2. Solace

I sped through the highway, not paying heed to how fast I was going. No one came out this way, this late.

I pulled into a near-invisible side road and drove the rest of the way to the small cabin I called home. Well, it was home for the past few months. I moved around a lot- a necessity for someone in my position.

I parked the pickup and ran inside, not bothering to take my groceries in. I slammed the door behind me and crumpled to the ground, leaning back against the door, cradling my head in my hands.

I sat there, motionless. After a while my eyes rose, to a painting hanging across from me.

The portrait was of a lady with pale skin, a sheer dress barely covering her form. She was at a beach, sitting so that the waves lapped at her feet. Her face was lifted, turning her white eyes to the sun, and her hands were behind her, resting on the sand. Deep brown tresses cascaded from her head, a waterfall of slight curls.

Instantly I was transported to the scene the painting evoked. It was a warm summer day; I had taken Margherita to a secluded beach I'd found that was inaccessible by normal means. This was the one place I could be myself, and not have to worry about anyone else seeing me.

She did not- could not- see me, of course. Not the way I looked in the sunlight; she had been blind from birth. But she knew from the chill of my touch, the surprising strength and speed, and the distinct lack of a heartbeat… She knew I was a vampire.

She also made very clear her decision- that she didn't mind being with me. In fact, she wanted to be with me. It had been a chaotic few days whilst I struggled with this revelation- but she truly loved me, and to my surprise I loved her as well.

And so here we were, at the beach. I had asked her to keep still so I can do a portrait of her- something for my own collection, I told her. Her parents would probably die of shock if they saw what she was barely wearing. I had finished the outlines when she called to me softly, asking me to be near her.

How could I resist such a request? I lay down next to her, my shoulder by her back, curling one arm around her seated figure.

She wrapped one arm around her knees then. With the other, she lightly played with my body, running her fingertips along my side, tracing lines up and down my chest.

I could not describe the feelings that arose from within me, when she touched me. It was all I could do to keep still and stare at this goddess. Who was I to be worthy of such love- such affection?

Since my change, I have often wondered if there would come a moment when I wanted time to just stop. Some of my paintings were of things that I, in that instance, wanted to freeze in place- but they were all external to me. They were of things, of places, of sheer beauty that I adored- but they didn't directly involve me. There, at the beach, lying on the sand, the waters lapping at my feet, gazing at the love of my strange unlife whilst she touched me fearlessly- this was my special moment. I had silently wished that day would never end.

I contented myself with my memories of that day- still sitting, unmoving, behind my front door.

It was hours later when I finally stirred. Night had overtaken the forest, and I grudgingly went back to the pickup to recover the groceries and supplies I bought earlier. It had rained at some point, despite what the weatherman promised earlier this morning- the bags were wet. Well, at least the cold kept the items from spoiling.

I put them away methodically, trying to keep my thoughts from drifting. I realized with a slight grin that I had failed to turn on any of my lights. Oh well, I rationalized, I didn't need them to see- and there were no humans around for miles to discover my mistake anyway.

The thought brought me back to reality. Whoever this scent came from, lives here, in Forks. It wasn't a large town to begin with- I realized with some horror that sooner or later, I will encounter that scent again. Margherita's image came to mind, but I gently pushed her aside. This scent, while similar, was not Margherita. But it was still overpowering, and I did not want to lose control another time.

My thoughts startled me. I was contemplating what to do to keep a human alive. It didn't turn out well the last time…

I growled. I couldn't think straight, not like this. There was only one way to help me now.

I had to hunt.

With a sour turn of my mouth I finished putting the groceries away. I slipped outside, trying to catch any scent of prey on the wind. I was a ghost among the trees, seeking the one thing that would take the edge off.

Blood.

I caught it then- the smell of deer. Not the most- appetizing- smell in the world, a far cry from what I scented at the market, but it would have to do. It wasn't long before I spotted them- vague shapes in the darkness.

My mind swiftly went somewhere else. When I "came to," I stood before three deer, all dead.

I blinked. I usually didn't let my hunting instincts get the better of me. Nor had I drunk so much at once since… I hurried to bury the bodies. I had to concentrate harder than usual- the fullness from my feeding threatened to make me sick.

I went home, slower than normal, trying to keep my apparent nausea in check. I tried to figure out the source of my unease. Was it perhaps the fact that I had three things at once? Did I intentionally overdo it, like that time?

