Jason
The guy passed me the keys to the tiny apartment, nose wrinkled slightly. Do I really smell that much? I asked myself, as the man backed away-the wad of money I'd gave him shoved in his back pocket. A part of me wanted to go over and punch him, another wanted to punch that part of me. I decided on a no punching rule from here on. This is supposed to be a fresh start, the reasonable part of me chided. Tsk. Smart ass.
I ventured into the tiny bungalow, surprised when I realised it wasn't that bad-for a seedy apartment on the backstreets of Morganville that is. I dumped my pitiful mound of possessions in the middle of what I presumed was the living room and ambled around the other three rooms. It was basic, boring, but better than most other places I've stayed at over the past few months. Some of those places-shudder-I don't even wanna think about it. Let's just say be afraid-be very afraid. And yes d-heads this is Jason Rosser the x-pretend-murderer. One room with a mattress and a few thread bare sheets-another with a sink, a shower, a toilet and a water-stained mirror. A mini-fridge, a few woodworm ridden cupboards and a microwave in what I think was supposed to be a kitchen. Not bad at all.
What to do first, I thought as I ran my fingers through my black hair, which left and oily residue on my fingers. Deciding that a shower was a main priority, I stripped down and used the rather mouldy looking bar soap to wash my hair and body. The water was cold-but I haven't had a hot shower for more than a year, I think I can handle it for a little while longer. I slung a towel around my waste and then put a razor, some shaving cream and some scissors around the sink and looked in the mirror for the first time since getting here. I had filled out a little over the past month (maybe because I had more than rats to eat-if you're wondering where all the money for food and an apartment was coming from, let's just say when I used to work for Oliver he didn't keep very good care of his credit card. Or any of them for that matter) and I was less wiry and more muscular than before. My wet hair no longer held a trace of grease. I picked up the scissors and lifted them to my shoulder length hair. As I did so, I couldn't help but look at the shiny scar tissue on my wrists. I glanced at the razor sitting on the sinks edge-but I quickly brushed away that thought. A fresh start, reasonable me chided more firmly. Well, something's you can't erase, I thought grimly staring at my heavily scarred wrists.
I shook my self, as though to shake off the bad memories, and started cutting my hair. Snip, snip, snip. With every piece of hair I cut off I told myself it was a part of who I used to be. Snip, snip, snip, snip. It was every memory of the people I'd watched scream for me while I stood and did nothing. Snip, snip, snip, snip, snip. I cut my hair until it was chin length, and yes it was choppy and messy, but it was a darn sight better than it was before. I lathered the lower part of my face in shaving cream and shaved until my chin was almost smooth (cheap disposable razors don't do the best job) and slid into a faded black t-shirt and newly bought light blue denim jeans. Then I laced up black converses (Oliver really doesn't have a budget on credit cards) and headed off to common grounds. I looked so different now that no one would look twice in my direction. Well, that was the theory.
What I wasn't prepared for was my sister in all her gothic glory working the till. A burst of memories hit me. Brandon going towards her, fangs extended, while she whimpered in a corner. A burst of white hot pain as I dragged a knife along my wrist. Brandon slithering towards me and licking the thin line of blood off my wrist while Eve screamed for him to stop. Her face crumpled with fear as something white flashed out and backhanded her into the wall. Her racoon eyes wide hatred as I stabbed Shane. Ever memory was a fresh slap in the face, but I swallowed and stepped into the little coffee shop despite the feelings churning inside of me. Slowly I walked up to the checkout and waited to be served.
"What can I get you?" she asked tapping her black fingernails on the desk and clicking the bar in her tongue against her teeth.
"Black coffee and half a dozen chocolate glazed donuts please." For half a second she looked up as though she'd heard a ghost, but after studding my face thoroughly she shook her head and bustled around getting my order. When she dumped it in front of me I looked up, met eyes with her and she gasped. My eyes, her eyes, were the biggest give away to who I was.
"Jason." She breathed removing her apron and walking silently to a free table-oblivious to the threats from a very pissed off Oliver. I picked up my order and sat down at the table with her, where she was adorned with a haunted expression. "Six months. Six months you've been gone. Not a peep. Not a 'Hi Eve just thought I'd tell you not to worry 'cos I'm alive ok?'. Nothing."
"I needed a fresh start. Did you honestly miss your psychopath brother?"
"Yes!" she said in outrage, slamming the table so hard some of my coffee spilt "You're the only family I have."
"What about Mom?" that's right, good job Jason, make her even more mad. Excellent plan. Sure enough when I looked up her eyes were shimmering with fury.
"What the woman who dumped me out on my ass because I wouldn't shack up with Brandon? Because wouldn't let him fang me? Yeah, crazy as it sounds my psychopath pretend-murder brother is the best family I've got." And then without warning she closed me in a hug. I squirmed for a little patted her back awkwardly until she released me and went back to work.
The little bell rang as the door swung open and I looked up over the brim of my coffee cup. There stood Monica Morrell. I'd love to hate her, but she's so god-damn hot. Today she was wearing an almost illegal, skin tight pink dress-showing plenty of perfectly bronzed skin. The wind swirled around her and only gravity was keeping her dress down. To be honest, I routed for the wind. She met eyes with me and I saw something in her face that wasn't revulsion or disgust or distaste. No, it was something that looked a hell of a lot like attraction.
And then she winked at me.
And just when I thought I was prepared for anything.