A/N: First chapter done! Enjoy- and don't be afraid to give feedback!
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In the wake of life, I found death too dramatic.
Too intense, too emotional, too draining.
Not literally, of course; but that was a curse, too. I never slept, which meant no dreams, and no dreams meant the days passed by and, unlike the norm, they didn't blend together. I could remember every cringe-worthy moment, every murder I'd ever witnessed, all the blood I'd seen spilled. It was like dreaming while awake, the only difference being that it was, instead, an everlasting nightmare.
I love myself too much now to end it. Suicide was never a serious contemplation.
I'm not that old, though. Who knows what'll happen when I'm a thousand years past expiration date, still going strong, and experiencing things I know I naturally have no business experiencing?
As a human, I can imagine I would have laughed like any other at how angsty vampires are, but now I kind of get it. When you're human, there are so many things to do and see and so little time to do it; only the ones that take the time to sit and think too much get sad. When you're a vampire, there's nothing to do that can't wait a few years, because time in of itself is essentially nothing, so half of all of your time is spent thinking, and the other half is spent killing for your own benefit.
I honestly didn't expect to still be decent at this point.
My desperate grip on my sanity- my humanity, if you will- was due mostly in part to my habit of flitting from acquaintance to acquaintance- or sometimes maintaining my solace for brief periods- never getting too comfortable with another blood-drinker lest I begin to pick up their evil habits. I have enough of my own, thank you very much. I don't need to learn how to "become a robot" or some other crap to stay alive. I have morals, values, and rules (as many as someone like me can) and that's what keeps me decent.
But I didn't start out that way. In fact, it took me several years to realize that I am and always will be my own person. In fact, there was someone in particular that I always had a hard time letting go of indefinitely.
I digress.
I can't remember my actual name; I use the one my maker gave me. I've redefined it, though. I am not her pet, and I'm ashamed to say that I ever was.
I am, however, and always will be Kai; no less and no more. What else is there for me to claim?
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Seventy-Five Years Pre-Book
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"You're leaving?"
"Yes," he said, voice like velvet. "I'm thirsty."
The black silk of his button up shifted and creased minutely while he donned it; I could see every fold, every wrinkle, and I allowed my eyes to be mesmerized by the small, quick motions.
"Murderers or rapists?" I inquired lowly. "Or terrorists?"
If I hadn't been staring like I was, I wouldn't have noticed the slight tic of his right eyebrow or the nearly imperceptible downward turn of his lips. I would have assumed that my question had absolutely no impact on him, except it did; of that, I was perfectly aware. Because I knew him, whether he knew it or not.
"Just wondering," I continued, scrutinizing his fists and the way they tightened around the knuckles. "I want to know what I'll be tasting on you when you come back."
He turned so that his back was facing me and ran a hand through his copper hair. It wasn't as smooth a movement as it usually was. His hands were a little too tense and his arms were just the tiniest bit stiff at the elbows. I observed with a lopsided smirk, devoid of humor.
When I sat up and slid gracefully to the side of the bed- something impossible to do so swiftly without the confidence and fluidity of such superior limbs- the duvet slipped away from my nude form without my grasp to keep it in place. I stood and pressed the front of my body against the back of his, and as my arms reached around him, his followed and our hands intertwined above his solid abdomen.
"Don't say things like that," he muttered tersely.
"Why?"
He didn't respond.
"Go home," I said.
His brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"Home, home. Back to Carlisle."
His eyes closed; the purplish bruises underneath them stood out sharply against his skin. "I can't."
"Why not?"
"We are different people... things."
I took my hands away from his and moved around to stand in front of him. He opened his eyes- a deep shade of burgundy- to stare down at me, awaiting my response. I'm not sure if he was expecting the slap that he received, but he didn't say a word when his head snapped to the side like it did; the sound of my hand impacting his cheek wasn't unlike that of two rocks thunking against one another.
"If you are a thing, then I am, too," I told him quietly. Even in my own head, my voice was dripping with rancor. "And I am not a thing."
He looked away. "Sorry," he said.
"No, you're not."
His arms encircled my middle and he rested his chin on the top and of my head. I didn't reciprocate the action and his grip tightened. He leaned down to whisper in my ear.
"You are not what I am, Kai," he murmured. "You've seen what I'm capable of... how I draw out their suffering, how much I enjoy when they scream for mercy."
"What can I say?" I chuckled softly. "You have a twisted sense of justice."
He didn't find the humor in it that I did, of course. I leaned back and cupped his face with my hands, and he finally had to look me straight in the eye.
"We're not human, love," I reminded him firmly. "We don't eat the same, live the same, move the same, hear the same- hell, we don't even love the same. What makes you think that we should be judged on the same scale? We're natural predators, love, and it's not like we're taking innocents."
He exhaled. "What should we be judged on, then? Are we above them? Is that what you're trying to say?"
"No," I laughed, "that's insane. We're just different. Not everything is so black and white. The murderers and the rapists are the real monsters; the only reason humans don't kill more of them is because they're afraid of becoming just like them. What do we have to worry about?"
