the moon stands almost high. It shouldn¡¯t have been that late, but a glance at the darkened school clock tells me that it¡¯s already been too long. Dad would probably have been worried if I hadn¡¯t done this so many times before.


    Keeping my ears perked for the slightest hint of a sound, I half-jog away from the dim lights of the school, onto a small man-treaded path and through a few bushes until I emerge onto the streets heading home.


    The air is damp and sweaty with the gross smells of the newly constructed sugar plant just outside the city limits. I¡¯m glad dad doesn¡¯t work there or he¡¯d come home smelling like a sewer every night. Thinking about my dad is making my heart sink a little. I hope he got himself something to eat. He¡¯s not much of a cook so I usually have to make everything for him¡ªnot that I mind. Working as a line cook in the future wouldn¡¯t be so bad. I¡¯d love to get a better profession so dad won¡¯t have to grind his spine to dust anymore, but anything will be good so long as it pays.


    I wish I took after more of him so my body would be strong, too. Strong and big and tough. Like Jake, or Marcus. Dad says I take after mum and he seems to think it¡¯s a compliment, but why would I ever want to take after someone who¡¯d abandon her own son? I don¡¯t get it.


    I bet I got my height from her, and my stupid waxy skin. Maybe she even had pointed, sloping, pig-like ears. It would serve her right.


    At least Jake and all of those haven¡¯t found that insecurity to point out yet. Only a matter of time, I guess. Soon enough ¡®pig-ear¡¯ will be all they call me. I¡¯m not sure if that¡¯s better or worse than ¡®Gurb¡¯. I¡¯m sure to find out eventually.


    My feet hurt. Today Jake and his goonies laughed at my shoes. I was proud that dad finally let me wear his old sneakers because my last shoes got all ragged trying to keep up with Jake and them playing basketball. Why did I even try? It always goes the same way. They only invite me as a joke, to make me remember just how small I am compared to them. Sometimes I wish I had wings so I could beat them effortlessly at the game. Show them that height isn¡¯t all that matters.


    Wings, wings, wings¡­


    I look up again. You can¡¯t really see the stars in this city but I still try, and sometimes I can see mars or maybe jupiter. Dad doesn¡¯t know much about that kind of stuff but he¡¯s always happy when I point to the signs. It isn¡¯t often or anything, but on good days, when there¡¯s a red day or his friends are going on strike, dad will sometimes take me on the bus and we¡¯ll go out of the city late at night and point at stars. It¡¯s usually pretty cloudy and the stars are mostly invisible even outside the city, but I always appreciate it. It makes me wonder if, if I could fly above all of that smog, maybe, I could actually see what gleams overhead.


    Silly thoughts. Stupid, even.


    It¡¯s escapism. I know that, but I still wish I was something else. I¡¯m already weird as I am, can¡¯t I take another step? Jake calls me strange names sometimes. He would deserve it, whatever I had coming.


    That depends on what kind, obviously. Some kinds are better than others. Most authors and showmakers try to make it really obvious that being a vampire is somehow worse than being human, because you can¡¯t have the humans be too excited about eternal life. So you hang a bunch of weaknesses on them. Sunlight, mirrors, silver, garlic, just about anything you can think of. I don¡¯t see why the vampire can¡¯t just go to live in some castle and never talk to any outsider. Other people is hell, as they say.


    I wouldn¡¯t mind living forever. It always annoys me when people say ¡®Oh, but immortality would suck because all your friends and family would die'' or whatever, because, I mean, they¡¯ll still die. Whether you¡¯re immortal or not you¡¯ll still have to mourn people, and it¡¯s not like feelings stick around forever. Just look at happiness¡ªgone in a flash!


    Some feelings stick around more than others, I guess. Humiliation. Shame. Anger¡­


    But when you¡¯re an immortal bloodsucker, there¡¯s no reason to bottle these things up. All you have to do is-,


    I stop in my tracks. I don¡¯t know what I¡¯m looking at and I don¡¯t really want to.


    From the edge of my vision, I take in the surroundings. It¡¯s an alleyway, both ends facing other dark streets. Dirt, rubbish and half-rotten left-overs litter the small alley. I think I spot the vague shape of a cat lying atop a black trash bag but I can¡¯t tell if it¡¯s alive or not. It doesn¡¯t smell alive.


    The only two exits are the one behind me and the one behind whoever (whatever?) is standing in front of me.


    I think it¡¯s a woman. Maybe. Her hunched, heaving back is framed by the light of a dim, flickering streetlamp. A rat scuttles across her feet and she doesn¡¯t even flinch. I stare at her, my mind flashing with Stranger Danger PSAs. I think it¡¯s a she but it¡¯s hard to tell. The sound of laboured, hissing breathing reaches my ears and my instinctual fear is overtaken by a brief worry for her health. I open my mouth to ask her something, maybe if she¡¯s sick, if she ate something bad, but nothing comes out.


    Her right arm, thin and bony and pale like paper even in the darkness, is resting on the stained and disgusting wall of the alleyway. She takes a trembling step towards me, a high heel I only now noticed she¡¯s wearing clicking against the dirty pavement. My gaze flashes down at it¡ªit¡¯s red and too high to stagger properly in¡ªand then back up to her face. She¡¯s beautiful. I can tell it on a purely objective basis. She looks like the girls in dad¡¯s magazines.


    ¡­No, she looks better.


    Her lips are full and red. Something must have happened because her immaculate red lipstick seems to have been smeared across her chin in a strangely wet way. I don¡¯t want to ask her about it. I don¡¯t want to ask her anything, actually.


    She takes another step towards me and I, purely on instinct, take a step back.


    Something bangs from somewhere behind her and she, with sudden vigour, snaps her head around to face it, and at the same time, spurred on by her lapse in attention, I turn around to look behind me. Could I make it? I think there¡¯s a way to get home if I take a right turn down that street. It will be a bit of a detour, but it¡¯s much better than facing her. The thought strikes me as odd. There¡¯s nothing visually wrong with her. She looked sick. Why does she feel so-,


    There¡¯s another click of shoes and my head whips around just in time to gasp as she¡¯s way closer than before, within arm¡¯s reach, right there, her warm breath hitting me, suddenly drowning out the scent of all the rubbish and the dead cat and as I stare at her lips and inhale the smell of her breath I remember something I thought I¡¯d forgotten, yes, I remember when dad got his entire thumb degloved, and he had to have it rebandaged twice every day, and sometimes when I changed it the bandage would be so bloody I wondered where he got it all from, and it would be crusty with pus and as I stand here staring at the woman I understand what the smell is from: blood.


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    My body seizes up and I can¡¯t move anymore.


    Not until she, with a half-hearted moan, collapses in my arms. I don¡¯t know why I don¡¯t let her go on the spot. Her body is warm. I don¡¯t know why this surprises me. Her eyes flutter in a way I¡¯m sure might be charming but I don¡¯t feel anything. She¡¯s so light. Like a little girl. My arms are trembling.


    Her lips part and a puff of her bloody breath hits me and I restrain the urge to choke.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry about this, girl,¡± she says in a husky whisper. Her flesh feels bony in my hands. I¡¯m no strongman, but I feel like even I could snap her in half. As I stare at her with something like dawning horror, she reaches out her thin, blue-bruised arms and hooks them around my neck. The asphalt beneath my feet seems alive, pulsing, throbbing. I¡¯m frozen like a stone statue and can do nothing as she snakes her head towards me, lips parting. She doesn¡¯t have any teeth. In there, there are only rubbery gums. Gums, and a needle-tipped tongue that I briefly mistake for a worm, or a slick snake.


    I try to move my head away but her arms are stronger than they seem and I can only stare in wordless distress as a tongue far longer than that of a snake''s slithers out, the tip of it crowned by a long, sharp tooth, or maybe a nail; it makes me think of those long, clawed and painted nails that some of my classmates have started to wear, they always scared me a little, but never like this.


    In dumb terror, I neither say nor do anything as the tongue slips in between my lips, through my teeth and then down my throat like a one-toothed eel. I gag, feeling bile rising as it presses through my oesophagus but my attention is diverted when she presses her lips against mine, forcing me to taste the blood on them, to feel her hard but soft gums rub against my teeth and her tongue move around, left to right, up and down.


    Then, with stunning force, she bites off her own tongue.


    The squirming and twitching limb slips down my throat and she forces me to swallow which I somehow do without retching. She doesn¡¯t bleed. Then, as quickly as she had bit it off, she collapses again, warmth draining out of her so fast I wonder if she was ever warm to begin with. And for just a few seconds, I stand there with her in my arms, chest heaving, my mind tingling with fear, maybe disgust.


    A pair of approaching footsteps¡ªfast, in pursuit, but dragging one foot¡ªecho down the nearby street, the one she came from, and I quickly drop her (body? corpse?) and duck down behind a dumpster. I hold up my hand to my face. I want to sob into them but the smell of her sticky perfume clings to them and I don¡¯t want to think about anything anymore. Instead I try to hold it in, hold it all in, which doesn¡¯t work so well as the world begins to blur in front of me. The footsteps draw near, pass the corner into the alley and slow down.


    A few more steps. I can practically hear their owner bend down. It almost sounds like heels, but with the weight behind them, I¡¯m starting to think they¡¯re just wearing hard leather shoes.


    There¡¯s a huff of annoyance(?). Risking everything, I peek out behind the dumpster, blinking the tears from my eyes. Yeah, it¡¯s a man. He¡¯s wearing a simple, almost formal shirt and suit pants, crouched down beside her, holding up one of her pale, bruised arms with a pen. It¡¯s hard to see his face from this angle but it¡¯s angular, well-defined but somehow plain. If you showed me a picture of him and asked me to put a name to his face, I¡¯d say ¡®John Smith¡¯.


    He shifts where he stays hunched, hissing slightly as he moves his leg. There¡¯s a dark blotch pressing out against the light-brown pant leg but there¡¯s no hint of a gunshot. He lets go of her arm and it flops down limply, hitting the ground with a meaty slap.


    Grabbing her face with a gloved hand, he angles it towards him before pulling open her mouth with that same pen, letting the severed stump of the tongue loll out between her bloodied gums. He grunts. ¡°Must¡¯ve chosen a pupil¡­¡±


    Letting go of her face, he begins scanning the nearby area, looking around from behind a pair of yellow, almost orange glasses. His eyes are sharp and, when they fall on me, predatory. They widen.


    Chest convulsing with panic I scramble out from behind the rubbish bin, out of the alleyway, ignoring his cries of ¡°Hey, lassie, wait!¡± and the way my feet almost fall out of my dad¡¯s old but still oversized shoes as I whirl them, internally begging them to move just a little faster. My lungs draw in damp air and all I can think about is blood and needletongues and who was that woman and who was that man?


    He was limping. I can¡¯t hear anything over the beating of my heart and the churning of my suddenly sick stomach but I think he was limping before. I should be okay.


    I run. I run and I run and after maybe two minutes at most my breath runs out and I have to stop by a suburban street to catch my breath. I think Jake lives on this street. He invited me to his home once but I knew he was just doing it to mess with me. Ragged breaths rattle through my throat and I remember I never was that good at running. Just one more thing to make fun of me for. Slower-than-a-hippo-Luis. No good trying to correct people by saying hippos are actually very fast, they obviously meant that I was even slower than Charles, who happens to be called ¡®Hippo¡¯ whenever the situation calls for humiliating nicknames.


    I groan to myself. Some spot below my right ribs hurts and I hope it isn¡¯t a heart attack. My stomach churns weirdly and the only option I have to distract myself is to keep walking down the street.


    I think, if I take a turn here, I should be able to get back on the right track. Hopefully.


    Even though I would like nothing better than to stop here to catch my breath, I force myself to keep moving, albeit slower than before. I can¡¯t name a single body part or organ that doesn¡¯t hurt. Worst of all is my brain. It keeps pounding and jolting and squirming inside the cavity of my skull, like it¡¯s trying to get out of there. Irrationally, I press my hands against my temples in some vague attempt to confine what is essentially myself. I can¡¯t tell if it¡¯s working or not, but in my effort, I watch as a string of saliva descends from my shivering lips before hitting the swinging, thumping pavement.


    I blink down at the ground. A hole gapes up at me, black and taunting. A worm slithers out of it.


    ¡°...Aaah!¡± Stumbling, delirious, I start running again, drawing a large arc around the hole, looking back at it with increasingly superstitious panic, eventually running face-first into a street lamp because of it. Groaning and clutching at my nose, I bring my finger into the light, expecting blood. Instead I see maggots. Red, squirming maggots, some clinging to my finger, others uselessly falling to the pavement in big drops. I scream again, trying desperately to wipe them off, but wherever they go they keep spreading and squirming.


    I start running again. I don¡¯t even know where I¡¯m going but it feels like running is all I can do. My stomach is squirming. My organs are squirming. My brain is squirming. If you cut me up, what would you find?


    My feet stop running and I don¡¯t know why until I look up and realise I¡¯m standing in front of our apartment building. It looks like it¡¯s swaying in the wind, like a big tree in a summer storm, but I can¡¯t bring myself to care anymore as I pull open the door and lumber inside. For once, I¡¯m happy that there¡¯s no one in the lobby. I don¡¯t think I¡¯d recognise them. Would they recognise me? I don¡¯t know.


    The elevator is broken down as usual and I don¡¯t like the way it glares at me so I take the stairs. My mind writhes and then I¡¯m suddenly at the right floor, the sixth floor, and I exit. The corridor doesn¡¯t feel real. Are the walls grey or blue or eggshell or bone? I blink at them. I want to stop and stare for a few minutes, to understand the pallor, but I feel like if I stop I won¡¯t be able to move again.


    I put my hand on the knob of our apartment. The door slides open easily and I feel a surge of gratefulness for my dad¡¯s compassion but I try not to cry since there might be maggots in my eyes. I step inside.


    ¡°Don¡¯t forget to lock the door,¡± dad says.


    I pause just inside the door for a second. I can hear the hum of the television, playing a rerun of some movie my dad and I once watched together. I don¡¯t remember the name of it and I don¡¯t think I liked it very much, but the fact that I watched it with dad makes it feel inviting. ¡°Okay,¡± I say, turning around and closing the door. Twisting the lock and sliding on the extra lock I hear a satisfying click as everything falls into place.


    I take off my shoes and move over to the living room. Calling it the living room might be a bit much since it¡¯s the same room as the kitchen and dining room, but my dad and I sometimes joke about how we should move to the dining hall or the study or the lounge.


    Sitting down on the couch, I look at the TV for a little. I was wrong before, I don¡¯t recognise the movie at all. As I¡¯m staring at the screen, he reaches out to the remote and lowers the volume a bit.


    ¡°Have fun at school today?¡± he asks.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I lie.


