This opening scene originally came out and said which character was the vampire and which wasn't, but I thought that made too much of the first act a slog toward a foregone conclusion. You knew a certain character was going to end up in jeopardy, that the other wasn't in any real danger--this way, I think you know shit's going to go down, but there's more room for patience as to how it goes down.
🕑 Added 2014-12-12 05:44:13 +0000 UTC
The creature lived next door to her. It lived in her friend’s house, where it wore her friend’s clothes and ate her friend’s food. Slept in her friend’s bed. But it was not her friend. It did not have her eyes, it did not have her smile, and it did not have her love.
She was afraid of it, and she could never be afraid of her friend.
She laid awake in bed. During the day, she could almost believe it was her friend. But at night. When the moon was out. Then she knew.
She fingered the gauze that covered her bite mark. Underneath, the wound was sensitive enough to ache against her touch. It shook her body like the last drip of adrenaline from that old attack. Maybe she wasn’t human either. Maybe there was a little beast in her. Because she could hear the front door of the next house over. It creaked as it opened.
Their houses were so close, her friend usually came in through the window. Not tonight. Maybe it seemed too intimate a pathway for her to take. Or maybe she just didn’t remember it. Instead, she could hear—she could’ve sworn she heard—the yellowing blades of Texas grass crinkling under her friend’s bare feet. The wind picked up like a coyote’s howl, cutting around her friend and she could hear how sharp she was, it was, out of the sheath of her friend’s body. The grass crackled, it creased, it shattered. Always louder, always closer. Until she could feel her friend under the second-story window.
Her friend’s nails daintily scratched at the house’s wood and fiberglass as she came up in defiance of physics. She didn’t really need a grip to climb. It was more like a gesture. An old habit that couldn’t be broken, even in death. Then those long and pointed claws struck the window. The sound was not the shriek of nails on a chalkboard. It was low, musical. The claws moved over the glass, slotted into the jamb. The window opened smoothly. Not with the jerks and heaves she would need to exercise on it. Her and her human hands.
Bare feet touched down on the carpet. The thing that wore her friend? She phrased it like a question. She’d win on Jeopardy.
Whatever it was, it padded across the room. No rush. No hurry. She stayed under the covers. She felt the approach; she didn’t hear it. She couldn’t hear her friend breathing. She couldn’t hear her make a sound.
Maybe it was just her. Maybe she was too loud. The blood rushing in her veins, the adrenaline electrocuting her blood, the sizzle of thoughts in her head as she debated with herself—what was it? How could it be her friend? How could it look like her friend and not be her? And her heart. Her heart pounding, no, thudding, like it was being slammed against a brick wall, again and again and again.
The thing—the void in the world her friend had left behind, that walked and talked to fill her absence—it stood over her now. It looked at her. She wished she could look into those sky-blue eyes and find herself. See the gentle mocking in her friend’s expression, or warm bemusement, fond embarrassment. Nervous love. But she knew all she’d find would be hunger. Just like the last time.
She didn’t want to see.
The thing that had been her friend gathered her blanket in its sharp claws. Pulled it down her trembling body. Underneath her, the mattress pad was miserably wet. Soaked with sweat. She’d had a nightmare about this before waking up to it happening.
For the first time, her friend made a sound. The clicking that put her in mind of mechanical pencils, Zebra pens. A small sound for the grotesque process of her teeth shifting, parting, letting her canines extend from her gumline like the tips of icebergs being dredged up to the surface. Fangs that were cold and sharp and true. The one real thing, the one thing that belonged to the creature and hadn’t simply been inherited, stolen from her friend.
Hands set down on the mattress, bedsprings quietly groaning with their pressure. She opened her eyes. Normal hands. Normal fingers. Nails cut short, even. She looked up and her heart stopped pounding. Not a good thing. More like it was finally, steadily being crushed against that brick wall.
Her friend kissed her gently on the cheek before pulling back to smile down at her. Showing every one of her teeth. Even the fangs. “Move over,” her friend’s voice said. “I wanna spoon.”