Rain started to fall before I returned to my cabin. I made a mental note to try another channel's weatherman, for the one I usually listened to was proving to be rather inaccurate.

I went to the kitchen sink, washing my hands and face, scrubbing the trim goatee that framed my mouth. I stared at my reflection in the small mirror- eyes of light amber stared back. My short black hair was wet; I grabbed a towel and rubbed it dry, not bothering to comb it. No one here but my memories and I.

Taking the bag of art supplies I left at the table, I strode into my bedroom. The bed there was again for pretense- I never slept. I raised a hand, exerting my will upon it.

The bed lifted easily off the ground, as if suspended by wire from the ceiling. The feat came easily tonight- it always came easily when I was satiated, and tonight I was overly so- exposing an otherwise hidden trap door.

The bed hovered close to the ceiling, allowing me to simply walk under it and open the trap door. A short set of steps led the way into my hidden basement.

I descended, pulling the trap door shut behind me, and letting the bed slowly return to rest upon it.

I reached automatically for the light switch at the foot of the steps. The basement was a simple room, with walls made of unpainted brick. An air conditioning system kept fresh air circulating from outside, and maintained the temperature. One wall housed a simple television set, next to a desk covered with layers of sketchpads. Against the opposite wall leaned finished but unframed paintings. Framed ones hung on most of the available wall space.

I deposited my bag on the cluttered desk, my gaze intent on an easel with a blank canvas. The palette and brush flew into the air as I approached, as if responding to some hidden command. I took my paints and absently started to work.

When I eventually set my palette down, I stared at the image before me.

On the lower corner of the canvas, I had painted a white flower. Flowers, I amended to myself, but one was much larger than the rest, as if it had magnified itself to draw the observer's attention.

Freesia? I wondered. This was somewhat strange. Stranger still was the fact that the flower only took up a mere corner of the canvas. The rest of it was still plain, unused.

Perhaps there is more to this piece.

I went to the desk, turning the television on not so much to watch, but to give me some white noise while I collected my thoughts.

Whoever this human is, has a potent scent. That much was clear. And the scent, while not exactly Margherita's, was still powerful enough to cloud my mind. And- I shuddered just thinking about it- I had to admit that I was curious as to who this human might be. If only to better avoid them, I told myself without much enthusiasm.

On the other hand, I didn't want to risk exposure- or worse, have another death on my hands. The urge to move out of town was great; I resisted solely on the basis of having just established myself in the past few months. I wasn't looking forward to building another cabin so soon. A small part of me suggested that, if I did find this person, I could attempt to watch over them from a distance- my kind weren't likely to ignore such a scent, as I learned firsthand.

I don't know what it was that made my decision, but it was made. I would go back to the high school for my next task, and continue from there. If ever I should meet this person, I would do my best to ensure their safety while I was here. If that meant leaving, then so be it.

As I raised the bed off the trap door, I noticed a faint brightness in the cabin. Stepping out of my bedroom, I carefully pushed aside the heavy red curtains to reveal what I had suspected.

The sky was clear. Rays of sunlight filtered through the forest canopy, bathing the area around my cabin in a soft, heavenly glow.

So much for going out today.

Sighing, I placed a call to the high school and left a message for Ms. Cope, saying I would be out all day today and would return to work tomorrow. The weatherman on the new channel I listened to had mentioned it should be another cloudy day then.

I sat at the dining table- another pretense- deciding what to do. I looked at the stove and decided to cook.

I took out the ingredients I needed, deciding to make chicken alfredo, taking out some bow tie pasta from my pantry. The actions were ingrained now, practically automatic- so it wasn't a surprise when my mind drifted once more to that day on the beach.

Margherita grew hungry by noon. She wouldn't admit it, but her stomach growled, betraying her. I stifled a laugh at her command- I simply ran to get a picnic basket, and ran back to help her to a sunny spot on the beach. Then I remembered that I had prepared the same dish I was cooking now.

I refused to allow her to feed herself- I was too engrossed watching her every movement. She complimented my cooking. Something I had picked up along the way, I casually dismissed.

No, she insisted- it was truly delicious. Yet another thing she liked about me.

I finished my cooking and poured the contents into a serving bowl, letting it cool. I realized I had no idea what to do with it now, so after a while I placed a cover on it and put it into the refrigerator. Maybe I could give it to Ms. Cope, as a thank you for giving me work to do.

I looked at the cheap clock on the wall- it was just barely noon. There wasn't much more to do without going outside, so I went to lie down and reminisce.