    He doesn¡¯t say anything for a few minutes, but the volume remains low so I know he still has things to say. Clearing his throat, he says, ¡°If you¡¯re hungry, there¡¯s some oatmeal in the microwave. There¡¯s a sliced banana in the fridge, too.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not really hungry,¡± I say, pressing a hand to my stomach. ¡°I¡­ already ate.¡±


    ¡°Is that so?¡± he asks. ¡°That¡¯s, uh, a shame.¡± He reaches for the remote but pauses midway there. He gives a hoarse chuckle. ¡°You know, the strangest thing happened at work today¡­¡± As I sit half-melted on the couch, wondering if my organs are still writhing or not, dad retells a story about how Chuck, one of his work friends, successfully fooled the newbie¡ªsome young down-on-his-luck kid¡ªinto making a small but forgivable mistake. When the boss found out about it, Chuck took the fall for it. Dad thought that was the funniest part, and I don¡¯t really get it, but I still give a half-hearted laugh just for the sake of it.


    Once he¡¯s finished his story we sit on the couch for a little while. He turns the volume back up and I stumble over to the kitchen and turn on the microwave. I stare into the dotted window, watching as the glass plate and the bowl of oatmeal turn around and around. It feels like my stomach is also turning around and around.


    Suddenly I feel like puking and I buckle over the sink, gripping the cold steel edges with feverish hands and burying my head in there, my stomach convulsing and my throat filling with the smell of digestion. But nothing comes out. I dry retch and burp and try to breathe but nothing comes up. The microwave hums and I feel my mouth make a similar sound: a groan.


    All that comes up is bile and something sour and I spit it into the sink, turning on the tap to wash it away, trying to ignore the way it turns the blueish steel red.


    Cupping my hands below the stream, I drink directly from them, gargling and swishing around before finally spitting it out. The microwave dings.


    Still hiccuping, I remove the bowl from the microwave, putting it down before it has time to burn off my fingerprints. Moving robotically, I take out the sliced banana from the fridge and put them on the oatmeal. I bring the whole feast back to the television.


    For a while, just to pretend I¡¯m okay, I sit there on the couch, watching the movie. It¡¯s about some schitzo who thinks he¡¯s a killer while actually being a pathetic creep. A sex scene comes on and dad changes the channel to some sort of reality show about rich Asians. It¡¯s not the show that makes me leave, and it isn¡¯t the oatmeal either. For some reason, a wave of nausea just washes over me and I don¡¯t want dad to see it so I stand up and bring the slightly nibbled bowl to the sink. I consider just leaving it there, but I don¡¯t want to pressure dad into washing it so I just scoop out the leftovers into the trash and wash the bowl lightly, putting it still wet on the dryer rack.


    I move across the living room.


    ¡°You¡¯re already going to bed?¡± dad asks.


    I say, ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± he says, giving me a worried glance. He lowers the volume on the TV again and turns to look at me. I don¡¯t look at him. But he doesn¡¯t say anything and after several seconds of silence, I can¡¯t do anything but turn around and return his gaze. His brown eyes stare into mine. His face is gruff and broad, unshaved since a few weeks back. His thick eyebrows are furrowed in clear worry. ¡°Is everything alright, Luis?¡±


    The world starts to swim with maggots and tadpoles but I don¡¯t dare wipe at my eyes because he might notice. ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m okay,¡± I say, my voice trembling a little, almost cracking. ¡°I¡¯m just a bit tired, and I didn¡¯t do so well on the last test, so I think¡­ I think I¡¯m going to go to bed now.¡± I turn away from him before I have to watch his face turn sad. ¡°Maybe you should, too.¡±


    I look back just at the right time to see him turn to the TV mournfully. He usually goes to bed at 18, just after dinner. I know why he stayed up this late and I suddenly wish with all of my heart that I¡¯d just braved the school yard for his sake. He sighs tiredly. ¡°Yeah, I should. I guess.¡±


    He turns off the TV and stands up. I look back to my room. ¡°Goodnight, dad.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± he says. ¡°Sleep tight, Luis. Love you.¡±


    ¡°Love you too, dad.¡±


    I enter my room. It¡¯s cold and dark but at least the air feels dry. I turn on the lamp. I don¡¯t have all that much everything considered. The sparse shelves are filled with books my dad got me at second hand for my birthdays and Christmases¡ªI never asked for them, he just knew¡ªmost of them about werewolves or vampires or ghouls or dragons. For some reason, I can¡¯t bear to look at them right now.


    I also have a few posters. I got two of them at the premiere screenings of New Moon and Eclipse, and although I didn¡¯t ask for it, dad later got me the poster for the original one at some yard sale or something. I think that one¡¯s my favourite, even if it has a few tears here and there.


    I dump my backpack on the floor. Normally at this hour, I¡¯d usually stay up for a while, doing homework or reading, but right now the room is starting to swim again and the world doesn¡¯t feel quite real anymore.


    My teeth hurt. My feet hurt. My brain is starting to shift uncomfortably again.


    With no other choice, I collapse into my bed, not even changing out of my clothes or brushing my teeth.


    Hopefully¡­ dad won¡¯t worry¡­ too much¡­

 Chapter 2, Faces new and old

    When I woke up the next morning, my gums hurt and there was a pile of loose, bloody teeth on my pillow. For a terrifying, panicking second I imagine my mouth must be like that of the woman¡¯s, needletongued and toothless, but when I thrust my fingers inside and feel around I find a row of teeth and a regular tongue meeting me. Yet another form of horror surges up my spine and I bolt up in bed, jerking my head back and forth, looking into the shadows of the room, trying to spot her. But she isn¡¯t there. She¡¯s¡­ she¡¯s dead, I think.


    I heave a shivering sigh. A strand of crow-black hair falls in front of my eye. It¡¯s longer than it should be. I tuck it behind my pig-ear.


    I jump out of bed and realise that not only am I still wearing the same clothes I had last night, but so too is the lamp still on and my backpack isn¡¯t unpacked, meaning my damp, already-used gym clothes must still be in there.


    Stupid, stupid Luis. Always with this.


    A list of things I need to do quickly forms in my head. The first is to take another look at those teeth.


    I glance back at my pillow and gulp. Bending down, I observe them critically. I can¡¯t know too well but it seems to be an entire set, with canines and whatever else included. Worst of all, going by a few of the more malformed ones, they do indeed seem to be mine. They all lie in a puddle of my nighttime saliva and a surprisingly little amount of blood considering that it seems like they all fell out of my mouth in the middle of the night.


    My teeth fell out. But I have teeth now.


    ¡­Why? What? How?


    I frown to myself. A thought strikes me and I glance at the clock. Yeah, if I want to get to school on time, I¡¯ll need to think about these things as I get ready. I move to the bathroom. As expected, the apartment is empty. One time, I asked dad if he could do a different shift, but it would¡¯ve meant working so late into the night he could barely eat dinner, which would¡¯ve been even worse. I walk into the bathroom. For a mouthful of supposedly fresh teeth, they aren¡¯t especially clean.


    Each and every one of them is covered in a slimy layer of half-dried, brownish blood. It isn¡¯t my first time seeing something like it, but it still disgusts me so much I spend over a minute brushing my teeth. A ridiculous amount of time, I know, but sometimes it¡¯s needed. I spit the reddish water into the sink and when I look back up I realise that I may be an idiot.


    How did I only now notice that my hair is suddenly way longer?


    I touch a hand to it. It reaches down well below my shoulders. It¡¯s still the same black colour and the same dry, dusty texture but the length is just ridiculous. I twirl my finger around a stray strand. Something sour rises to the back of my throat and I feel a sudden compulsion to cut it off. I need it gone. I can¡¯t look like this going to school.


    My hand reaches for the scissor but something stops me.


    Dad usually cuts my hair. I like the way he cuts it. In return, I cut his hair. Cutting your own hair is hard. It probably won''t look any good and dad usually wants me to tell him I need it cut a day or so ahead of time. If I cut it now, on my own, with time quickly running out, it¡¯s sure to look horrible.


    ¡­But it¡¯s better than having it like this.


    I see myself grimace in the mirror. Giving only a final moment of hesitation I grab hold of the scissors. It doesn¡¯t need to be perfect. It just needs to be passable. Passable¡­


    Snip snip snip.


    I drop the scissor as though it¡¯s scalding and give my mirror-self a long, hard look.


    ¡­I¡¯m going to need to wear my hoodie up all day. Not that that¡¯s all too unusual. Yeah. I¡¯m sure nobody will react. If I just sit in my corner and don¡¯t say a word nobody will notice. For sure.


    I stumble out of the bathroom, grab my backpack and move into the living room. Before I leave the house fully, I give a longing look at the landline. I could just call in sick. Say I¡¯ve got a fever and feel ill. It would almost be the truth.


    ¡­But if I miss a few more days of school I¡¯ll be out. Teach said as much at the last parent-teacher conference. Dad had looked really worried, too. He didn¡¯t know. I should¡¯ve told him. I promised not to pretend anymore.


    Groaning to myself, I put my hand on the front door¡¯s knob and twist, making sure to lock it behind me. The elevator is still being repaired and I imagine it will continue being repaired until the end of mankind. The staircase echoes with my footsteps. Then, as I pass the third floor, a woman pops out of the hallway like a jack-in-the-box before engaging the staircase, also going down.


    I don¡¯t walk any slower or faster than her, so we¡¯re pretty much forced to move at the exact same speed, next to each other. My mind burns with the awkwardness and I genuinely consider the merits of going into a freefall to descend the stairs faster.


    ¡°So,¡± she says, breaking the awkward silence, ¡°don¡¯t you live on the sixth floor? Jack¡¯s kid?¡±


    I turn to her, and apparently, she only now noticed my horrendous, downright offensive haircut, because she forgot what she was doing, stumbled on the stairs and rolled her ankle, only avoiding a nasty fall because I briefly overcame my hatred of touch in order to grab her arm. Her breathing, quick and shallow, fills the echoing staircase.


    ¡°...You okay?¡± I mumble. She nods curtly and I pull her up into a proper standing position.


    ¡°Thanks,¡± she murmurs back at me. We walk the rest of the way in silence, parting at the front doors without a word. I pull up my hoodie to hide my head. Only when I¡¯ve moved a few blocks from the building do I consider how weird it was that I could hold up an adult woman with one arm. Something there doesn¡¯t sit quite right, but staring at my hand won¡¯t give me anything apart from an angry honk from a car that almost ran me over. I snap out of my confusion.


    I move over a zebra crossing and look to the sky. The sun isn¡¯t standing any high but it is standing. If I touch my wrist I can feel a quick heartbeat and warm flesh. My skin isn¡¯t pale. My teeth aren¡¯t any sharper than normal and in the glass walls of a mall, I see my eyes are still a dusty brown.


    I would be tempted to call yesterday a nightmare if it wasn¡¯t for the teeth and hair. Or maybe this is all just a hallucination, but schizophrenia usually only takes hold around the mid-twenties. I should be alright on that front¡ªfor now.


    But something is going on. Last night, something happened, and I don¡¯t know what.


    My feet stall to a stop. The street in front of me splits into two. One goes faster, through a few alleys. The other is a roundabout way through a suburban street I have good reason to hate. I gulp. Meeting Jake and his friends would be almost worse than meeting whatever I met last night. Almost.


    Praying that Jake got up on time this morning, I choose the detour.


    Maybe I¡¯m a werewolf now. That would explain the growing hair and the teeth falling out. But that doesn¡¯t explain why the teeth that grew out are totally normal and why the hair that grew is only the stuff on my head. Besides, if I turned into a wolf-boy in the middle of the night, I think dad would notice. Probably.


    Also, the woman wasn¡¯t like a werewolf at all. She was more like¡­ She had¡­


    I shudder involuntarily and force down the nausea rising in the back of my throat.


    She wasn¡¯t really like anything I¡¯ve read about. Not a vampire, not a ghoul, not a ghost¡­ I don¡¯t know. The whole thing feels foggy and unreal. I don¡¯t want to think about it but I feel like I have to.


    Alright. She was being chased by him. He was¡­ I don¡¯t know who he was or what he was doing. Maybe some sort of hunter. Didn¡¯t seem too good at it. Then she got to me, and¡­ And¡­


    And both of them mistook me for a girl. A girl.


    Is it because I¡¯m small? I know my shoulders aren¡¯t exactly broad but there¡¯s no need to rub it in. Lots of men are small and maybe a little frail. Lots. It¡¯s nothing weird. Certainly doesn¡¯t make you a girl. How would you even make a mistake like that? Sure the alley was dark, but I¡¯m clearly a boy. A boy. Not a girl.


    Both of them have to have been at least half-blind. I mean, how else would you-,


    ¡°Gurb?¡±


    I freeze in place and instantly wish I¡¯d started running but it¡¯s too late for that. Wide-eyed, sweat already forming on my brow, I turn towards where I heard the voice. That voice I know too well.


    ¡°Hey, I knew it was you! Didn¡¯t know you took this street nowadays. I barely recognized you with your hoodie up like that,¡± Jake says, his voice already grating on my ears. Maybe if I don¡¯t respond he¡¯ll think he got the wrong guy. Oh, no, he¡¯s walking up to me. I keep my eyes on his broad chest to avoid looking him in the eye. I read somewhere that if you look gorillas in the eye they¡¯ll take you for a threat. ¡°Are you trying to hide something under there? A tiara, maybe?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I mumble back at him, my eyes still on his chest, rereading the same printed two words over and over in my head: ¡®Surf Slick¡¯, ¡®Surf Slick¡¯, ¡®Surf Slick¡¯... What does that even mean? I don¡¯t ask him. ¡°It¡¯s not.¡±


    ¡°Sure it isn¡¯t,¡± I can hear the lilt in his words signifying a taunting grin. ¡°You¡¯re up late, by the way. I mean, I¡¯m late all the time, but you? Surprising.¡±


    I¡¯d be late more often if it meant avoiding you, I think to myself. Instead, I just say, ¡°Overslept.¡±


    ¡°Ah, of course, that age-old excuse.¡± He holds up his right arm and looks at the fancy, expensive watch he got for his confirmation. I don¡¯t remember if he invited me to the party or not. ¡°Well, the clock¡¯s-a-tickin¡¯, we¡¯d better get to class.¡± He chuckles. ¡°You wanna jump up on my back? I bet I could get us there in a jiffy.¡± To prove his point, he bends down, showing off his broad back. I noticed too late and was forced to look him in the eye. A brilliant blue. I quickly look away.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± I say.


    He shrugs and stands up again. ¡°Suit yourself.¡± He punches my shoulder. ¡°See you there!¡± And with that, he jogs away.


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Once he¡¯s gone, I rub my shoulder and try to hold back tears. He¡¯s worse with other people around. I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s because he has something to prove. Maybe the reason he¡¯s all buff and jockey is to show that not all homosexuals are prissy wusses. I don¡¯t know. If he¡¯d been more like me, meeker, he¡¯d be on the other side of the punches. I just know it. Can¡¯t get kicked if you¡¯re the one doing the kicking.


    I wipe at my nose and for one heart-seizing second I imagine there are maggots on my hand, but when I look down at my palm, it¡¯s empty. I sigh.


    A few minutes later, just in time to hear the bell ring, I arrive at school.


    There¡¯s a banner hanging outside the cafeteria that wasn¡¯t there yesterday. It says ¡®Pavrille Parrots¡¯ alongside a somewhat crude drawing of our team mascot. I guess this means the season is coming up, but I couldn¡¯t care less. It might mean that Jake and his followers will get more aggressive, but it could just as well mean the opposite as they take out their frustrations on the battlefield instead of me. One can always hope.


