Hey all. I'm updating pretty frequently at the moment as I'm feeling inspired and I have the time to write. In the future, I might only update once a week, but for now - here's another chapter!
Best, Inspirelly
Her back hurts after the run, a dull thudding pain that drives her upstairs to her bedside table. The pills are almost gone. The orange pharmaceutical tube rattles in her hand, two pills falling out, rolling and aligning on the indent of the pale scar slicing down her palm.
"Shit," she breathes.
Running back downstairs, she pulls out a cutting board and a hefty knife. Rocking the blade back and forth gently she manages to cut the pills in a half with a loud pop. Immediately she gulps down a half, sticking her head under the faucet. The water tastes stale but she sighs in relief, quickly slipping into the tiny single bathroom off the kitchen. She strips and lets the lukewarm water run down her body, flinching as it suddenly goes molten hot without warning.
Her body is a patchwork of scars. They run at jagged angles up and down her limbs and torso, intersecting like some convoluted freeway, a hub of damage and destruction. Some are too pale to make out well, most are dark and deep enough that Christine doubts they will ever go away. She rubs some lavender scented lotion on, applies a dime-sized amount of avocado oil to her curls before tugging on jeans a long-sleeved shirt, always long sleeves now – always meaning since the accident. Hair washed and up in a bun, she reemerges and perches briefly on the counter to read over the university's statement.
Bastards indeed.
The university doesn't want her on campus, says she's a threat to student safety. She left some of her more expensive art supplies in Dr. Hedrick's classroom though. She's going back to get it –no way in hell she's leaving it there.
Biting into an apple, Christine grabs a notepad and starts writing, making a list of her major problems – an old habit dating back to elementary school. Her father encouraged it, helped her think of solutions.
Today's list looked considerably worse than what she used to write in the fifth grade.
1 – The university kicked me out so now what am I going to do
2 – Almost out of pain pills and can't ask Meg to get me more after whats happened last time
3 – My life is a dumpster fire
4 – Seattle isn't home
She doodles some flowers around the top of the pad, regarding her third and fourth entries with particular disdain. Then quickly, she lights a match and burns the entire list in Meg's little incense ramekin. Before, she would have at least attempted to write down some solutions, but she'll do that mentally on her drive to campus.
The drive is fast, Christine still marveling at how green everything is here in Seattle, her white car flying down the grey ribbon of pavement that stretches and curls down through the verdant suburban neighborhoods, finally depositing her back at the university. The air is heavy with moisture as always, but today the sun has made a reappearance from its nearly two week-long absence. Suddenly she longs for the dark and cloudy weather; she'd feel better concealed under her umbrella, but it's Saturday anyway and the campus is dead – there's no one to see her.
The art building is unlocked, the classroom dark as she draws near, her eyes moving warily over the long, deserted corridors. She swipes in with her student ID card, the smell of drying paint and damp canvas hitting her along with the crisp morning air – one of the windows is open to catch the breeze, the window shade knocking dully against the glass from a gust of wind.
Her station is organized, clean and neat with her stack of art history books propping up her drying brushes.
Methodically, she goes through her things one by one, slipping the smaller items into her tote. Pastel pencils made in England, the finest European brushes, and lastly the art history books which she paid the university enough for them to be bound in solid gold covers – all the things she could once afford with her family's money.
Without really meaning to, she perches on the tall artist's chair, her eyes resting on the extensive lawns outside.
Her back feels somewhat better now, the two and a half remaining pills firmly tucked into her wallet next to her driver's license.
Running her hands along the desk, she stands up, bending over with a slight wince to retrieve the tote, and gasps as she straightens again.
"Dr. Hendrick," she says, placing a hand over her heart. "You scared me."
Her art teacher must have slipped in while she was stuck in her reverie. He was in a t-shirt today and shorts, white tennis shoes on his feet and Trader Joe's paper bag in hand. He looked like a total dad, Christine thought with amusement. His long chestnut hair was tousled from the wind and he had a guilty look on his face.
"Sorry, Christine. I just came in to pick up some of the bowls I brought in for cleaning brushes. My wife threatened to kill me if I ever use our personal dish wear for class purposes again. We are having a BBQ later and I thought I better do it on my way home from the store," he explained, setting the paper bag on his desk so he could collect the various bowls sitting around the room and student's stations.