"I don't have the luxury of silence," he whispered at length. "I think about their thoughts and pleas in the end, every second of every day. I can't forget and they won't go away."
"And you wonder why?"
"Yes."
"You're not cut out for this lifestyle," I told him knowingly. "You need to be a... what did you call it? A vegetarian. Your gift demands it, and your conscience won't leave you be unless it is so."
"I can't go back."
"Yes, you can. If Carlisle is half as good as you say- "
"Better."
" -then he'll take you back with open arms, no hesitation. You're lucky to have that choice. If I were you, there'd be no question what I'd be doing."
His gaze intensified suddenly, and he lifted me up by the backs of my thighs; my breasts bounced with the suddenness of the movement, and I exhaled sharply, instinctively wrapping my legs around his waist.
"Come with me," he said, laying open-mouthed kisses along my prominent collar bones.
It wasn't difficult to reply, even while I was mostly focused on unbuttoning the buttons he'd managed to do up earlier, but my voice still quivered in restrained desire when I uttered, "What?"
"Come with me," he repeated, nuzzling my throat. "Back home, to Carlisle. You'd like it there, I think. A constant roof over your head, and your own room- if you don't want to share mine."
I'd long since halted my wandering hands.
His eyes lost a little of their enthusiastic energy when I didn't reply right away.
"Edward..." I began softly, "you know domesticity isn't my thing..."
"Yes," he muttered, "yes, I know."
"And elk? Not really my kind of meal..." I tried to lighten the air. It didn't work. "I... I think I'm better off where I'm at."
He put me down. I sighed and stood on the balls of my feet to press my lips gently to his. I don't know if he felt the regret that I attempted to infuse in the kiss, but he did respond- slight, reluctant puckering that made my frozen heart clench and burn with disappointment in my own refusal.
No, I didn't enjoy hopping from place to place.
No, I didn't like having to take the extra time to thoroughly hide the bodies I left in my wake.
No, I did not fancy spending most of my time in hotels, under bridges, and wandering amongst the dark depths of camping grounds like some sort of children's storybook monster.
But it was all I'd ever done, and it worked. It wasn't broken; why fix it?
I liked Edward. He was good to me; he fulfilled my every need. A good listener, a considerate, attentive, and passionate lover, a loyal friend- he made me feel things that I didn't know I could. When I met him, he didn't know where he was going; he just wanted to move forward. And I knew that feeling. I understood him and we went off together.
And then I learned of all the mind reading. It scared me at first, but he assured me that I was a bit cloudy and jumbled. Like messages murmured through a body of water. That wasn't a big deal after a while; except it illuminated me to the problem that he faced living the lifestyle that we currently lived- the killing.
I barely glanced at myself in the mirror on the way out of the door now; how could I even do that if I read minds? It would tear me up on the inside, and I felt for him, but I didn't get it. Not quite, anyway.
Now, it was leading him back to the path I knew he'd eventually find his way back to. The path of the angels, where all of your demons go to die. In that moment, I realized that by those standards, I was sin in the flesh- well, stone cold flesh, but flesh. The devil and darkness wrapped up in pretty packaging with a big, shiny bow on top.
"Go back to Carlisle," I said again, manically, probably, "and start where you left off. You weren't cut out for this, love."
He set his jaw. "But what about you?"
I forced a smile. "I'll be fine. I have been for this long."
He looked down, and then around, and then finally settled on gazing forlornly at the far ceiling like some lovesick puppy, settling down at the edge of the bed. I was about to open my mouth and repeat what I'd been telling him for the past two or three minutes- but he startled me silent when he whipped off his shirt and threw it across the room. Dramatic, much?
"One last time," he uttered, and I suddenly became very aware of the fact that I was still very naked.
God, help me, I thought as I strode over to the bed and straddled him before I really knew what I was doing.
"Just once," I agreed quietly, wrapping my arms loosely around his neck and leaning forward so that our foreheads touched. My tone shifted on the spectrum from resignation to teasing, "Any more than that and you'll never leave, I don't think."
His crooked grin set me off, and we could barely kiss for all the smiling until the real action began; his boxer briefs came off in my hand when I ripped them. I don't know why we bothered to wear clothes anymore- most everything we wore ended up in tatters, and it wasn't as if we really needed to go out in public more than once a week.
His button was the next to go- and that was it. Though we moved with advanced and relatively quick gestures and shifts, our last union was surprisingly graceless. He shoved me up the bed- gently, of course- and scooted backward to bow his head. My fists clenched unforgivingly in his every-which-way hair, messing it up even more than before; the way my thighs gripped the sides of his head, it's a wonder he wasn't rendered immobile.
I came brilliantly, with a scream that I just knew someone would call the cops for. Hopefully we'd be out of here by then.
Edward, being the early twentieth centurian gentleman that he was, wasn't a big fan of felatio. Don't get me wrong- we'd tried plenty, and he always got into it in the heat of the moment- but he didn't like the feeling it gave him. Like I was subservient to him, or some other shite.