    I move through the hallways silently. People have already gone to their classes, so there aren¡¯t a lot of people around. I¡¯d enjoy it more if the whole being-late business didn¡¯t make me feel so horrible.


    Grabbing my books from my locker, I make my way to the first class of the day: English.


    My hand hovers over the door handle. I can hear someone talking in there, so whatever I do I¡¯ll be cutting them off. Horrible, horrible. As I press down the handle, steeling my heart to do what I must, I realise mid-swing that the voice I hear isn¡¯t from the English teacher, but someone else. Once I get the door open fully, I find that it¡¯s our principal, Mrs Rosewood, oddly enough dressed¡ªmuch like myself¡ªentirely in black. She turns to me, her eyes red and puffy. ¡°...Luis, please, take a seat.¡±


    ¡­No being told off for being late? Confused, I make my way through the room, between the seats. Everybody has such strange facial expressions, I can¡¯t really understand them. It¡¯s not sadness, but close, with their frowns twitching just a little. To try to understand better, I aim in on one of the girls, chancing a look at her eyes. She¡¯s looking straight ahead, eyes trembling, a bit too moist than need be. I look away and move to my seat.


    When I compare what I just saw to what Mrs Rosewood is wearing, it¡¯s clear that, for some reason, somehow, the students and the principal are all wearing expressions of grief.


    I sit down close to the back of the class. Mrs Rosewood stares out over us for a few more seconds before continuing. Only now do I notice the man standing behind her. How in the world did I not see him before? Especially with that beard. He¡¯s a full foot taller than her, as slim as a corpse and somehow his presence just doesn¡¯t feel real. It¡¯s like he¡¯s a shadow, or a piece of furniture. Just not there.


    ¡°And that is why I am sorry to have to introduce you all to Mr Chetwynd-Talbot, who was gracefully able to take over even on such short, tragic notice.¡± Saying so, she takes a step back, letting the substitute teacher (I¡¯ve already forgotten his name) take centre stage.


    ¡°Please,¡± he says, smoothly, ¡°no need for formalities. By all means, call me Henry.¡± A smile. Neither too formal nor too familiar. Just¡­ perfect. ¡°I¡¯m assured you are all devastated by the loss of Mr Chalkbest, a feeling I relate to all too well. The reason I am able to step into his large boots on such short notice is in fact because I was his friend and confidant. As my accent may have betrayed,¡± I had barely noticed it, ¡°I am not from this side of the Atlantic. Regardless, I hope you will accept me with open arms and eager minds. I may not be able to live up to his memory, but I will try to honour it.¡±


    Nobody has anything to say and I don¡¯t either. We¡¯re all just staring straight ahead in a sort of collective daze as though we¡¯d just been listening to the principal hold an hour-long speech on the future generation or whatever.


    He smiles in the way old paintings do and Mrs Rosewood smiles too, some amount of relief clearly present on her lips.


    She bows her head down a little, her curly black hair bouncing. ¡°I¡¯m sorry that we couldn¡¯t give you students more time to grieve, but with midterms coming up¡­¡± Her voice shifts. ¡°It¡¯s what he would have wanted.¡±


    With her piece said, Mrs Rosewood backs away, towards the door. She gives a final glance back before leaving fully. The classroom is uncharacteristically silent, but I chalk it up to the news we just received. For a few seconds, nobody says anything. Really, it¡¯s so quiet we can hear the classrooms around and below us, mumbling. A classroom as silent as this would usually be the perfect breeding ground for gossip and whispering and laughing, but nobody says anything. Nothing at all.


    A girl sniffles, hiccups, somehow breaking the ice enough for people to start mumbling to each other. Thankfully, nobody says anything to me. I can understand what¡¯s happening without-,


    ¡°Chalkbest died!¡± Jake whisper-shouts at me, leaning across the space between our chairs. ¡°They say he was-,¡±


    A clap of the hands silences everyone again. ¡°I know you¡¯ve heard some terrible news, I am as shocked as you, but please don¡¯t use this as an excuse to gossip amongst yourselves. As Principal Rosewood so elegantly put it, he would have wanted us to continue learning.¡± Everything he says, he says clearly, cleanly, without a single pause or stutter. It¡¯s hard to describe, but it sounds as though he¡¯s an actor speaking his lines perfectly, without a single hiccup. Even Chalkbest spoke like a human. The substitute smiles at us. ¡°Would anyone like to explain what you worked on last? I¡¯m afraid I have not had the time to acquaint myself with your curriculum yet. I have been¡­ preoccupied.¡±


    For a second, there is no response. Then one of the girls in the front row raises her hand. He gives her a well-measured nod. She goes on to ramble about the last book we¡¯ve had to read and that we were going to watch the movie adaptation next week to write a report on the differences and similarities between the two.


    He takes it in with a calm disposition, thanking her for the opulent explanation. He really used that word¡ªopulent. I can¡¯t see her face, but when she sat down, she seemed extra careful with straightening out her skirt so it¡¯d look just right. Suck-up.


    Thankfully, maybe reading the atmosphere, he lets us spend the rest of the lesson just reading our books. I¡¯ve gotten a bit further than everyone else, but not because I like the book or anything. It¡¯s mediocre at best. Weird humour, but since I read fast I¡¯m able to get through it without having to read it at home. I glance to my right, finding Jake sitting there, hand in his hair, frowning down at his book. He¡¯s barely gotten a quarter into it while everyone else is way past the halfway mark. I grin to myself.


    ¡°Is there something the matter, student?¡±


    I look up. He¡¯s so close now. I didn¡¯t hear him approach and I wasn¡¯t even reading that intently. I accidentally meet his eyes and they seem to almost be burning. I look down at my book, affixing my gaze on the word ¡®crumb¡¯. ¡°Uh, no.¡±


    ¡°You seemed very amused,¡± he breathes. I look around. Nobody else seems to even notice that he¡¯s all the way at the back of the class. ¡°It¡¯s a shame, but the other student¡ªAlice¡ªfailed to describe the plot too deeply.¡± I can feel his breaths, nearby. They don¡¯t smell like anything. Just air. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t mind, would you?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I say before I realise that this means I¡¯ll have to talk more. I wet my lips. ¡°Well, um, it¡¯s about this boy, and he¡¯s¡­ at this place in the desert. They¡¯re all digging holes. Hence the, uh, title.¡±


    ¡°Holes? For what?¡±


    I gulp, running my thumb over the print, around and around, trying to take comfort in the texture of the paper. ¡°I¡­ don¡¯t know. It hasn¡¯t been revealed yet, but I think they¡¯re looking for¡­ something. Maybe.¡±


    ¡°Well, I wouldn¡¯t want you to spoil it. Since I¡¯m sure to stay with your class for at least a while, it might do me good to read it as well.¡± A brief pause. I wish it means he¡¯s done speaking but he isn¡¯t. ¡°Could I have your name?¡±


    I glance up again. His eyes are still burning. ¡°Luis,¡± I say. ¡°Luis Freighthold.¡±


    ¡°Luis¡­ It¡¯s a good name,¡± he says. ¡°You know, it¡¯s the funniest thing. I can¡¯t say I¡¯ve been here for too long, but¡ªit¡¯s one of those culture clash things¡ªyou apparently still refer to people by their last names, including teachers you know. Isn¡¯t that silly?¡± I don¡¯t think it is, but I don¡¯t say anything. ¡°I¡¯d rather you just called me Henry. Chetwynd-Talbot is such a mouthful.¡±


    I glance up at him again. He smiles affably. ¡°But I¡¯ll leave you to your work now, Luis. I hope I didn¡¯t take up too much of your time.¡±


    ¡°...No problem,¡± I mumble.


    I don¡¯t hear him leave either. When I look up, all of a sudden he¡¯s back at the front of the classroom, as though he never left. Feeling slightly nauseous, I turn back to my book, trying to make the feeling go away by drowning my mind out with words. Surprisingly, it works.


    Class ends, and on the way out, Henry encourages everyone to go in a line and tell him their names and what their favourite piece of music is. When it¡¯s my turn, he just looks at me and says, ¡°I already know you, Luis.¡± He let me through. I had been repeating my name and my favourite song in my head for maybe three minutes at that point (Luis Freighthold, ¡®Breathe¡¯, Luis Freighthold, ¡®Breathe¡¯, Luis Freighthold, ¡®Breathe¡¯...) so I felt a bit snubbed. Nonetheless, the fact that I didn¡¯t have to say anything did bring some relief.


    Second period is maths. I do alright. Jake isn¡¯t in it but a few of his cronies are so I¡¯m able to stay without having to interact with anyone. At some point, I try to answer a question and when I get it wrong everyone laughs. I sit back down. Someone else answers it correctly and everything continues as normal. I don¡¯t have time to go cry in the toilet before the next period begins.


    The rest of the time before lunch goes alright. After leaving my books in my locker I go outside, bringing my backpack with me before remembering that I didn¡¯t pack any lunch this morning.


    Maybe I should just skip it. I don¡¯t feel hungry anyway.


    I shake my head. That¡¯s the kind of logic that got me so thin in seventh grade. I was lucky dad caught me in time or we may have had to take me to a hospital or something, which we obviously wouldn¡¯t have been able to afford. Spinning on my heel, I re-enter the school. The cafeteria is predictably bustling and the sounds irk me more than the long, winding line does. I take my place.


    I have three reasons for eating on my own, outside: firstly, it¡¯s cheaper to bring my own lunch than to buy from the school; secondly, it¡¯s quiet outside; thirdly¡­


    ¡°Hey, Gurb!¡± someone calls and I try fruitlessly to merge more with the line, but Jake¡¯s voice cuts above the rest. ¡°Come stand over here with us!¡±


    A few annoyed glares shoot my way from those ahead of me, but by this point, I know what happens if I don¡¯t ¡®join them.¡¯ Meekly, I step out of the line and approach the group of four standing by the treys. Jake welcomes me with a leering grin. All four of them are taller and broader than me. I think they could bicep-curl me if they wanted to, but if I said anything like that they might be tempted to actually try it.


    Jake turns away from me and the three others share indecipherable looks.


    The line shifts and we move to take food. I don¡¯t say anything. Anything I say can (and will) be used against me for the sake of some derogatory joke. There¡¯s no point in even trying.


    ¡°Veronica was totally checking you out dude,¡± one of the three guys¡ªPatrick¡ªsays, jutting his elbow into Jake.


    ¡°She was not!¡± he says back, and so the conversation continues. I¡¯m not even sure why they keep me around. Slapstick, I assume. I follow them as they move across the food. I look down at the food and frown. Poached salmon. Isn¡¯t chemical warfare against the Geneva convention? Skipping over the pink rubber, I grab a pile of stringed carrots and some cucumber, placing them on either half of the plate, neatly separated.


    Silently, I follow the four as they make their way across the cafeteria, finally sitting down at a large round table. I¡¯m unwillingly sitting next to Jake because that was the only spot open. They¡¯re talking about games and girls and I¡¯m poking at the tawny greens on my plate, wondering if it¡¯s worth salting them. I¡¯ll just get made fun of again, but maybe it¡¯s worth it.


    ¡°What about you, Gurb?¡±


    My heart jumps into my throat and emerges as a croak, ¡°What?¡±


    A chuckle passes around the table. I feel hot in my hoodie. Patrick smiles at me mockingly. ¡°What¡¯s your favourite team?¡±


    ¡°Oh, um¡­¡± I rack my brains. I don¡¯t know any teams. Dad doesn¡¯t even watch sports. ¡°The¡­ Parrots.¡±


    A few more chuckles around the table and once again I have no idea what they¡¯re laughing at. It¡¯s like they¡¯re talking in morse. Jake slaps Patrick on the back and, grinning, says, ¡°Hey, come on, man! You¡¯re going to cast a curse over us or something.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± one of the others pipes up, ¡°might as well ask him to come cheer for us. Watch the clouds go black!¡±


    ¡°Like a black cat,¡± someone else says. Going by the laugh in his voice I think they meant it as a joke, but it doesn¡¯t have any punchline. Regardless, the others laugh. Not wanting to be left out, I give a small chuckle.


    The table abruptly goes quiet. Four pairs of eyes turn on me and I look down at my plate. ¡°What¡¯s so funny, Gurb?¡± I think Jake says.


    I ball my hands into fists. My head is filled with buzzing flies. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± I say.


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± he says, and I can hear the smile on his face. ¡°I couldn¡¯t really hear you. Come on, Gurb. Speak up.¡± I don¡¯t say anything in turn. ¡°Besides, what are you wearing this hood for? Come on, man. You¡¯re among friends, you know that, right?¡± No, I¡¯m not, I think, but nothing comes out. A hand touches the edge of my hood. ¡°Did you go bald? Did you get cancer? It¡¯s not like we¡¯ll laugh if you did.¡± I bring up my hands, holding the hood in place. ¡°Don¡¯t be like that.¡±


    He rips back my hood, much too strong for me to fight, and cold air brushes my head. I stare straight forward, unwillingly meeting the eyes of all four, and for just a moment, nobody says anything. Then¡­


    ¡°¡±¡°-BWAHAHAHAHAH!¡±¡±¡±


    In a matter of seconds, moments, I fly to my feet, feeling how they whirl beneath me and my breath razes through my throat and the action of running briefly keeps me from crying, and for just a second I hear how one of them stops laughing to pat Jake on the back and say ¡°you¡¯re awful¡± and then I¡¯m running again and I keep it in all the way until I get to the bathroom, where I run into the third stall and hop onto the toilet, pressing my knees against my face so I won¡¯t have to wet a more obvious piece of clothing. Like this, I can just say I fell down in a puddle, or something.


    As I sit on the toilet, sniffling, sobbing, the door opens. ¡°Hey, Gurb, you in here?¡± Jake asks. I stop my sobbing. But it¡¯s hard. The edges of my lips keep dipping down into a trembling frown and I¡¯m on the edge of hiccuping. I pinch my nose shut. My eyes are already going watery but I¡¯m at least keeping myself from making too much noise. ¡°Hey, man, I think I might¡¯ve overstepped a boundary there or something, just¡­¡±


    A pause. I can hear him pace across the floor, probably hunched over, looking beneath the stall doors. I clutch my knees closer to me.


    ¡°...But, seriously, you can¡¯t fault us for laughing, right? I mean, you look like a, like a¡­ Like you put a dead crow on your head! Ha-ha!¡± I don¡¯t laugh. ¡°Or¡­ something.¡± A few more moments brush by, awkwardly conjoined. ¡°Right. Yeah.¡± I think he stands up again. ¡°See you in fifth period?¡±


    The door opens and then he¡¯s gone. I sit on the toilet for a few more minutes, and then I wipe my tears with a paper towel and flush it down the toilet.


    I only now remember I left my plate in the cafeteria. It still has everything on it. I tried to eat, but the carrots tasted weird. I should clean up after myself. It¡¯s almost time for the next period to begin, so it should be alright.