It wasn't so very odd for an art student to come in on the weekend and practice their painting or drawing; Dr. Hendrick made small talk as he moved around the room, Christine leaning comfortably against her desk. Once he got to her station he paused, a line appearing between his dark green eyes.
"Christine, are you okay?"
"Fine," she lied, wiping angrily at the traitorous tear that had started to fall down her cheek. "No, actually – I…" And suddenly the story came pouring out. She kept it basic, bare minimum details. She was in witness protection, now the university was forcing her out after reconsidering her case. By the time she was finished Dr. Hendrick's cheerful facade had crumbled, replaced by a sober contemplative gaze that made Christine want to cry harder.
"That's absurd," he said softly. "Not cool. Christine, you're one of my best students, not just this semester but ever."
She laughed a bit at the 'not cool' – it felt so incongruent coming from her polished, world-renowned art professor.
"I don't know what to do," she admitted, the words making her feel marginally better.
"Let's work something out," he said, resting his chin in his palm. "I can't promise you'll get a bachelor's degree, but I might be able to help you stay in art – if that's what you want."
She quickly agreed and they made their way out of the art building. Dr. Hendrick gave her his personal cell so he could text her once her figured something out. She was actually laughing at one of his funny stories about his five-year old once they were outside – things were looking so much brighter, she actually had hope, he was going to help her figure this out!
"Oof," she said as something collided with her shoulder, followed by a faint hiss.
The blood in veins iced over instantly, the hair on her head standing up as her feet locked into place.
Cedarwood. She could smell cedarwood.
"Stupid human," an unearthly voice growled and her and Dr. Hendrick backed up, him clutching his messenger bag in front of him like a shield.
An arresting-looking Vampira with flame-colored hair regarded them from the sidewalk where she'd bumped into Christine. Her eyes were polished stones, deep and dark as the bay. Her skin was snow flecked lightly in freckles like flakes of burnt gold. She was tall – like all Vampira – and her lithe figure was draped in designer clothes that clung to her thin frame and emphasized the length of her legs and her cinched waist.
She smiled, eyeteeth abnormally sharp against her bloodred lips.
"So sorry," she purred, collecting herself. "We were both lost in thought, I think. Or at least I was. You were having a conversation – I'm sorry if I ruined it." And she smiled again.
The most macabre thing a Vampira can do is smile – as natural born predators it feels anything but friendly. The gleam of their teeth suggests your jugular getting ripped out rather than impending friendship.
"Ah, M-Miss Carlotta," Dr. Hendrick stuttered. "Lovely to see you again."
"Likewise. Your art presentation at the start-of-the-semester gala was the evening's only saving grace. You're a poet with colors. And who is this?"
"A student of mine, Christine Williams."
Christine nodded, doing her best to feign a non-terrified look, wondering when she would ever hear herself introduced as Christine Daaé again.
"You're a lucky girl to have such a great teacher," Carlotta said, keeping her lips firmly closed this time as she continued to smile to Christine's relief; she wasn't sure she could stomach the fangs much longer.
"Carlotta Giovanni's father is one of the university's greatest friends," Dr. Hendrick said quietly.
This time Carlotta laughed, a sharp sound like jagged crystal – broken and splintered. "By that he means by dad dumps more money than anyone else into this university. Which makes me, what –" she said, fixing Dr. Hendrick with another searing glare, "the Primma Donna of the student body?" she laughed again, a joyless sound that made Christine want to cover her ears.
"What year are you?" Christine asked, trying to make small talk.
Carlotta cocked her head. "Junior. You?"
"Sophomore."
"Interesting," Carlotta replied, her voice trailing off as she narrowed her eyes at stiff, pale-looking young woman. "You know," she said, suddenly grabbing Christine's hand and making her flinch. "There are try-outs for singing and theater coming up. You should really think about auditioning." Christine looked helplessly at her teacher. "Hendrick, dear man, you look confused. Don't you know Vampira have ears for this kind of thing? Just from Christine William's speaking voice, I can tell she has a gift."
"I've never sang before," she said before she could stop herself.
Carlotta smiled, this time with fangs.
Stupid! You can't lie to Vampira, in addition to their perfect pitch they also perfect lie detectors.
"Well, you should," she replied after an impossibly long silence, choosing to let the lie slide for some reason. She excused herself after that, leaving Christine and her professor shaken.
"What a strange world we live in now," he said, his face sober instead of jovial now.
"Indeed," Christine said softly. "What a strange world indeed."