Vamp's smile

He coughed in the smoke that filled his notrils. Filthy, unclean thing, he thought bitterly. The cigarettes that surrounded him were all lighted up and emitted wisps of smoke.

He was charismatic and good-looking, with perfect manners. His eyes were the color of the sky at midnight, a striking blue that pierced your soul. He had a body that some men may kill for. Heads turned to look at him, mostly of women. Some were skinny as lamposts; he bet that they were anorexic. Some were overweight, jewellery dripping off their wrists and necks, even ankles.

The woman next to him was tall, but not skinny. She was slender and voluptuous, very curvacious. The dress she wore was almost vulgarly revealing. A cigarette, too, perched at the tips of her painted and manicured fingernils. She had long hair that swung behind her, and her eyes were narrowed. Even as he glanced at her, she drew in a lungful of smoke and let it out with a sigh of satisfaction.

She caught him staring, and sent him a glacial glare. He looked away quickly. She linked her arm with his, to keep up appearances, and dragged him into a crowd of women. "This is my lover," she introduced. One of the chattering women - a girl, really, she was only about seventeen - ceased her talk idly and gave him the once-over he was used to by rich people. "My name is Arabelle," she said, tipping a little to the side. She smelt of whiskey, strong liquor, and there was a glass of something unidentifiable in her hand.

"Nice to meet you," he said, taking her hand and kissing it lightly and politely. Arabelle giggled and twirled her fingers too close to him. He stepped back a little, and his companion shot him a frown that would have put out the cigarette in her hand like a bucket of icy water. She waved at her friends and held up a finger, signaling that she would be right back. She gave him a gentle push and a fake brush of her lips as he stumbled forward into a crowd of men in business suits and ties.

All of their cheeks were ruddy, all held a glass in his hand, and they laughed loudly. "Hello, boy," one said, slapping him in the back. He nearly fell, but kept his balance and composure. "Hello," he replied almost inaudibly.

This sparked off a round of laughter, and someone pushed a glass into his hand. He took it politely and immediately ducked out of the vicious circle of taunters. As usual, he headed for the toilet.

"What a bloody circle," he whispered to himself, wrapped in the cocoon of safety in the empty toilet, the British accent evident in his voice. The door was locked and no one would be using it anyway; he knew that from experience. He lifted the glass and took a whiff, then a cautious sip.

Violently, he spit the mouthful he took back into the gleaming marble sink that probably a servant slaved over every day. Spiked. That was why everyone was drunk.

This party was getting out of hand, he decided. Like all the other parties he went to with his wife. He didn't usually curse, but he allowed himself the luxury now; there was no other way to describe the turmoil of his feeling in his heart. He let loose his anger in a round of cursing.

He was sick of these facades that the rich kept up. What wouldn't he give to see the girl his wife was before he married her? Much as he tried to coax her out of the lure of the fact that she could have whatever she wanted, she wouldn't listen.

If only he hadn't married her in the first place. If only he hadn't ruined her life and his.

If only she were the same.

He remained in the toilet for at least two hours, balancing on the sink and just thinking. He thought of their childhood together, and his heart wrenched at the memory. He longed for the days that had passed and would never come back again. Looking at the golden, expensive and heavy watch tightened around his wrist - she had demanded him to look more presentable - he decided that it was time enough for her to finish up with her jaunts.

He washed his hands and dashed the glass against the sink, breaking it into a million pieces. He drained the repulsive liquid out of the glass and let the tinier glass bits flow down the sink. He picked up the bigger pieces and tossed them into the wastepaper basket. Then, washing his hands again, he stepped out of the toilet and down the corridor.

He stopped a passing woman who looked as bored as he was. He found out that her name was Hazel. She was probably in the same situation he was, and he welcomed her company warmly, as did she. They chatted for about half an hour before he broke the question: where was his wife? Her eyes clouded over, and she said, "She's doing what everybody else is doing save us. In the room on the second floor, furthest from the stairwell for privacy. She booked the most expensive room. You must have a lot of money," she added.

She kept silent, like him. He spoke up, standing. "You must have a lot of money as well," he replied, flashing her a pained smile. She nodded and leant back on a reclining chair. "She's a loose woman, your wife." Hazel looked sorry that she was saying this, but she persisted. "She's with a different man every Saturday here. I'm sorry."

He turned around. "I know. Everyone here is ... disloyal. I wish ... " he left the sentence trailing as he began climbing the steps. Hazel sighed and leant back on her chair. She knew what he wished; she'd been wishing it for three years. Hazel's husband refused to divorce her, even though she wanted it. She'd tried to love him; she'd really tried. Those pathetic people moaning with pleasure up there behind closed doors were leeches, leeching for money. Some changed into these parasites, like the wife of the man she had talked to.

Some were born that way.

He paused outside the door that hid his wife. Raising his voice, he called, "Honey, are you in there?"

The squeals, moans, and breathy sighs stopped at once. "Yes, I'm here. I'm coming out." He could hear the frenzy for their lost clothes, and soon, his wife appeared before him, breathless and flushed. He couldn't look at her, he knew what he would see. Her hair would be messy, her clothes would be knocked askew. He couldn't look at the man his wife came out with, either. From past experience, his wife's lipstick would be smeared across his face.

He turned a blind eye as the man discreetly passed a wad of cash to her, and she pocketed it smoothly. The man disappeared quickly as he took her hand, leading her down the steps. He saw Hazel with the man whom his wife had been with, and his and Hazel's eyes locked. They were fellow comrades, trapped in a gilded cage, a hopeless cage. Hazel led the man out, also pretending not to notice the lipstick over his clothes and face.

He looked at her now. The beauty was certainly there. But she had changed. Not for the better, either. He still held on to her, in hopes that she was change back to the sweet girl she was when they were young. He could divorce her. He could cast her aside like used tissue and permanently demolish her reputation in the rich.

But he knew that these Saturday nights were all his wife lived for. It was as if he couldn't give it to her, what she got from another man. He wasn't talking about the money. If he left her, she would not live. He was sure of that.

However, he couldn't love her anymore. Like Hazel, he had tried - tried very hard. That night, when his wife was asleep, he wrote a note and slipped it under his wife's pillow. Then, he took whatever scant belongings he had and returned to his homeland, where three special people as close as siblings to him were waiting.

When she woke up, she knew that he had left her, but she was still happy. Hey, he didn't take any money! Didn't delete the bank accounts! Joyfully, she began spreading the news that she had found him cheating on her and so divorced him. She kept the hurt mask on for about three weeks before returning to the parties. Only Hazel realized the truth.

It was on a Saturday night, when she was getting ready to leave, that she found it. She flipped the pillow aside in search of her mascara and found the note. She flipped it open, read it once, then sat down on the bed and read it again.

Dear Tomoyo,

I used to love you. But you've changed, my dear. You aren't the same anymore. You're like a vamp now.

I regret marrying you, because if I hadn't, then you wouldn't have transformed. But I won't feel sorry for knowing you. I am blessed to have known you before I married you. If I had not, then I wouldn't have known the beautiful personality that you were.

You can have my money, you can have all of it.

Do you still keep in touch with Sakura, your best friend? Do you still talk and laugh like usual? Do you still sing like before? Question yourself! Question yourself, and tell me the answers!

I have returned to England.

I loved you.

-Hiiragizawa Eriol

Author's Notes

//sighs// I found the ending a little sad ... maybe I should rewrite it and make it a happy ending.

Nah.

I guess the sadness may be its charm so if you've got the time, please review!