    Wiping at my eyes, I exit the stall only to find someone standing there and I stumble back. A pair of burning eyes fall on me and Henry smiles in a way I think might be sympathetic. ¡°He said something mean, didn¡¯t he?¡± I¡¯m too startled to reply, and with sudden self-consciousness, I pull the hood back over my head. His smile softens. ¡°You don¡¯t need to hide it, you know. I don¡¯t mind.¡±


    I want to say something but my throat is still full of sobs so I try to push past him but his hand falls on my shoulder and I tense up. It¡¯s stronger than I¡¯d think of him. ¡°We may not have known each other for long, but if you ever need someone to talk to, I would gladly lend you my ear, Luis.¡±


    I brush him off and leave the toilet.


    For the rest of the day, Jake doesn¡¯t try to talk to me, which I¡¯m thankful for. When the bell rings for the final time I run across the school yard, successfully avoiding them. Once I¡¯m a fair distance away from the school I slow down my pace and walk. For some reason, I¡¯m not out of breath, even though I ran for a pretty good while.


    My knees are trembling. I keep walking. I don¡¯t want to think about anything.


    To keep my mind off it, I focus on what I should make for dinner tonight. I don¡¯t feel like making anything too grand, but some chicken, some rice, and¡­ and a few¡­


    I grind to a stop.


    An alleyway gapes open before me. A tremble returns to my knees. I¡­ I must have taken this road on instinct. Yeah, that¡¯s it. Instinct. My chest feels cold. I take a step back. Yeah, I just need to take a detour, and then¡­


    Jake¡¯s face flashes through my head and I draw a sharp breath. I can¡¯t. I can¡¯t.


    I look back at the alley. My eyes turn downward, at where she was yesterday. But there¡¯s nothing there. Not even the scent of her perfume. In fact, the whole alley smells cleaner. I think the cat¡¯s been removed. Unwillingly, I take a breath of the alley. It smells like alcohol, but not the drinking kind. Confusion washes over me.


    As I stand in the middle of the alley, I hear a sound. Like heels, but heavier.


    I swirl around. A man with yellow glasses stares down at me. I gulp.


    Leaning down, he asks, ¡°Have we met before?¡±

 Chapter 3, Vernon Hellbound

    I take a step back. His eyes sharpen, like an eagle¡¯s. ¡°...No, we haven¡¯t.¡± His voice is slick, professional, yet somehow curious. He takes a step closer, looming over me, but I can¡¯t move anymore. I can feel his gaze move from my face onto my hood and I can almost see the question forming in his head. I can do nothing but stare in silent dread as he reaches up one gloved hand¡ªis this the one that touched her face?¡ªand flicks off the hood.


    He blinks at me. All pretence of seriousness dissolves as his lips crook upwards into a barely contained smile. ¡°Pff-,¡± he says before catching himself and pressing his gloved hand against his mouth, eyes widening in surprise and horror.


    The world is going blurry again and my face feels hot so I whirl on my feet, ready to just run for it, but a hand falls on my shoulder¡ªit¡¯s soft, gentle¡ªand I stop. ¡°Hey, hey, calm down, I didn¡¯t mean to-¡­¡± I glance back at him. He shakes his head in a self-derogatory fashion. When he looks back up again, his eyes are firm but sympathetic. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. You must have your reasons. I shouldn¡¯t have laughed, and¡­ I shouldn¡¯t have forced you. That¡¯s on me. You just¡­ happened to look like someone I thought I recognised.¡±


    I turn back around to face him fully, bringing up my hands to wring the strap of my backpack. I look down at my feet, at dad¡¯s old sneakers. I ask, ¡°Are you¡­ looking for someone?¡±


    He nods. ¡°Yeah,¡± he says. ¡±Someone dangerous.¡± A flash of uncertainty passes over his face. ¡°Someone who might not know that they¡¯re dangerous.¡±


    ¡°...What do you mean?¡±


    The man purses his lips and hunches down until we¡¯re at eye level, not that I look him in the eyes. Cocking his head, he looks behind me, up the alley, and then over his shoulder. There isn¡¯t anybody around. ¡°Since I did something bad to you, I¡¯ll tell you, but only if you don¡¯t tell anyone else. Capiche?¡± Considering that I don¡¯t have anyone to tell it to, I give him an affirmative nod. ¡°Alright, alright.¡± A dramatic pause. ¡°I¡¯m looking for a vampire.¡±


    The way he says it makes it sound like it¡¯s the most breathtaking secret in the world, but I react like a pretty normal person: sheer confusion. A little pity.


    ¡°Don¡¯t look at me like that!¡± he hisses, so I turn away, trying to prove very clearly that I¡¯m not looking (so please don¡¯t hit me). ¡°Oh, come on, don¡¯t be like¡­¡± He holds out a hand, but at seeing me wince he draws it back. He sighs. ¡°Sure. Don¡¯t believe me. I don¡¯t mind, of course. Not the first time someone didn¡¯t believe me despite clear evidence, Linda.¡± He growls that last part like it¡¯s a four-letter word. I don¡¯t say anything in turn. For some reason, my fear and respect of this man is slowly diminishing.


    He looks around again. ¡°Say, kid¡­¡±


    ¡°Luis,¡± I say softly.


    ¡°...Luis, do you happen to know somewhere we can talk? Like, maybe an abandoned building, or an abandoned park, or an abandoned silo¡­ Anything abandoned, really.¡±


    I squint at him. ¡°...Stranger danger?¡±


    He freezes. Then, going straight from thawing to fire, his hands go up, making large erratic movements alongside his words, ¡°Hey, come on, you know that¡¯s not-, it¡¯s because I need to talk about vampires without anyone hearing! Normal people can¡¯t find out about them, it¡¯s part of the code.¡± He must¡¯ve noticed the look on my face because he stops gesturing wildly for a second. ¡°Not, uh, you, though. I¡¯ve got a debt to repay, and¡­¡± He scratches his neck. ¡°Well, I¡¯m kinda new to this city, so I do need someone to show me around¡­¡± He gives me a meaningful look.


    In the back of my head, I see a fork in the road, one short, one long, one leading down an alley and another down a suburban street. I grip the cord of my backpack tighter, feeling my knuckles turn white. Looking down at my shoes doesn¡¯t give me any answer either. ¡°I¡­¡± I close my mouth again. Breathe, Luis. Breathe in the air. In, out. In, out.


    Braving myself, I look up to his face, meeting his eyes. From behind the glasses, they look yellow, like that of a bird of prey. Even though looking at them is making my skin crawl I keep myself steady. ¡°Sure,¡± I breathe. ¡°I can¡­ show you.¡±


    He smiles all the way up to his eyes and stands up. ¡°Great! Show the way, kid.¡±


    I wonder if I should show him the way to the police station. That would be pretty funny, but it would also make my decision to get to the bottom of this kind of pointless. Making a small arc, I walk around him and lead him out of the alley through the way I came from, back towards the school. Not that that¡¯s where we¡¯re going. At this hour, the school is sure to be filled with people doing sports and hanging out and doing whatever it is that they do after school.


    ¡°So, Luis,¡± he says, breaking the small silence that had formed, ¡°any hints at where we¡¯re going?¡± I look back at him semi-cryptically and he gives a short flash of teeth. ¡°It isn¡¯t a police station, is it?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I say sharply, trying to hide my previous thoughts. ¡°Not that. Somewhere¡­ abandoned.¡± Like he asked for.


    ¡°Abandoned, right.¡± He whistles. The sun is standing pretty high, otherwise I might have been more scared. I think the time is maybe 16, or closer to 17. I should get home soon so I don¡¯t repeat yesterday¡¯s fiasco, but I think this is a tad more important than dinner. Maybe it¡¯s stupid of me, but so far, he hasn¡¯t really given me much reason to disbelieve him. He says he was hunting a vampire, and if vampires have long tongues, then he¡¯s right about that.


    ¡­Still, that doesn¡¯t mean I trust him. As far as I can tell, with his original target dead, he¡¯s changed his sights, now searching for¡­


    Well, um, me. I guess.


    That¡¯s what it seems to be, at least. I mean, with what I heard him say last night, and then what he said just now, that seems to be an obvious conclusion. There¡¯s a very real chance that he already knows that it¡¯s me and that he just wants to bring me to an abandoned location to do, uh, something. I¡¯m not sure.


    That¡¯s why I¡¯m not just bringing him to any old abandoned building.


    We stop. Right now, we aren¡¯t quite on the outskirts of the city, but it¡¯s certainly close to it, with lots of industrial buildings and smoke-belching chimneys looming in the distance. Out here, the smell of the sugar plant is more noxious than ever.


    ¡°What is this place?¡± he asks with seemingly genuine confusion.


    ¡°It was never really named,¡± I mumble. ¡°My dad worked on it for a few years, but then the company went bankrupt and they just left it here as it was.¡± Indeed, in front of us, standing three storeys tall, was the skeleton of what was supposed to be a mall. It was going to rejuvenate the area, but then malls went out of fashion or something and the short-term loans caught up with the company. A whole controversy sprung up when it turned out they were using illegal immigrants for black labour, threatening them with being deported if they didn¡¯t want to work or something. I¡¯m not sure, but every now and then dad will complain about how shitty the whole situation was.


    ¡°I see¡­¡± he says, nodding. ¡°Not a bad choice.¡±


    Indeed. After all, whereas he doesn¡¯t know the building at all, I¡¯ve been here hundreds of times ever since it was abandoned. I know it like my own bedroom, including where rusty sharp objects are kept. There are even a few tools left over from the sudden departure. We¡¯re on my home turf.


    ¡°Right,¡± he says, waving a hand towards the skeleton of a building. ¡°Show the way.¡±


    Unsure if it¡¯s the right choice, I bring him to a part of the second floor where you can sit down on a few crates. The crates themselves are filled with nails, which might make for a good distraction if you throw them. Either way, I take a seat. The man, following my example, sits down opposite me. Before he can say anything, I ask, ¡°Who are you?¡±


    He almost chuckles, but when he notices how serious I am he shuts up again, eyes sharpening behind his glasses. ¡°My name is Vernon Hellbound.¡±


    ¡°...Hellbound?¡± I make a face. ¡°That¡¯s kind of¡­¡±


    ¡°You never told me your last name,¡± Vernon states, leaning forward.


    I pick up a rusty nail from the floor and twiddle in it my hand. ¡°Freighthold.¡±


    ¡°Freighthold.¡± He leans back. ¡°Luis Freighthold, you have no reason to say anything about my name.¡± A leering grin. ¡°What, were you conceived at the Boston tea party?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I say. Before I say something hasty, I rethink my words, considering how he¡¯s been to me. ¡°Sorry.¡±


    ¡°Glad to know you¡¯re at least a little polite, kid.¡±


    ¡°Are you a vampire hunter?¡± I ask. His mouth falls open. ¡°Do you hunt vampires? Is that why-,¡±


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    He holds up one hand, stopping me from asking any more questions. Then, carefully, he returns his jaw to its place in a way I think is meant to be joking. Or maybe it gives him a few more seconds to think. ¡°I don¡¯t hunt vampires, per se. Vampire hunting as a profession went out of fashion God-knows-how-long ago.¡± Before I can ask the obvious question, he answers it. ¡°I¡¯m more of a private investigator.¡±


    I drop the nail and it clinks to the floor. ¡°...Private investigator? Like, of vampires? Or¡­¡±


    ¡°It seems to me that you have a fundamental misunderstanding of the relationship between humans and vampires, and it¡¯s not like I fault you for it or anything. It¡¯s been a while since I actually talked to anyone not in the know, so I guess I assumed things,¡± he explains. ¡°To put it briefly, there is none. The reason for that is simply that the differences between humans and vampires are pretty, how do you say it, minute?¡±


    I feel my brows crinkle. ¡°Minute? They¡¯re-, they¡¯re vampires, aren¡¯t they?¡±


    He shrugs in a maybe-so-maybe-not way. ¡°They are. A lot of people think of us as two separate species, but in my profession, vampires are pretty much just humans with a few unusual wants and needs.¡±


    ¡°But don¡¯t they drink blood?¡± I hear myself ask. ¡°Isn¡¯t that a crime?¡±


    ¡°Yes, some vampires drink blood. Others eat flesh and some steal hearts in the literal sense. No two vampires are entirely alike, but all of them share a few core traits. One of these is their humanity.¡± I open my mouth but he hushes me again. ¡°Yeah, I know, but it¡¯s true. A lot of vampires have their core views shifted by their vampirism, but most of them are just like normal people, with their morals and opinions. A lot are invested in politics, and I know at least one vampire that is a politician. Well, uh, I don¡¯t know him, but I know he exists.¡±


    ¡°Who?¡± I ask in pure bewilderment. Not that I actually know all that many politicians.


    He shakes his head. ¡°Sorry, kid. Can¡¯t trust you with that kind of knowledge yet.¡±


    ¡°But you said you¡¯d tell me things!¡±


    ¡°I will, but this is a trade, you know? I tell you things, you help me. I can¡¯t give away my whole hand right off the bat, can I?¡±


    I huff and cross my arms. ¡°Guess not.¡± I give him a curious look. ¡°How come you know who he is? Shouldn¡¯t vampires be, I dunno, secretive?¡±


    ¡°They are,¡± he begins, ¡°and also not. It¡¯s an ongoing issue of sorts, but there is an effort being made to track down vampires. And, no, before you ask, it¡¯s not to kill them. Killing vampires is immoral and any efforts to ostracise them from society with pitchforks and torches has historically just forced the vampires into becoming more, well, feral. Whenever they feed in such a state, they usually have to kill their victim, usually in the feeding process but also as a means of ridding themselves of witnesses. It¡¯s simply unsustainable. So, yes, interestingly enough, our best bet is to keep vampires in society.¡±


    While I sit and stare in confusion and wonder, he continues ranting, ¡°It¡¯s kind of obvious when you think about it, but I guess these kinds of things need to be put on paper before people start realising it¡¯s true.¡± He huffs politically. ¡°If you ask me, the guys up top should just come out about this whole vampire thing already. Did you know that there are thousands of vampires out there in the world? Can you imagine how many of those became a vampire without even knowing that there are vampires to begin with? Sure, the lobbyists make good points about how society would descend into chaos if people found out there were bloodsucking monsters out there, but if we look at the individual person¡­¡±


    He must have noticed me staring because he suddenly turns quiet.


    ¡°Um,¡± he says. Giving a small, awkward smile, he looks away. ¡°Sorry about that. I didn¡¯t mean to get so heated about politics, I just¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s alright,¡± I say, dazed. ¡°It was interesting to hear, I think?...¡± Even though I still have no idea what he just told me, the existence of vampire politics does make me feel slightly sick. I¡¯m trying to think of how many books I¡¯ve read where everyone knows that vampires exist and I don¡¯t think there are too many, but I haven¡¯t read all vampire books. I look up at him, trying to form my incoherent interior ramblings into a question that doesn¡¯t tip him off to my apparent vampirism. ¡°So, um, if you met one of these fresh vampires, what do you think they should learn?...¡±


    He looks at me and I avert my gaze. Okay, that might have been a bit too clunky, but he hasn¡¯t shot me, and if I am to trust his words, I don¡¯t think he¡¯d kill me even if he found out I was a vampire. Probably.


