You fucking bitch. Why are you even still alive?
There, he finally said it. After all these years, he finally spit out that question. I was wondering how long it was going to take.
One of the downsides of living forever is that everything becomes so damn predictable. The same things playing over and over again. Owen, Thomas, Eric, they're all the same. They have the same wrinkled skin, the same dullness in their eyes. Maybe growing up is just dying slowly. It's times like this I can't stand to look at him. He glares at me accusingly, as if this is my fault, as if I should be suffering for his clumsiness. It's the same look I've seen a million times. Even after I told them I can't be their friend, even after I showed them what happened before, after a few years they all look at me like they blame me for how things turned out. Look at Owen: he's slouched on the couch. Resentment just rolling off him. He's done this a fucking million times. But now every time he screws up, it's my fault. It wouldn't be so bad if he wasn't starving me all the time. Nowadays, I have to be dying for him to walk out the door. And when he comes back empty-handed we have to go through this cycle. He'll come home drunk and angry. I'll yell at him for starving me He either clams up or explodes then sober up in a few hours, and come apologize to me. I'll hug him and say everything's alright, or I'll wake up to a cutesy note and him gone to get a few liters of blood off some bum that'll be a make-up gift to him and a damn lifeline to me. And in two weeks we'll do it again. It was different when he was still a kid.
For one thing, Owen was smarter then. I remember the first time he went out to get me food. He was so proud, eyes shining as he handed me my food. Later, I found him shaking and crying but it's the thought that counts. I asked him if he regretted meeting me. He smiled and said "No." I saved his life, and everything else was just extra. That made me happy, even though I knew it wouldn't last. He understood then. He didn't ask stupid questions. I never knew why adults asked so many questions. It's like they can't help it. Not even while they're dying. Sometimes, I would look someone in the eye as I'm feeding and I could swear that I didn't see fear. Just an absurd look of incomprehension. It would be funny if it wasn't so sad. You're going to die in a few seconds. Does it matter if I answer: "I'm a vampire, I was raped and turned 300 years ago. I'm in this city because Owen, my boyfriend, messed up and left a witness the last time he was getting something for me to eat. You're being eaten alive because you were the only guy stupid enough to wander here drunk at 2 a.m. in the morning. Now do you feel better?"
Stupid and predictable. That's life. I could mark each relationship by the questions they ask. It starts with the first "How have you survived?" to the inevitable "why are you still alive?" That last one's usually my cue to start looking for someone else. But the first one's the one I really hate: How have you survived? It's not even what they really want to ask. They really want to know how I get away with killing so many people. And I want to scream back: It's easy!Adults think that the worldrevolves around them. That the fucking universe would grind to a halt if they walked down a dark alley and never came back out. Well, take it from me, the world wouldn't blink an eye if you died. I could throw your body in the middle of the street and no one would care until it caused a traffic jam that made somebody more important than you late for work. But everyone thinks they are special. That the usual rules of time and space doesn't apply to them. How else do you explain Owen sulking there right now? I'm the one that hasn't eaten for weeks. I told him what it was going to be like before. He was OK with it then. Honestly, it wasn't as if he was giving up a whole lot. But what mattered then was that he was happy and I was happy. Now, he's acting pissed because he's old and I'm still the same. What did he expect? That I would die with him because he can't live forever?
Why am I still alive? It's not like Owen really cares, but there's no big secret. I just want to see that bastard die. I want to see him old and weak. I want to be there when he gives up. And I'm going step out from the shadows and rip him limb from limb. And then I'll stop. I'll leave him cursing and pleading and begging. And then I'm going to watch him burn. Ha, not much of a plan, right? Give me a few more centuries. Maybe I'll think of something better.