"I do what I want," I'd told him once, "but it'd technically be sexual assault if I didn't respect that, so fine."
How ironic was it that a killer like me would still believe in consent?
It wasn't really strictly necessary to have sex like it was to have blood- so I guess it makes sense. Still. Does that make me a hypocrite to hold myself to laws that don't apply to me anymore? ...no. That one was important. I'd keep it.
We danced the dance of lovers... as cliché as that sounds.
But that was the only way I could think to describe it. I would never be as good with words as he was- waxing poetry with the best of them- but I knew emotion. I knew suffering and heat and ecstasy and love, and somehow, knowing that it would all be over after, all of it, the wondrous experience was all of that and more.
If my tear ducts hadn't been sealed by the harshness of transformation, I probably would have been a mess. That's one thing to be thankful for.
"I'll never forget you," he whispered against my neck, his voice unnaturally rough.
"Nor I, you," I replied softly, as steadily as I could manage.
And I never did.
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Sixty-Five Years Pre-Book
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People stare when they look my way. I'm not avoiding it, either; I love being the center of attention, whereas before I might have shied away from it.
I don't garner the screams of nearby loved ones when I tear their criminal relative apart by the neck; I earn collective applause when I sing and strum. An easy enough profession for a physically and vocally flawless being such as myself, as long as I stay out of the limelight and entertain mostly at dive bars and on street corners.
As a plus, it drew in prey. I could always sniff out when a fan wanted a little more than an autograph.
"Hey, sweetheart," they would say, leering and rubbing their hands together to ward off the cold, "you shouldn't be hangin' around back like this, should you? Such a pretty little nigger. I would love to take a bite out of that a- "
And they never finished their disgusting sentences, because my temper would get the best of me before I could properly scare the wits out of them.
I always regret it later. Their dirty blood stained my tongue, and if I squinted hard enough in the mirror, I imagined their sneering faces tattooed on the insides of my arms and running down my thighs in dark ink. They haunted me. I ignored them.
I won't stop. I can't stop. As long as I sing for crowds, there will always be more than a few bad apples that I have to dispose of. Plus, everyone needs a spirit boost, especially with the fucking war; humans senselessly killing each other. There's already enough killing going on behind the scenes- they're going to extinguish their entire race carrying on like this.
But I digress. Here's where I'm at now, as if it's any better from where I last left you:
"You're thirsty," I hissed at my reflection, my body unmoving. "Feed."
My eyes are bruised underneath, dark purplish on warm brown, and I'm disgusted. My hair was more wavy than curly (some days I wondered about my heritage, but I always forgot to go searching), and it was a bit everywhere. I looked stark raving mad- and I was willing to become even more so.
I didn't want to go back out.
Not now.
Who was I kidding? Not ever.
It was madness.
Now that I knew there was an alternative lifestyle, my fucking curiosity was itching to try it out.
Doubts always clouded my mind whenever I even considered it; what if I relapsed and ended up discouraging myself in the end? I couldn't imagine avoiding the tantalizing scent of sweet, fresh, gushing crimson tides, pumping just underneath the surface of such puncturable necks- so within grasp- so attainable, so easy.
Venom pooled under my tongue and swum in the gutters of my cheeks and gums. I needed desperately to feed.
I slammed the door to my hut in the woods- isolated, surrounded on all sides by thick forest flora and natural traps- and headed south toward the city where I often performed. My territory was my own; hopefully, no nomads had come by the week I'd holed myself up, trying to ignore my own nature.
I didn't get far.
Maybe a mile or two.
There was a trail- a quite obviously man-made trail- and just down the earthy path, a couple of fleshy wanderers, women, were set up for a picnic. I observed them for a bit, venom still swishing around in my mouth.
They didn't look bad. Just... enjoying their lunch and the muted majesty of the greenery.
So thirsty, my throat screeched. Feed- FEED!
I hit myself in the head twice.
One of the women- the one with her back turned to me- rotated her torso as if to stretch. My hawk-like eyes zeroed in on the tell-tale swell of her lower abdomen. I bit my lip.
Innocents, a kinder, gentler voice murmured. Innocent life. Leave this place.
I sighed silently and turned to head for the city.
And then the wind blew my way.
Blood was normally a very strong attractor, but something came over me at that moment. My body turned and and I hunched, nose flaring and eyes widening in shock at the pure ecstasy I experienced by a mere whiff. It was unavoidable- I had to have her blood. It was mine, it called to me, I needed it-
Realization came to me when I sat up in the shredded, stained remnants of their checkered picnic blanket, dry sobbing.
"No more," I whispered to myself, digging a hole by hand for the woman round with child and the younger one that I could only assume was her sister or daughter that she'd had very young, guessing by their resemblance and the girl's age.
For hours, I sat on the pile of disturbed ground above which their bodies were buried. Or days. I'm not sure.
It all ran together in that odd, disturbingly clear way.
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Book One
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Fucking. Hell.
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A/N: Remember to review!