    ¡°Well, for one,¡± he pushes his fingers into his temple, massaging in a circular fashion, ¡°maybe I¡¯d tell them to¡­ Okay, I¡¯m not sure. There¡¯s a lot, and most of it depends on the kind of vampire they are. Some vampires don¡¯t need to drink a lot of blood, others need to kill people or steal from hospitals. I¡¯d love to say that this kind of vampire can seek help, but with the current political climate, going to the authorities to seek help might just get you incarcerated under some bogus charges. Anything to get you off the streets.¡±


    I shift where I sit, making the crate behind my back move and the nails inside rustle metallically. He pauses briefly before continuing, looking more and more uncertain as he goes.


    ¡°There¡¯s a lot I¡¯d like to tell them but most of it can be condensed into don¡¯t trust anyone.¡±


    I gulp. My chest feels cold. ¡°No one?¡±


    He nods, making his glasses fall a little on his face. He pushes them back up without blinking. ¡°I¡¯ve worked with all kinds of people, you know. My last and-or-current client is-slash-was a vampire, you know. Wanted me to find some girl vampire. Told me she was his daughter or something who went on the run after becoming a vampire. Not a new story, I go after runaways all the time. You could even say that¡¯s my modus operandi.¡± Something on my face clues him into my thoughts and he explains, ¡°The reason I¡¯m telling you this is that last night that same daughter decided that instead of returning to her supposed father, she¡¯d rather die. I¡¯ve seen a lot, but that one was new.¡±


    An old question tugs at my brain. ¡°How did she, uh, die?¡± I try to hide the trembling in my hand by picking up and gripping a rusty nail hard.


    He blinks in surprise and quickly says, ¡°There can only ever be one.¡± After a second of tense, weird silence between us, he elaborates, ¡°There is only one Hannya. Only one Aswang. Only one Tagalog, Alukah, Izcaci¡­ You get it.¡±


    For once, a small jolt of electrical excitement courses through me as the realisation finally, actually, really sinks in. I¡¯m a vampire. I¡¯m a vampire. I can-,


    Hang on. What can I actually do? I look down at my hand, dusty with rust. I can grow long hair and drop all my teeth. But-, but that can¡¯t be it, can it? Vampires are supernatural beings of the night! They can turn into bats and drink blood and hypnotise and all that kind of stuff. Even weaker vampires in fiction have enhanced strength and an extended lifetime.


    Different kinds of vampires¡­ I¡¯ve never been much invested in researching different ones, but I do know that the kind of primitive folklore vampires we used to have were a bit, ah, odd. But that could have changed. I believe one of the vampires he mentioned, the Hannya, I think, is more of a demon than a vampire. But if he said most vampires are pretty alike, then the real Hannya might be different from the folklore version. Less of a demon and more of a demonic vampire. That leaves me with one very important question.


    ¡°So, um,¡± I ask, trying to hide my excitement, ¡°what kind of vampire was that daughter?¡±


    He looks at me as though he didn¡¯t expect me to ask the question at all. His mouth opens and I lean forward in anticipation. ¡°I actually have no idea.¡±


    ¡°...Huh?¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°The client gave me a list, but in the end, she was just a mixed-breed.¡±


    My jaw falls open a little and I try to correct but only find myself rubbing my chin in whirling confusion. ¡°Mixed¡­ breed?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± he says. ¡°There can only be one pure vampire, and technically the same stays true for mixed-breeds, but they¡¯re more-or-less watered-down copies. I don¡¯t know all that much about them, but same as with purebloods, only one specific mixed-breed can exist one time. That was how she died. By passing on her affliction.¡± He looks out the broken window at the setting sun.


    I just stare at him. I genuinely can¡¯t bring myself to say anything, so after a few seconds of awkward staring, he apparently decides that enough is enough and stands up with a sigh. ¡°Alright then. I think we¡¯d best call it quits there, no?¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­ sure,¡± I say hesitantly. He looks at me expectantly and after a few seconds I realise what he wants me to do, so I get to my feet as well.


    ¡°Do you know where the Lark Garden is?¡±


    I blink at him. ¡°Yeah, uh, it¡¯s just a few blocks down the road, and then a right and it should be right there.¡±


    He nods thoughtfully. ¡°Right. Thanks.¡± Unprompted, he continues talking, ¡°Technically speaking, my contract with that client has ended since she died, but he said he wanted me to find whoever she left behind. Not sure why. I almost want to refuse him, but, heh, I can¡¯t really afford to. Besides, some people get really irked if you say no in this business. I can name at least two clients who tried to off me after I told them I either couldn¡¯t find who they were looking for or that they maybe shouldn¡¯t be found.¡± He smiles, oddly enough. ¡°But I can tell you more about that some other day. For now, I¡¯d best get going. The sun is almost down.¡±


    I follow his eyes and look out through the broken window. ¡°Yeah, I guess.¡±


    He reaches a hand towards me to maybe pat me on the shoulder but I draw back and he stops. His hand returns to his side and he smiles self-derogatorily. ¡°Right, sorry.¡± He pokes both hands into his pockets. ¡°I¡¯ll be in that alley tomorrow again, same time. I might be a little late, but that depends on how late tonight gets.¡± Under his breath, I hear him mutter, ¡°And if I get drained¡­¡±


    He draws one hand out of his pocket and does an OK sign. ¡°Well, see you there, Luis!¡±


    By instinct, I do the sign back at him. And just like that, he exits the building, leaving me to my devices. For a minute or so, I just stand there, staring at the doorway he left through, not entirely sure what I should do now. Well, I know what I should do. I should go home and make dinner. But I¡¯m not hungry. And for some reason, the night feels awfully inviting. And why shouldn¡¯t it be?


    A smile cracks across my face.


    I¡¯m a vampire. Like Edward, like Shan, like Damon.


    There¡¯s a tremble in my body and I don¡¯t feel the slightest need to suppress it. Vampires are real. They aren¡¯t just book characters. They¡¯re real, and I¡¯m one of them. Vampire politics? Private detectives? That¡¯s all beside the point. I know what I saw with her. She was a vampire¡ªa mixed-breed. He never said mixed-breeds were weaker than purebloods, right? W-, well, he did say that they were ¡®watered-down¡¯, but that¡¯s¡­ It¡¯s not like he knows all there is to know? He isn¡¯t a vampire.


    I am.


    I¡¯m grinning now, even bigger than before, pacing over the decrepit halls and the almost-cracked concrete foundation, kicking rusty nails and bolts and whatever else is down there. I don¡¯t really care. Vampire. Vampire. Vampire! Every time I think of that word I just feel one notch giddier.


    Maybe I can turn into a bat? Maybe I can make things float? Maybe I can run so fast I become a blur? Maybe I can tame spiders? Maybe I can do blood magic? Maybe I can merge with shadows? Maybe I can see in the dark? Maybe I can hypnotise humans with a word? Maybe I can reform from ashes? Maybe I can-,


    The sun falls. The final streams of light are dragged out of the building, replaced by their blue-tinged friends, the moonlight. I look out just in time to see purple and pink clawing onto the final rims of light-blue day-sky as the darkness presses down on them with vengeance. A white mole takes centre stage in this newborn yet old sky and I think it¡¯s mars, or maybe jupiter. Either way, I look at it as though it was nothing less than a far-off messiah.


    There¡¯s a tingle in my mouth. It doesn¡¯t hurt, but all of a sudden I can¡¯t feel a few of my teeth. Like they aren¡¯t there at all. The mere thought sends so much panic coursing through me that I thrust my hand between my lips, gripping one of my canines with real power. It¡¯s still there. But I can¡¯t feel the touch of it. If I wiggle it back and forth, it doesn¡¯t feel like anything at all. My lips twist into a frown, and spurred on by confusion, curiosity, I wiggle the tooth back and forth once more, twice, and then¡­


    A crack.


    I pull out my hand. Gripped between my fingers is a slightly bloody tooth, cracked off at the roots. I blink at it like it isn¡¯t there. My tongue touches the gap it left, feeling the gums and the sharp bits of tooth still lodged inside. Something that might be called panic bubbles up inside the pit of my stomach but I have no time to act on it before my tongue touches yet another loose tooth. It doesn¡¯t take much prodding for it to dislodge and I quickly spit it out onto my hand. I look at it, delirious.


    My hand begins to tremble violently and the two teeth in my palm fall out between my fingers and clatter onto the floor. Soon, another tooth joins them, then another, and another.


    Click, click, click.


    I stare in wide-eyed horror as my mouth empties itself of teeth. ¡°Aahh¡­¡± I say in toothless terror. My tongue is sloshing around my mouth, feeling for teeth but finding none. Nothing but a single empty gap containing the cracked-off feet of a tooth. I cut my tongue on it. It spurs something on in me and I fall to my knees and begin groping after the discarded, dusty teeth, pulling them close to me and collecting them in my hand, and once I have them all I almost bring myself to shovel them inside my own mouth before a thought strikes me.


    How else would a vampire gain their sharp teeth?


    That single, simple thought stops me in my tracks and makes me drop my teeth. They clatter to the floor like a handful of dice and a trembling smile lodges itself onto my lips. ¡°Hau elshe?¡± I repeat.


    I take a step towards the window. My head is itchy but I don¡¯t touch it. Then another step. When I¡¯m at the window, my hair is long again, reaching below my shoulders. I brush half of it behind my ear. The ends of it tickle my neck. I look up at the moon.


    Strangely enough, even after standing there for ten minutes or so, no new teeth grow in my mouth. It remains toothless.


    I look back at the sky outside. The remains of the day are gone now. It¡¯s all dark blue.


    ¡­I really have become a vampire, haven¡¯t I?

 Chapter 4, With Cat-Like Tread

    As they say, the night is young. Vernon Hell-whatever won¡¯t tell me what I can and can¡¯t do? Fine. I¡¯ll just find out on my own. How hard can it be?


    I take a deep breath. The cold against my gums and the nauseating smell of the sugar plant take me by surprise and I stumble away from the window. I poke my fingers inside my mouth again. No sign of any new teeth growing in. But that can¡¯t really be it. Cool, sharp teeth are the signature of every vampire. Who ever heard of a toothless vampire?


    My feet go cold and I remember her red lips and her rubbery gums.


    No teeth. None at all.


    For some reason, I laugh a little. What¡¯s the time? Has dad eaten yet? Is it too late to go home? I clench my lips shut, prepared to grind my teeth, only to find soft gums hitting soft gums. The sensation is horrible and slimy and I instinctually throw my mouth open. In the moonlit front of a broken window I spot my own face, my horrible toothless mouth and it makes me instantly shut it again. Apparently, if I just keep my lips closed and neutral, it isn¡¯t too noticeable.


    Slowly, I creep up to the window, looking at myself. I chance a smile but it looks weird, like my lips are just folding on themselves. Fake. I return it to neutrality but for some reason, I look upset. I don¡¯t feel all that upset. Maybe a little¡ªwell, a lot, actually¡ªbut not as much as the mirror suggests.


    I turn away again. Neutral. Neutral. Neutral¡­


    Pressing my fingers into my tense cheeks, I massage slowly, trying to consciously get used to the boneless feeling in there. Just flesh. Only flesh.


    I slap both my cheeks.


    Enough about that! I¡¯m a vampire, aren¡¯t I? Teeth or no teeth, a vampire is a vampire! If she could present herself as a full vampire, why can¡¯t I? She was, she had¡­


    ¡­That tongue. That¡¯s what she had. That¡­ tongue.


    I touch my right hand to my lips. For a few seconds, I just stand there, staring blankly at the wall, my fingers imprisoning my tongue. I swallow. My tongue feels normal in my mouth. Human. I don¡¯t feel any needle-like spikes or bony protrusions. So why can¡¯t I bring myself to prove it?


    My left hand balls itself into a fist and I frown again. Get yourself together. Isn¡¯t this what I always wanted?


    Trembling only a little, I feel my tongue slip out from between my lips. And then through my hand, pressing itself between my middle finger and index. I stare at it with ever-widening eyes as it snakes out further, further. Like a serpent, or a worm, or a maggot. Writhing.


    Like hers.


    Violently, I grip the tongue with both hands, like I¡¯m afraid it¡¯s going to slip away like a salted eel. It hurts. My grip hurts but I can¡¯t stop myself. I¡¯m not thinking straight anymore. Was I ever? I can¡¯t think at all. I don¡¯t see my own tongue, I see hers. She¡¯s there. Is she inside me? If I look in a mirror, if I look inside my mouth, will I see her face, her lips, her eyes?


    I pull. It hurts. I pull more. I need it out. I need it gone. Pull, pull, pull, until I feel something rip and my mouth starts filling with blood. Metal. Salt.


    My lips quiver and I feel something warm and wet slip out between them, trickling down my neck and onto my shirt.


    I let go of my tongue and it slinks back inside my lips, over my gums, into the pit of my mouth, nestling in the small pool of blood that formed.


    ¡°A-, aughh¡­!¡± Gacking, groaning, I buckle over and let the rest of the blood spill out, down on the concrete floor, joining the pile of teeth still lying there. My breathing is warm and hot and my nose is filled with the scent of her breath. I snarl and spit on the floor again, and then when I right myself, I turn around and run. If I¡¯d been braver I might have jumped out of the window to try and test my endurance, or if I could fly at all. But I¡¯m starting to doubt I can do anything like that.


    I¡¯m running. I don¡¯t know where I¡¯m going. The world is blurry, but I can¡¯t tell if that¡¯s because of how fast I¡¯m going or if I¡¯m crying again.


    I feel weak. But that can¡¯t be right, can it? Vampires are strong, and fast, and can scare the pants off anybody. Vampires chase puny mortals through alleyways, they don¡¯t run aimlessly like they¡¯re afraid, because vampires can¡¯t be afraid. I¡¯ve read the books. Sure, some of them get afraid sometimes, but they always get out of it. Vampires are feared, not afraid.


    Something here has to be wrong. She must have been a fake-,


    The world whirls around me and I tumble and fall, crashing into something soft but scratching. I open my eyes. The world is still blurry, so I wipe at them, bringing the bush around me into clarity. That, and a very startled spider dangling just in front of my nose. Our eyes meet.


    My lips are so tightly pressed together that I can¡¯t feel them. I prepare to squeal and throw myself away when I suddenly hear a familiar voice shearing through the darkness.


    ¡°As I told you last night, finding her pupil will be-,¡±


    Another voice, rumbling like the heart of a volcano, ¡°I don¡¯t need her alive.¡±


    A pause. In the short silence, I let my eyes wander. Apparently, I¡¯m in a bush, tangled within its branches. I can¡¯t see much outside it, but going by the birches and the lamps, this has to be the Lark Garden, one of the few parks in this city. Why did I-,


    A deep breath. ¡°Of course. So you¡¯ve said, but as my contract states, I don¡¯t do those kinds of retrievals. By all means, if you want the pupil dead, you¡¯ll need to go to a different contractor. If you want, sir, I happen to have a few business cards that you may be interested i-,¡±


    ¡°Earl.¡±


    ¡°...Yes, I¡¯m sorry, my Earl.¡± I don¡¯t dare peep through the bushes at them, but I can distinctly hear Vernon¡¯s hard leather soles clicking against the concrete path. ¡°There¡¯s Westley, a bit pricey but he knows his way around a stake. I would personally recommend Harvey though, as far as I recall he has nothing against tracking and taking care of children.¡±


    A wet rat lodges itself in my throat.


