Star
In the main house, with French windows overlooking the fountains and the sculpture garden, you have your own suite - dressing room, bathroom, queen (of course) sized bed - that you never use. But for appearances, you keep some dresses and night things in the closet; however long they hang there, they never seem to gather dust. You brush your hair out over the gleaming marble basin every few nights and pull back the coversheet to rumple the perfectly neat bedclothes, feeling guilty every time you do so, like you are pouring good milk down the drain, or writing on only one side of the notepaper.
She doesn't have to ask. You do these things for her. You know that this is a compromise, and you tell yourself that you are happy.
You keep to vampire time, waking up always just before dusk. The slight tenderness at your groin, wrist or neck a memory of the night before. There is no sleeping in because Sophie-Anne doesn't have the option of staying up early. She lays out your clothes for you, personally, every night. Most vampires are fond of the colour red, and Sophie-Anne is no exception. Although she has a house manager who looks after every aspect of the lives of the other humans - their diet, exercise, costumes - because you are hers, this is something she does for you.
One day, you work up the nerve to ask her why. You're nothing, nobody. Who would want you. Why me?
Sophie-Anne is standing over you, watching you put on your face in front of the dresser that is properly hers, but which the two of you both use. Bored, bemused expression on her face. She smoothes the hair back from her crown with a look up at the ceiling. You've watched her perform the gesture so many times, you can copy it exactly.
'Careful, dear,' she says, and touches a manicured finger to her deep red lips. Then points at yours in the mirror's reflection. 'You're turning fuchsia.'
THE END
16 September 2009