Marko remembered his last day as a half vampire.
He had stood in front of the run down beach house they had been staying at the time while the sun lived it's last few minutes in the sky. He remembered it burning him, like acid had been poured, but his skin did not flake and disintegrate. He had stood there, on the front porch, watching the sun settle behind the sea, living his last moment of humanity, kissing it goodbye in bitter-sweet silence. The thoughts that had gone through his mind at that point were missing from his memory. Perhaps he had thought nothing at all, perhaps his mind had been racing with thoughts. It didn't matter. Time had still worn away the memory.
Marko remembered his first kill.
His baby sister, Rita, had come running down the beach as fast as she could, in a mad attempt to make it to him before the sunlight completely disappeared. Her hair had always been more golden than his had, if that was even possible. It was nowhere near as curly though, and it seemed almost straight as it flowed behind her in the rush. She had climbed the stairs with great ease, and flung herself into him. She had pulled away from him, her hands flying, telling him the story of her day. Rita had been born mute, due to early birth her vocal chords never developed fully. Marko had learned sign language, just so that he could speak to her, understand her. Comfort her. And he had tried to listen, to pay attention to her words, but the thumping of her heart and rush of her blood filled veins was far too distracting.
And he had killed her.
He had sank his teeth into the smooth flesh along her neck. At first, she was confused, then the pain had hit her. She had struggled and pushed. He could feel her drawing signs into his back, something they had learned so that they could speak without looking at each other, begging him to stop. But he didn't stop, he drained her, every last drop. And it was all in silence, a bitter-sweet silence. She didn't have a voice, it wasn't like she could've screamed. He had held tight onto her corpse, and he had sat there on the porch, clinging to her body, squeezing it as waves of pain engulfed him, as his body died and immortality took over. And then he continued to sit. He sat there holding her corpse, feeling as the last bit of heat seeped out of it, and feeling it stiffen as rigormortis set in. He sat there and held her until Dwayne found him, and pried the rigid corpse from his arms. Then he went inside, packed what would fit in his duffle bag, and left with them, to Santa Carla.
Marko had never openly showed affection about Rita afterwards. Every time Paul made a joke about her being mute he laughed, even though on the inside he was dying to rip his throat out, to pull his esophagus out slowly, and listen to every little snap the muscle would make as it broke. But he didn't, he just laughed and turned his head the other way.
Marko would never give them a reason to think that he cared about her puny, mortal life. But he did, and sometimes, in early evening, Marko would walk out to the middle of the beach, and he would sit, watching the sun set despite the pain, just like he had that last day. He would sit alone and watch the sun set, he would fiddle with shells and let sand run through his hand. He would take off his boots and let the warmth engulf his bare feet. And he did it all in silence. In that quiet, cold, bitter-sweet silence.