    ¡°No,¡± the Earl says. ¡°It has to be you.¡±


    Another sigh. ¡°Just because I could find your ¡®daughter¡¯ once,¡± I can practically hear the citation marks, ¡°doesn¡¯t mean I can do the same again. And a child, too?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll pay double.¡±


    Silence again. ¡°Double, is¡­¡±


    ¡°I am not forcing you, Hellbound. Have I used any vampiric tricks on you? Of course not. I could have approached you as a man, but I chose to show myself in confidence.¡± Far off, there¡¯s a rustle in the trees, and the Earl pauses. After a few seconds he continues, ¡°Whether you show me the same graciousness or not is up to you.¡±


    ¡°...I will continue searching, but I cannot bring you a body.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± I can hear the smile in his voice, ¡°I ask for nothing more.¡±


    Questions and answers burn in the back of my head. I know exactly what I want to do but I don¡¯t think doing it will be the right choice. At least, it wouldn¡¯t be if I was just any mortal. But I¡¯m not, am I? I¡¯m a vampire. Maybe a fresh one, but a vampire nonetheless. If I was Darren Shan, what would I do?


    Summoning all the courage I have, I shift myself just a little, trying to angle a gap in the branches so that I can see the face of the one who wants me dead. Just a little. Carefully, carefully¡­


    Crack.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    A branch beneath me snaps. My breath hitches.


    Have you ever heard a furnace start? Or a fire being born? Sometimes it takes a long time, but other times, there¡¯s this hissing gasp, like the fire is taking its first breath. That¡¯s what I hear now, and that¡¯s what it reminds me of. Fire. I can¡¯t hear any footsteps approach, I want to think that nothing is approaching at all, but deep inside my head, I know that I am now known.


    Something crackles. Something burning. Heat like the midday sun steps closer. Hissing breaths that might be from the lanterns.


    I press my hands against my lips, ignoring the disgusting feeling as my lips touch gums. I don¡¯t breathe. I don¡¯t know if vampires need to breathe or not but I know that whoever¡ªwhatever¡ªis approaching is breathing.


    The breathing is close now, just above me, with that fiery crackle just as near. In fear, I squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe that way the transition to true darkness won¡¯t be as bad.


    ¡°I want triple,¡± Vernon says, his voice cutting through the thick tension like a bullet through the air. ¡°Otherwise, find someone else.¡±


    The fire turns away. ¡°With what I¡¯ve offered you, even double would be enough to secure your future for the time being.¡± The voice is so close now. Rumbling. On the edge of erupting.


    But Vernon isn¡¯t stepping down. ¡°Triple.¡±


    The fire fades, moving away, ¡°Fine. Have it your way, Hellbound. But I expect her alive.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± The click of hard-soled shoes tells me he¡¯s moving. I open my eyes again. Through a small hole in the shrubbery, I see them shake hands. My eyes glue themselves to the back of a coat. Something on the front of it must have been alight, because the shine of it illuminates the bottom half of Vernon¡¯s face, making him look like he¡¯s about to tell a scary story.


    All I see of the Earl is his back, covered in a massive coat and a dark hat. I lean in closer to get a better look at him and something rustles. His face snaps towards me and all I see is a fire-lit ribcage surrounding a gaping, burning mouth before I throw myself out of the bush, away from Lark Garden, back onto the streets, moving faster than I thought I ever could.


    Behind me, all I hear is a fire being doused as someone says, ¡°Nothing but a stray cat.¡±


    I run and I run and after what feels like a minute at most my breath feels cold and burning and my arms and legs are both on fire, pumping blood and acid through them at equal ferocity. I glance back. I¡¯m not being pursued, but far away down the street, I see a small bush. The bush I came from. It¡¯s small. Next to the park bench beside it, it¡¯s hardly large enough to contain a child.


    My face shifts into a grimace and I look back to the front just in time to see a bike crashing toward me. No, not a bike, some huge sort of monstrosity, some massive contraption that could only be called a bike in design. I freeze in terror and the bike¡ªalongside its giant of a rider¡ªscreech around me, careening in a large arc, just barely missing me.


    The rider is a human, except that he¡¯s the size of an aspen tree. The bike and he have both fallen to the pavement. The biker isn¡¯t saying anything, and he mostly seems startled. As he pulls up his upper body, his eyes meet mine. ¡°...A cat?¡±


    I blink at him. I open my mouth to snarkily say, ¡®A human?¡¯ but instead I hear myself say, ¡°Me-meow?¡±


    I have never before wanted to punch myself as much as I do now. Then again, the cat impression was stunningly life-like, so maybe this is as good a reason as any to get into the voice-acting business.


    He starts trying to get up but his bike is on top of him. Moving purely by instinct, I approach and reach out in an attempt to help him, but instead of grabbing hold of the bike, a black cat¡¯s paw falls on top of it. ¡°Are you trying to help me?¡± the biker says in the kind of voice you use to talk to animals and stupid people. ¡°Heh, no worries kitty, I can take care of myself.¡±


    And with that, pushes the bike off himself and stands up to his full height of dad-when-you-were-four. He genuinely dwarfs me, and not in the normal way. I barely reach up to his ankle.


    He reaches down and before I can unfreeze myself enough to react he drags his hand across my head and down my back. Something that¡­ actually doesn¡¯t feel¡­ all that bad¡­


    ¡°Purrrr¡­¡±


    He smiles down at me. ¡°You like that, don¡¯cha? Sorry for almost running you over, guess you¡¯ve got eight lives left now, huh?¡± And then he picks me up. One hand under my chest, the other pressing my back, like I¡¯m a damn cat. Like I¡¯m a¡­


    He holds me up to his face and checks my neck. ¡°No collar. A stray, then? But your pelt is so soft¡­ Did you run away from home?¡±


    What the hell is he even saying? My mind is whirling enough as it is, and with a horrible realisation dawning in the back of my head, I decide that the best idea right now is probably to get the hell away from this guy. And so, I struggle and squirm. But his grip is like a vice and my movement does nothing but irritate him. ¡°Didn¡¯t like me asking invasive questions, didja? Well, alright, just stop struggling and¡­¡±


    His grip relaxes slightly and I kick myself away from him, down what feels like a twenty-foot drop, only to fetter it with my hands and then my feet, running away from the giant as though I didn¡¯t basically just fall from the roof of a house.


    What the hell, what the hell, what the hell.


    I¡¯m running again, but not along the streets anymore. I¡¯m jumping onto walls that should be impossible to climb, over housetops and across roads at impossible speeds.


    Something here is very wrong.


    I only stop once I¡¯m outside my apartment building. As expected, it is the size of an actual skyscraper. Just absolutely massive. Even the door is immense, and I can¡¯t open it no matter how much I push against it. Crying out for help does nothing but make cat¡¯s yowls erupt from my throat.


    I pace outside the door for at least ten minutes before finally deciding to accept reality.


    I pad over to a nearby brushery and take a seat on the grass. I hold up my hand to my face.


    It¡¯s a fucking paw.


    Black in colour, smooth and shiny, almost silk-like. A cat¡¯s paw. If I turn my head around, I can see that the rest of my body is similarly furry. Like a cat. If I touch my face I find it elongated. My ears are pointed and¡­


    Hey, my teeth are back!


    They¡¯re sharper, though. As might be expected from cat teeth.


    After all, I am, somehow, for whatever reason, a cat. I want to bury my face in my hands but the anatomy of a cat doesn¡¯t allow it. My elbows aren¡¯t quite mobile enough for that. I¡¯m left to just kind of sigh longingly and unhappily.


    Why not a bat? I like bats. Bats can fly, which is cool. Most people who see a bat are startled, some are even afraid. Instant spook-a-bitch. But cats? I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever seen anyone get genuinely afraid of a cat outside of television. Except if the cat is acting like a feral, rabid animal, which I am nowhere near psychopathic enough to do. Biting people is¡­


    Well, if it¡¯s to suck blood, then I can do it, but not if it¡¯s just to scare people. Too primitive.


    Back to the matter at hand: I am a cat. I have the body of a cat.


    Pets aren¡¯t allowed in our apartment. Fish? No. Reptiles? Not a chance. Dogs? Absolutely impossible. I swear Mr Flyby has a sixth sense about these things.


    The chances of a cat sneaking inside are close to zero. In other words, I¡¯d probably do best to turn back into my, uh, human form. Saying vampire form would be weird, but¡­ Anyways.


    Turn back, turn back¡­ Shouldn¡¯t this process be, I dunno, instinctual? I didn¡¯t even notice transforming into a cat, shouldn¡¯t the turning-back process be similarly unconscious? Maybe if I just think it hard enough?


    ¡®I no longer want to be a cat!¡¯


    ¡­


    Yeah, that did nothing. Maybe I need to say it aloud?


    ¡°Meo-meow meow meow!¡±


    ¡­I want to die? Wow. That was actually horrible. I genuinely-,


    ¡°Hmm?¡± The bushes behind me part. ¡°Poor little meow-meow?¡±


    I know that voice. I know that voice very well. The voice of the pet-hating man I have ruefully known all my life. Trembling, staring in terror, I turn around to view my dad¡¯s landlord and the owner of the apartment building: Mr Flyby. His doughy face, complete with awful thick-rimmed 70¡¯s style glasses and an ill-fitting mullet (on a man well over sixty) makes my meek sense of style quiver in dread, but right now I have more than that to fear.


    See, I may not know the people in this building too well, but dad tells me a lot of stories. Stories about what happens to the pets of those who keep them here. Explanations to why it is that even when the rest of the city is overrun with strays of every kind, this city block remains empty and clean. And it¡¯s all him.


    Should I run? Do I have time? If I shoot out my tongue at him, will he get scared and run away? Do I even have my tongue?


    He reaches toward me. I have no time to react as his hands carefully braid themselves through my armpits and over my chest. He lifts me into the air until we are face to face. If cats can sweat, then that¡¯s what I¡¯m doing right now. ¡°That¡¯a, boy. You¡¯re a pretty ¡®un. Kinda small. Juvie, eh?¡±


    ¡­Needletongue sneak attack!!


    I poke out my tongue at him. It isn¡¯t long, and there¡¯s nothing at the tip of it.


    He stares at me. Then, he turns away. With the light hitting his glasses, I can¡¯t see his eyes. I have no idea what he¡¯s thinking or feeling. Is this it? Is this how I die? Now, when I finally assumed my true vampiric form? I always knew the world was cruel, but this is too much. Maybe I should plead for my life? ¡°Mao. Meo-maw. Meow meow. Me-,¡±


    I can¡¯t utter another syllable before he abruptly sticks me inside his coat. It smells like fur and animal and yet another form of panic erupts through my body. I¡¯m not the first. I won¡¯t be the last. Oh, god.


    It is at this point that I find out that cats can¡¯t naturally cry.


    Everything goes black around me and I can¡¯t see anything. All I can hear is his footsteps as he enters the building and closes the door. There¡¯s a jingle of keys. That must mean the time is midnight. He always locks it up at this time.


    Ten, twenty seconds pass without him moving an inch or locking the door. I¡¯m starting to wonder why when the door creaks open again and I hear the panting of the same woman I met earlier today. ¡°Oh, thank you Flyby, little Sarah cut herself on a plate shard in the kitchen and we didn¡¯t have any McQueen band-aids left, and you know how it is with kids, so I ran down to the store¡­¡±


    While she¡¯s rambling on about this or that, Flyby closes the door and twists the key in them, closing up for good. ¡°If that¡¯s the case then I suppose you¡¯d do best to hurry, ¡®ain¡¯t that true?¡±


    ¡°Oh, yes, of course, I¡¯d better¡­¡± She pauses, hesitates, before taking another step. ¡°Say, what¡¯ve you got in there?¡±


    Flyby presses me closer to his chest. ¡°Nuthin¡¯. I was out shopping myself earlier. Trying to keep my dinner hot. You know how it is.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± she says. ¡°Yes, of course. In that case, I¡¯ll leave you to it. Thank you for holding the door, Flyby, hope you have a good night.¡±


    ¡°You too, Mrs Peninsula.¡±


    Now in hindsight, if I wanted to survive, I could have tried thrashing really hard while her attention was anyways on his coat. But I didn¡¯t want to interrupt their nice chat, and besides, what good will thrashing do? Even if I got out I¡¯d still be stuck in the lobby, so this really just saves everyone time.


    Maybe.


    While I¡¯m pondering my past and future, Flyby finishes locking up and heads up the stairs. He lives on the first floor, so the walk between the front door and his apartment is a short one. Now that I think about it, I¡¯ve never actually seen his apartment, not that I¡¯ve talked to him much at all. Maybe it¡¯s filled with animal torture contraptions. Maybe the walls are covered in blood and desperate scratch marks. Maybe it smells like rotten flesh.


    The door clicks open and he steps inside, locking it behind him. My heart, probably the size of a grape, is pounding like a snare. The coat opens up.


    Lights blinds me and he pulls me out. ¡°There ya go. That wasn¡¯t so bad, was it?¡±


    The room that meets my squinting eyes is filled with neither blood nor guts.


    It¡¯s cats. Cats and dogs. Like, dozens of them.


    The dogs all rush Flyby, their tails wagging back and forth and their snouts pressing against his legs and arms¡ªand me¡ªwith such intense curiosity that I freeze. ¡°Now, now. Take it easy on ¡®im.¡± With those soft words, the dogs step off, letting the smaller cats have their turn at sniffing his feet, making sure that it¡¯s really him.


    He¡¯s absentmindedly petting me while he talks in a calm, measured voice, ¡°First thing in the morning is I¡¯ll take you to the vet, have ¡®em give you some vaccines, check if you need anything else, and then¡­¡± He smiles warmly. ¡°What comes after that is up to you.¡±


    To say that Flyby loved animals might have been a bit of an understatement. Personally, I think the word ¡®obsession¡¯ would be more fitting. From what I¡¯ve seen from the short tour he gave me, he keeps all of the following animals: cats, dogs, birds, fishes, insects, molluscs both on land and in water, alongside a fair number of reptiles. I¡¯d call him a hypocrite if I wasn¡¯t so impressed. I mean, these things aren¡¯t living in squalor or anything. The dogs love him, the cats are content in his presence, the fishes and their tanks are spotless¡­


    It¡¯s like a small slice of animal heaven.


    He puts me on the couch. Earlier, he tried to feed me kibble, but I¡¯m not that desperate, so he let me be. Now, I¡¯m lying on the couch, watching him watch cartoon movies on a nice flat screen. Animals are crowding the couches, but few of them dare approach where I lay.


    This is nice and all, but how am I supposed to escape?

 Chapter 5, The Opposite of Catnip

    Let¡¯s take a look at my options.


    Option one: attack, escape, swallow regrets. I¡¯d rather not do this one since Flyby seems like a nice fella and I feel like if I put one claw on him I¡¯d have like a gazillion cats and dogs on my tail ready to snap me in half.


    Option two: sleep it off. I take a nap and in the morning while he¡¯s trying to get me out of the house, I thrash until he has no choice but to let me go, effectively putting me back at square one. I don¡¯t like this one because I don¡¯t want my dad to worry all night.


    That leaves me with option three, which I am already executing by putting sleeping pills in Flyby¡¯s beer.


    ¡­Yeah, no, that was a lie, I¡¯m just waiting for him to fall asleep so I can mission-impossible my way out of here. This wouldn¡¯t be all that hard if it wasn¡¯t for the fact that Flyby is apparently a robot and doesn¡¯t need to sleep. Or maybe this is a huge coincidence, and Flyby is also a vampire. Either way, he has been watching cartoons since midnight for at least two hours. If I wasn¡¯t an actual vampire I would probably have given up and fallen asleep already.


    It¡¯s excruciating. I can barely stand it.


    But, I mean, there¡¯s only half an hour left on this ogre movie, and I am very curious to know what happens with Fiona. I can wait a little longer, probably.


    The living room is filled with the sound of snoring from basically every animal in it besides Flyby and myself. He¡¯s got a beer (his third of the night) in his left hand and using the right to slowly stroke my back. And maybe you won¡¯t believe me when I say this, but I¡¯m absolutely not purring. Why would I even do that? It would be primitive, downright animalistic to let myself make such sounds just because he¡¯s touching me in certain ways¡ªI don¡¯t even like to be touched!


    ¡°Purrrrrr¡­¡±


    ¡­Okay, maybe I¡¯m purring a little. Just a little. But this is a one-time thing! The moment I get out of here this whole enjoying-touch thing is over and done with, you hear me? Yeah, exactly. Glad we got that one under wraps.


    But, erm, I really should try to get going. It¡¯s only a Wednesday, so dad should want to leave the house at around five or six. Hopefully, he hasn¡¯t decided to stay up until I get home, but if he has, it would be cruel to force him to go sleepless all night.


    That means that operation escape-the-keeper is now in effect. In no part because the wicked king just got eaten by a dragon and everyone danced. That has nothing to do with it.


    For a second or so, I watch Flyby, trying to get a grip on what he plans to do now. To my chagrin, he puts on yet another movie just before turning to me and smiling. Okay, that¡¯s it. Before I get sucked into some story about an animated rat, I take to my feet, stretch surreptitiously and jump off the couch, landing with cool swagger. Somehow, I kind of prefer this body.


    My goal is to make Flyby pass out by any means possible.


    Carefully stepping over tails and paws and snoring snouts, I make my way towards the bathroom. My first goal is to see if I can find anything to spike his drink with. Shouldn¡¯t be too hard, characters in books do it all the time. Considering Flyby¡¯s apparent nightly habits, he¡¯s sure to keep a few sleeping pills on hand.


    I stare up at the door to the bathroom. On the outside, there¡¯s a small clay troll creature hanging by a nail, and I think it says ¡®WC¡¯ on it but the angle isn¡¯t good enough to be sure.


    I glance back at where I came from. I can¡¯t see Flyby, so he can¡¯t see me. Right. Perfect.


    Turning back to the bathroom, I focus my everything on the door handle. I¡¯m really lucky Flyby doesn¡¯t have knobs on his door or this might have been even more difficult. All I need to do is jump and grab. That¡¯s all.


    That¡¯s¡­ all¡­


    I swallow.


    How high can cats jump anyways? I¡¯m not even a full-sized cat. That should be enough to let you know that whoever dictates these powers is an absolute chump. In cat years, I¡¯m like, 98! I should have a super adult cat body. Not an aged one, though. Don¡¯t give me arthritis.


    ¡­Now that I think about it, maybe this body isn¡¯t all that bad.


    But that¡¯s all beside the point. Right now, I just need to jump. Simple enough. I look up. The handle looms above me, like a metallic gargoyle. Right. I may not have seen all that many cats, but I have seen the krazy cat compilations on youtube. I got this. I just need to sit down, wiggle my butt a little, focus on the handle, and¡­ jump!


    I spring through the air, way higher than I should be able to, getting just high enough to futilely paw at the handle before successfully bonking my head on it.


    I crash to the ground in a heap, once and for all disproving the old adage that cats always land on their feet. My head hurts. My paws hurt. But I won¡¯t give up! Once more. One more time. I line up the handle with my nose, but this time, I take a step or two back, ready myself, and¡­ jump!


    Into the air again, this time far enough from the handle to avoid bonking anything into it. Maybe a little too far, because now my paws can¡¯t even touch it. At least, this time, I have the presence of time to twist in mid-air to avoid tumbling to the ground. I land on all fours. For some reason, this makes me feel unnecessarily proud. Like, I know I¡¯m not a real cat and I don¡¯t even like cats especially much, but holy heck.


    I hear a rat moan on the television and I glance back at the living room. Right. No time to celebrate stupid victories.


    If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    I take a stance again. This time, not too close, but not too far away. This will be it. This time, I will succeed.


    I jump.


    The handle approaches quickly and I stretch out my arms, spreading my paws wide. The handle almost bonks my head again, but instead of panicking, I hook my arms around the handle, tensing my entire body into the act of gripping onto it. And for a second or two, I just hang here, arms around the handle, claws flexing and unflexing on instinct.


    But just as the urge to celebrate begins to kick in, I realise something maybe not so good. I am indeed hooked around the door handle, but it isn¡¯t falling down. Am I too light to turn a door handle? Am I really that small of a cat? That can¡¯t be. That¡¯s impossible. I-, I¡¯m a big boy, I swear! It just so happens to be that I grow a bit slower than everyone else!


    ¡°M-, maoooo¡­¡± Unable to actually cry, I give a small, animalistic wail while I hang on like a certain cat-themed poster.


    I hear Flyby stand up and I turn my head to watch him appear in the doorframe. He doesn¡¯t look especially disappointed in my failure, but he does seem slightly entertained by my hijinks. It makes me want to scratch his face. ¡°Oh, what trouble ¡®ave you gotten yourself into now?¡±


    He picks me up by the armpits and presses me against his chest. ¡°You want to go into the bathroom? Whatever for?¡± Doing the smartest thing I¡¯ve probably done all night, I give no answer. ¡°Well, alright. Not much in there for a little kitty like you. Here ya go.¡± And with that, he opens the impossible gate and puts me down, inadvertently sealing his own doom¡­!


    I tap down on the floor, and once he¡¯s gone back to the rat cartoon, I slip inside the bathroom.


    It¡¯s ordinary. Not dirty, not exceptionally clean, just normal. Smells like soap. Not sure what else it¡¯d smell like. Moving easily, I jump atop the counter and quickly, with no effort, slip into the sink without screeching in ungodly fear. For a second or so, I just lie in the sink, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. Okay. Not especially graceful, but at least it isn¡¯t wet or anything. I pull myself up.


    The cabin opens easily and without any sound, presenting me with a plethora of various thingies. Razor blades and lather, unopened soaps, toothpaste, and¡­ a few different pill boxes. With my front paws on the lowest part of the cabinet, I stand up on my hind legs to get a good look at them. There are maybe four or five different kinds of pills, most of them over-the-counter. Ibuprofen and the like. But there is one that isn¡¯t, and my eyes hone in on it with gleeful certainty.


    Xanax. Just like I wanted.


    I bat at it with my paw until it falls out of the cabin and into the sink, at which point I carefully pull out one of the metallic sheets. Three of the ten tablets have been used, and I¡¯m about to make it four. I¡¯d like to bring him, like, three pills, but I literally don¡¯t have opposable thumbs, so my only chance of carrying it anywhere is to put it in my mouth. Risky, but I don¡¯t exactly have any choice. My only other options would be inside my ears (unsure how that would even work), and¡­


    I glance at my tail.


    Yeah, no. Mouth it is.


    I press down on one of the encased tablets until it pops out. I stare at the little white pill as though it¡¯s gonna stand up and dance the macarena. Even for a cat, I must look really blitzed right now. Alright, let¡¯s just not think about it!


    I bend down and scoop the pill into my mouth. It doesn¡¯t really taste like anything except dryness. It¡¯s like I¡¯m licking a piece of bone. But it won¡¯t last too long, so it¡¯s fine.


    Leaping down from the counter, I pad through the door and back into the living room. For some reason, stepping over the dogs and cats feels easier now. Hm. Wonder why. Either way, with a fantastically planned and executed jump, I find myself back on the couch. ¡°Welcome back, Juvie,¡± Flyby says, quickly giving me a nose-to-tail stroke. It¡¯s nice, but I suppress the urge to purr. Instead, once he looks back at the screen (the rat is now in a jar), I carefully move toward the other side of him.


    I feel like a stalking panther or something, just by the way I jump onto the back of the couch before making my way over to where he¡¯s holding the beer. He¡¯s fully engrossed in the movie. There has been no better time than now. I¡¯m not sure if cats can grin, but that¡¯s what I¡¯m doing. Mentally, at least.


    One step, two steps. Closer, closer.


    The beer looms before me the size of a barrel. I don¡¯t like the smell but I endure.


    Flyby straightens out slightly, so absorbed he can¡¯t tell what I¡¯m doing at all. Smug in my assured victory, I poke out my head and open my mouth, fully expecting the tomato-sized pill to just slide out of there. But nothing comes out.


    ¡°M-, mau?¡±


    I feel around in my mouth. There is something there, but it¡¯s barely the size of a coin. Goosebumps spread across my back, making my fur stand on edge.


    He turns to me. ¡°Juvie, everything alright?¡± But I¡¯m staring straight ahead, not hearing him, my mouth half-open. Apparently, he knows his animals, because as soon as he sees me with such an expression, he grabs a firm hold of me and sticks a finger inside my mouth, soon pulling out the half-dissolved Xanax that was supposed to be in his beer. ¡°What in the-,¡±


    His eyes widen and, still holding me, he flies to his feet, the abrupt movement causing the dogs and the cats to awaken, all clamouring around each other in surprise and distress. Flyby moves over them with casual stress, making his way to the bathroom. He tears open the door with one hand, holding me in the other, and I don¡¯t need to see his face to know where his eyes fall. Namely, on the opened Xanax packet. He looks down at me, meeting my wide eyes. ¡°You really want to meet the vet early, don¡¯cha?¡±


    I can¡¯t really say anything in reply before he throws on his shoes and his coat and stomps out of the apartment. Again, I¡¯m squeezed inside his coat, except this time I¡¯m less afraid for my life and more so for my freedom. I mean, sure, if I was a normal cat who ate a Xanax tablet going to the doctor would probably be a good idea, but I¡¯m actually not a cat at all, and I have a feeling that a doctor would be able to find that out somehow.


    More importantly, if I just transform back into a human, a single Xanax tablet won¡¯t be any trouble anymore. That is why, when Flyby stops at the front door to fish his keys from his pocket, I do the sensible thing and slip out from under the coat.


    I tap down on the floor.


    He whirls around to face me. ¡°Hey, Juvie, wait-,¡±


    But I don¡¯t, and by acting on my instincts, I speed off, up the stairs, out of his view. The only thing I¡¯m left with is a grumble on his end. I fly across the stairs like a shooting star, up and up, higher than I should be able to. My paws hurt, but I keep going. Eventually, I reach the sixth floor, where I quickly avert from the stairs to fly down the hallway until I get to my door. Considering the bathroom fiasco, trying to open it manually won¡¯t really help. Yowling until someone opens up is a surefire way to get caught. In that case¡­


    Echoing footsteps approach in the staircase. Right, I have little time.


    I turn sly eyes on the letter slot in the door.


    One well-placed jump lodges me halfway through the slot, with my legs stuck and my upper body through. All of a sudden, I feel very pathetic. Couldn¡¯t I have been a bat-vampire? Or a mist one? Turning into smoke sounds cool. Then I wouldn¡¯t have to deal with doo-,


    ¡°Juvie?¡± Flyby calls, closer now.


    Oh, yeah, I¡¯m in the middle of a chase scene. Let¡¯s see here, hrmmm¡­


    I press my paws against the door, stretching out my back, straightening my legs, and with a ¡®pop!¡¯ I tumble through the slot and into the darkened apartment. I¡¯m panting a little. I look back at the door, seeing the little metal slot close. Right. Good.


    I look around the room. It¡¯s dark. I feel weird. My stomach is grumbling and my head feels heavy. But I can hear snoring, and not from dad¡¯s bedroom. No, with his upper body draped across the dinner table, dad apparently fell asleep at the table, his head buried in his thick arms. I expected something like that, but it still hurts.


    My legs and arms feel like congealed porridge, but I still force myself to jump up on the table. Dad sleeps really deeply even in the worst places, but my attention is focused on something else. There¡¯s a plate and a sandwich on the table. I sniff it. Cheese and ham. My favourite. A small note next to it says ¡®for when you get home, -dad¡¯ and now I feel horrible again. My chest is tight. Lump in my throat. All of that. But this body doesn¡¯t allow for that, so instead I just stifle my sniffing and jump down from the table, over to the couch, where I grab a simple blanket.


    Dragging it all the way over to the dinner table and then over dad wasn¡¯t easy, but it¡¯s the least I can do. Right as I sink my teeth into the sandwich, ready to drag it somewhere safer, I hear him mutter, ¡°Thanks, Luis¡­¡± clearly still asleep.


    I can¡¯t answer, so I don''t.


    I pull the sandwich with my back to my room. I¡¯m lucky I keep the door open during the day. Better make that a real habit.


    My body feels horrible and I want to cry and I wish I¡¯d never been a burden on my dad but I still force myself to stuff down the sandwich. The butter and the ham and the cheese taste good but the bread is horrible and I want to spit it out but I just swallow it anyways. I feel like an invader in my own home.


    In the end, after forcing down at least three-fourths of the sandwich, I have no choice but to jump back on my bed, burrowing myself under the covers, promising myself between hiccuping meows that I¡¯ll finish it tomorrow.


    And like that, I go to sleep, only mildly assured that I won¡¯t wake up, and only somewhat hoping this to be true.

 Chapter 6, And Yet the Meows Linger

    When I wake up, I am¡ªthankfully¡ªnot a cat. I am human. I have opposable thumbs and the world is the right size. I walk on two feet and I can actually cry.


    The time is also close to 11 and I basically missed half a day of school but I guess that¡¯s what Xanax does to cats. I¡¯ll try to remember that next time. Assuming there is a next time, which I really, really, hope not. I mean, everything points to this transformation being almost completely unconscious. I didn¡¯t choose to become a cat, okay? Not me. Sure, if I hadn¡¯t done it that Earl guy would probably not have let me go, but that doesn¡¯t make everything that followed much better.


    But now I¡¯m okay, and a third of a cat-eaten sandwich isn¡¯t all that bad for a breakfast, and¡­


    ¡­Something here is wrong. There¡¯s something here that shouldn¡¯t be. Some cat-part that isn¡¯t gone.


    I look behind me.


    A sleek, furless tail stretches out from just above my ass. All of a sudden, I feel like crying again. You know what this is? An excellent excuse to not go to school. I¡¯m already late as is, so what would even be the point? Going to school at this point is basically begging for someone to notice the tail, and¡­ I dunno, call the cops? Okay, gee, I don¡¯t know what would happen. If I saw a classmate with a cat tail, what would I do?


    ¡­Call the cops? No, wait, that isn¡¯t¡­ Yeah, no, I¡¯d probably bring them to the principal, have them call their parents, schedule an expensive visit to a doctor¡­


    Yup. Can¡¯t have that.


    But skipping school completely looks even worse than just skipping the first few periods. I¡¯ll have to sit on the bleachers during P.E, but that¡¯s hardly news.


    I glance back at the tail again. It¡¯s not especially mobile, less like a monkey¡¯s and more like a, well, cat¡¯s. About as flexible as you¡¯d expect an extension of a spine to be. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll be able to pull off any karate moves anytime soon. Hm? What¡¯s that? I should cut off this limb that I grew overnight? Why, that¡¯s a great idea! That obviously won¡¯t be 1, painful, 2, possibly cause bleeding and kill me, and 3, eventually require a doctor¡¯s visit.


    Not to even mention points 4, 5, and 6: painful.


    Grumbling to myself, I pull on a pair of pants, only to find that it won¡¯t exactly thread over the tail sticking out of my ass. Great. How do you hide a tail? Stick it down the side of my pants? Too obvious, and most of my jeans are at least slightly skinny along the thigh. Press it flat against my back? I tried it a little and, yeah, no, that¡¯s called ¡®breaking your own spine.¡¯ Not viable. In that case¡­


    I wrap it around my midsection. Yeah, that works.


    Apparently, it¡¯s more flexible when going side-to-side as opposed to up-and-down. Good to know.


    The clock is ticking, time is running out, and I have no time to brush my teeth, so I just throw on a hoodie and book it out of the apartment, making sure to lock it behind me. Down in the entrance, Flyby stops me and I instinctively feel a bout of fear. He still feels huge compared to me. His eyes affix me to the spot. I look away. ¡°You haven¡¯t happened to notice a lil¡¯ cat, ¡®ave ya?¡±


    I gulp. ¡°A¡­ cat?¡±


    He makes a gesture with his hands as though pressing a sandwich together. ¡°¡®Bout jay big. Black. Pink nose, yellow eyes?¡±


    ¡°We¡­ aren¡¯t allowed to keep pets,¡± I mumble as though that means anything.


    ¡°I know,¡± he says gruffly. ¡°It¡¯s just that¡­ Well, a lil¡¯ feller snuck in, an¡¯ he might be sick. Just give a yell if you see ¡®im, alright?¡±


    I nod at him, and that seems to be enough for him, because he turns around and starts checking beneath the stairs, making ¡®kssksskss¡¯ sounds as he does. I kind of want to tell him not to worry, or that I¡¯m keeping the ¡®kitty¡¯ safe, or any other such white lie, but I can¡¯t risk him learning something he shouldn¡¯t. Or, worse, getting mad at me for keeping a cat. Hypocrite.


    I step out of the apartment complex. Normally, even if I was several hours late, I would just walk the way there since it is pretty far, but I¡¯m a vampire now! I can run like the wind.


    N-, not to the point of becoming a cat, though. Geez, is that something I¡¯ll need to worry about from now on? At least sleeping seems to cure it, otherwise, I¡¯d have a real problem on my paws. Hands. Hands!


    I shake my head and start running. This time, I take the route through the alleyway, even though my instincts are screaming at me not to. My hair, still long from last night, keeps flapping in my face and I eventually decide to just pull up my hood in the faint attempt to keep it out of my eyes.


    Once I get to school, it seems that lunch only just ended, but as a vampire, human food is of no consequence to me. Sure, I haven¡¯t gotten a hold of any human blood bags just yet, but that¡¯s only a matter of time, okay? So far my vampiring has been a bit lacklustre, but tonight will be different. Tonight, I will suck blood!


    ¡°What¡¯re you cackling about, Gurb?¡± a familiar voice asks and I whirl around just in time to see Jake approaching, a relaxed smile on his face. ¡°And what¡¯s up with the hoodie again? You got somethin¡¯ hidden under there or what?¡±


    I tug at my hood, pulling it down further, hoping it might hide my locks. ¡°...No.¡±


    Thankfully, Jake doesn¡¯t seem to be with his goonies or he would probably have been even worse. He looks at me with blank eyes and I wonder in terror if he¡¯s going to try pulling off yesterday¡¯s stunt. But, in the end, he just shrugs and asks, ¡°Hey, haven¡¯t you got, like, P.E now? Shouldn¡¯t you hurry and get changed?¡±


    I turn to stare at the large clock on the school walls and realise with annoyance that he¡¯s right. I¡¯ve got about four minutes to get changed. Shoot. Knowing Jake, he¡¯s sure to bother me for the entire duration of those fou-,


    ¡°Alright, uh, see ya around, Gurb!¡± Jake says hastily before almost running off, leaving me blinking at the dust cloud he left. That was¡­ new. What¡¯s gotten into him?


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    Well, as they say, don¡¯t burn a gift horse¡¯s treasure, or something. As soon as I recover from Jake¡¯s departure, I hurry to the P.E building with the pre-decided excuse playing on repeat in my head, ¡®Sorry, I fell down my bike, sorry, I fell down my bike, sorry, I fell down my bike¡­¡± When they ask for where I feel the pain, I¡¯ll say that my knee doesn¡¯t look any weird but it feels bad. Or something.


    Or that I forgot my clothes, which I actually did, now that I think about it. Guess that works, too.


    ¡°Luis Freighthold, I swear to Christ, if you miss one more lesson I am sending you to the principal¡¯s office,¡± Mrs Katatonia says for what I think might be the fourth time this semester. ¡°I had expected you sick, but even that isn¡¯t a good excuse anymore.¡±


    Just as all of the last times, I just bow my head down and look remorseful.


    She sighs and puts one hand on my shoulder. I try not to flinch too much; this is a big part in our bi-monthly ¡®don¡¯t do this again¡¯ play, after all. ¡°I know you have a hard time keeping up with your ¡®friends¡¯(citation marks added by me), but that doesn¡¯t mean you shouldn¡¯t at least try. There are sports out there I¡¯m sure you could be great at if you only gave it a try.¡±


    ¡®Then why don¡¯t we ever play those?¡¯ is what I would say if I wanted to fail this class. Instead, I just look even more remorseful, as impossible as it may sound. She sighs again, and after much consideration, allows me to just go take a seat on the bleachers. Jackpot. I try not to show my happiness too much as I slink over to the seats at the side. As always, I pick the lowest seat on the left (less stairs to climb, closer to the middle of the hall) and sit down.


    Then I stand up again because it feels like I just broke my own tail.


    ¡°Was there something else, Luis?¡± Katatonia asks me.


    I shake my head frantically because I know if I opened my mouth I¡¯d probably scream. She stares at me for a second, so to prove that there was nothing else, I sit down again, trying to angle my tail so that I¡¯m not sitting right on top of it. Apparently, as long as I don¡¯t use the backrest, I can actually sit on chairs. But only if I sit straight and with a slight forward incline, of course.


    The rest of the day goes alright. Against all odds, Jake actually seems to avoid me somewhat, keeping his distance. His goonies follow his lead too, meaning that I was able to survive the entire afternoon without having anyone pull down my pants and subsequently find out I have a tail. When I spell it out like that, it sounds pretty surreal, actually.


    But before I¡¯m able to actually leave the building, a hand falls on my shoulder and I go straight into the freeze reaction. The hand jerks away from my shoulder and I follow it to find Mr¡­ Henry on the other side. The new English teacher.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± he says in a bit of a mumble. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to startle you, Luis.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s alright,¡± I mumble right back at him, my speech just a bit more incoherent, proving my dominance once and for all.


    A small, almost unnoticeable smile tugs at his cheek. ¡°You do have a pendant for saying that, don¡¯t you?¡± Since that¡¯s not the kind of thing you can really respond to, I say nothing. The shadow of a smile leaves him. There aren¡¯t too many people around us, so it¡¯s pretty quiet. The time is 15:52 and I really want to go find Vernon. He should be there soon, if not already. ¡°I can¡¯t help but feel that our last conversation was cut a bit short. Would you mind stepping into my office with me?¡±


    I glance at the entrance. ¡°Um, I kind of have somewhere¡­¡±


    He pulls up his hands in mock surrender. For some reason, it makes me think of a lunging werewolf. ¡°It won¡¯t take five minutes. And, of course, if you¡¯d like, you can leave at any time.¡±


    ¡°I really need to go,¡± I say again. Something tickles against my stomach and I realise, eyes wide, that the tip of my tail is wagging back and forth in annoyance. Is-, is that something cat tails do? Either way, it makes it look as though an alien is about to burst from my stomach, so with rising panic, I press my hands into my stomach to quell it.


    He nods solemnly. Oh, god, I feel guilty. He¡¯s said like three things so far and I already feel like a piece of shit for saying no. I don¡¯t even know where he¡¯s coming from with this! If it¡¯s about yesterday, I actually kind of don¡¯t want to hear it. I mean, listen. Do I hate Jake and his guys for what they do and have done to me? Yes. Has talking to teachers helped? Not really. Might this be different? Sure.


    But I¡¯m a vampire now, and vampires don¡¯t need help from puny mortals. It¡¯s kind of their thing.


    Besides, if they give Jake detention (or worse, expelled), my revenge on him might be a bit over-the-top since he¡¯s already gotten his due punishment. Or it might make it harder to jump him after school.


    Or maybe I just want it to come as a surprise. Who knows, really?


    ¡°I see you have a lot on your mind. I¡¯m sorry to have taken up your time as is, I was simply worried about your morning absence. Although it is not my place to do so, I marked you as sick in our systems. In all honesty, I hadn¡¯t expected you to return the very day after what happened yesterday.¡± He shakes his head. ¡°But, as I said, I won¡¯t be taking up any more of your time. I hope to see you again, Luis.¡±


    ¡°You marked me as¡­?¡± I blink up at him, only now actually looking at his face. There isn¡¯t a trace of dishonesty on there. My mouth feels dry and I look away again. I actually have no idea what to say. What is there to say?


    He reaches towards me but quickly reconsiders, instead folding his hands across his midsection. ¡°See you tomorrow.¡±


    Before I have time to say the obligatory ¡®you too,¡¯ he turns around and walks away, leaving me feeling a bit empty. I mean, really, what did I actually do here? Henry was nice, apparently did me a favour, even worried about me¡­ And all I did was snub him off. That, uh, might not have been very nice of me? It¡¯s not like I meant to do it, but it still feels bad.


    Shoot, that totally threw me off.


    I¡­ I should find Vernon. This is all so weird.


    I leave the building in a haste, trying not to think too closely about anything. As I¡¯m walking, I try to remind myself that I can¡¯t trust Vernon, but it¡¯s really hard. So far, he¡¯s just been a nice guy. Super sketchy, but I don¡¯t think he¡¯s lied to me so far. It would be different if I hadn¡¯t seen a vampire (and if I wasn¡¯t one myself). If he just approached me out of the blue I would¡¯ve called the cops. Maybe. Or I¡¯d sock ¡®im. Depends on how aggressively he tries to make me believe in the vamp-spiracy, I guess.


    The alleyway looms ahead of me. I don¡¯t like the look of it, but I still head inside it, even though it makes my skin crawl.


    In the alleyway, I find a whole lotta nothing. Yup, no one here. Just me, myself, and a dead rat. Or is it two? Actually, scratch that, I don¡¯t want to know how many dead rats there are here. I¡¯m pretty sure it¡¯s a lot more than two. It smells bad, but it probably smelled worse a few days ago. Because, you know¡­


    Aaaaand I¡¯m cancelling that thought. No good to have.


    You know what? I¡¯m just going to wait for him. If he doesn¡¯t show up in like, two hours, I will skedaddle. Until then, it¡¯s about time I got started on my fourth re-read of the Larten Crepsley tetralogy. For some reason, getting started on a book is always much more difficult than continuing it. Personally, I think it¡¯s the commitment. It¡¯s not like you can start a re-read and then drop it after the second book, that¡¯d be weak.


    Pulling off my backpack, I rummage around until I finally grab the right book (of three, the other two being, uh, not in dispute) and pull it out. The cover looks so stupid but I kind of love it. It¡¯s probably an unpopular opinion, but I think my favourite book is the second one, where Larten is experienced enough not to be a wuss but still not quite super-badass. Of course, any one of these is superior to the Darren Shan books. I actually only read those because I heard Larten was in them. Nobody told me those books sucked. Total kiddie books in comparison. The last book was horribly incomprehensible.


    You couldn¡¯t make me re-read them with a gun to my head. Hm. I wonder if I¡¯m immune to bullets?


    I poke my side and wince. Yeah, no, probably not.


    Glancing around the dirty, stinking alley, I try to find a place where someone might sit down without dirtying their trousers, but there is no such place. The pavement is slick with grease and sludge. The top of the dumpster is covered in a sheen of unidentifiable slime. Maybe if I could sit on the wall¡­


    ¡°What¡¯s that you got there?¡±


    Oh Jesu-,


    Stumbling back, I fall on my ass in surprise, yelping as my pain gets squished, almost dropping the book from my hands, my hands flailing out in an impromptu juggle as it bounces between them without ever gaining grip.


    Casually, Vernon bends down and plucks the book out of the air. ¡°Now, let¡¯s see here¡­¡± His eyes, shielded by his yellow glasses, cross over the title. ¡°Birth of a Killer?¡± He smirks down at me. ¡°Sounds pretty morbid for a kid¡¯s book.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not,¡± I huff and pull myself back to my feet, ¡°a kids'' book.¡±


    He lightly tosses it back to me and I only barely catch it. His smile effortlessly changes into a teasing grin. ¡°What¡¯s it supposed to be then? Non-fiction? You didn¡¯t strike me as the scholarly type. Who¡¯s it about; Dahmer? Bundy?¡±


    ¡°None of them!¡± I say, puffing up my chest. ¡°What do you take me for, some wannabe killer? It¡¯s just a¡­¡± -story about a boy who turns into a vampire and is pretty happy about it. I gulp. ¡°A¡­ a book. YA. You know.¡±


    He steps off a little, mercifully. ¡°Whatever you say. As long as you remember that those types of books don¡¯t exactly represent the real situation, we¡¯re good to go.¡± He winks, curiously. ¡°Don¡¯t try to replicate the stuff you read, either. Unlike that Larten guy, you¡¯re far from immortal.¡±


    My tail twitches. I pound my fist into my stomach. ¡°Um. Yeah. I won¡¯t.¡± I press the book closer to me. He read that synopsis fast. I didn¡¯t even see it happen.


    He takes a step closer. ¡°Well, what do you say we get started?¡±


    I nod at him. Right.