I decided to revive this story, which I previously left to rot—poor thing.
I made an effort to explain the semivenom thing a little more in this chapter. I also explored Violet's character more, since I pretty much jumped right into things in chapter one. The pace will probably pick up in chapter three. Tell me what you think!
Chapter 2:
Feeling around in my bag for keys, I stand outside the bright, red front door of my house. This is the sixth house I've lived in, excluding the house in Forks where I sometimes live in the summers. Having recovered my keys, I jam the silver house key in the lock and head inside. I take a moment to take off my shoes, which are wet from stepping in puddles, and set my bag down at the foot of the staircase. Moving through the front hall, I pass family pictures hanging from nails: Alice, Jasper, Emmett and Rosalie sitting on the porch in Forks; me as an infant, playing with a rubber duck; my parents in front of an old, red truck before I was born, wearing the kind of smiles that people have when they're truly happy, not just posing for a picture. The dozens of faces smile up at me from beneath shining glass.
At the end of the hallway the kitchen opens up, which becomes the living room to my left. The hardwood floor creaks underfoot as I move to open the refrigerator. There is a lot of fresh fruit inside, but it's not what I'm searching for. I pull out a sealed pitcher. Pulling a thermos out of a cabinet, I begin to pour the thick, crimson liquid in the pitcher. I put the thermos in the microwave, set it for two minutes and return the pitcher to the refrigerator, sealing the lid back up. It's a little saddening how mundane my drinking habits are. I hardly ever hunt fresh blood.
Sighing, I decide to call my mom while I wait for the microwave. I reach for the phone hanging on the kitchen wall and dial the number to her cell phone. She picks up after only one ring.
"Hey Vi, I'm at the grocery" she says, her voice a little muffled by the reception.
"Okay," I answer.
"You sound a little weak. How are you feeling?" I can almost hear her mouth turning down at the corners, forming a frown mothers often get when they're worried. She has good reason to suspect that I would be weak; after my energy reserves of blood are exhausted, my body slowly begins to convert to feeding on my own blood. My body also feeds off of the food I eat for energy, so the process is slow, but it could still be potentially dangerous over time. The feeling is somewhat like the dizziness a human would experience after donating blood.
"A little lightheaded," I admit. I shake my head to ward off the vertigo beginning to settle in. "But hey, do you want to get some late lunch with me?"
"Sure, I can meet you down at the bakery in about twenty minutes."
"Okay, thanks mom. When is dad coming back?" He's visiting in Forks.
"Probably later tonight."
I say goodbye to my mom and go to the microwave to retrieve my thermos. I take one, long gulp from the hot liquid and seal the lid shut. Returning to the front hallway, I ascend the stairs. My bedroom is on the right, and I push the door open to reveal the stark walls of my room. We never really did any painting, because we'd just have to paint it all white again before moving. The most colorful element in my room is the comforter strewn over my queen-sized bed, covered with a red toile design and filled with goose down. The elegant scenes in the fabric had often been inspirations for my artwork.
Plopping down sideways across my blanket, I trace the delicate metalwork of my footboard. Light filters through my sheer curtains as the rain lets up, creating a hazy effect. The blinds are partly drawn, casting lines on the walls and on my body; all of the other shadows in my room are trapped by the makeshift bars.
I still have a while before I have to leave to meet my mother at the bakery, which is only about ten blocks away, a short walk for a semi-vampire. I think I'll lie here a little longer, letting tendrils of sunlight leap through my windowpane to meet my face. The heat feels wonderful against my skin, as if the warmth is emanating from my bones. I can feel myself start to smile.
I open my eyes again and realize that I'm still lightheaded. Forcing myself up with my right arm, I grab my thermos and take another swig. I should probably leave for the bakery if I want to walk at a leisurely, still human-like pace.
Darting back downstairs, I slip my shoes back on, put my cell phone in my pocket, and lock the door as I leave.
I can smell fresh bread from home in the morning, when it's baking. The bakery is a small building that must have been a house at some point. The red siding is old and chipped. There are long, glass windows running along the front now, with large words painted in white promising fresh pastries, sandwiches, and coffee. My mom is sitting at a small round table to my left, in front of the window. She smiles warmly when she sees me and rests her chin on her fist. There are two sandwiches already sitting on the table. I sit and begin to unwrap one of them.
"You might have finished that at home," she says, pointing out the thermos I've just set on the table. I shake my head.
"I was distracted. Besides, I finished most of it on the way here." Humans generally can't detect the scent of blood in the air, and even if they could, they probably wouldn't suspect that's what's in my container. I'm usually careful, though, sticking to drinking blood at home, but I sometimes bring it with me if I'm dizzy and have somewhere to go. I take a bite of my sandwich, letting the taste of sourdough, vegetables, cheese, condiments, and deli meat overlap the taste of reheated blood.
"So, is there something you wanted to talk about? It kind of seemed like you were worried on the phone." My mom has a knack for perception, which is only enhanced by the semivenom.
"Well, yes, it's about this new boy at school," I begin to explain after I've swallowed. My mom raises an eyebrow, still patient but a little surprised by the topic I thought was so urgent. I can practically see the ideas surfacing in her head now. I wave my hands to disperse any ideas she might have about me and a crush.
"It's nothing like that," I say. "It's more that he's…well, he's not a human." I practically whisper the last words of the sentence, but I don't lean in any closer, knowing that she can hear me perfectly over the chatter of a nearby group.
"Another vampire?" she asks, much calmer than I expected. "That's odd. But then, you and I haven't really met that many. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about, assuming that he leads a similar lifestyle to our own." And she was sure of this fact, I know, because a vampire wouldn't bother to go to school with their intended food. I nodded. In the midst of my mother's calm, it suddenly seemed much less important. I looked down at the wood grain in the table for a moment before taking another bite of my sandwich. My mom did the same.
Sometimes on cloudy days, Alice and Esme come to lunch with my mom and me, bypassing the human food, of course. I value the time I spend with them, chatting as girls like to do when they get together. Rosalie usually prefers to stay at home, bypassing the mundane acts humans generally spend so much time on. I have always suspected that she is resentful of my mom, who is able to be a vampire and a human, too. I wonder if Rosalie would have had children if she had stayed human. My mom gets many of the rewards of being a vampire without some of the downfalls. Simply being in the sunlight in a public setting is something I can never do with the rest of my family. My body is very firm and flexible like bamboo, but my skin lacks the diamond-like solidity of a vampire, solidity that means glittering in bright light.
I sip at the last of my blood, rolling the thick liquid with my tongue before swallowing it, savoring it. I wish I could have more than just a half-full thermos, but having any more blood than I need for clarity would slow my aging process to a half-hearted crawl. One day, I suppose I'll switch to mostly blood, catering to my vampire side and allowing it to eclipse my humanity—but I have no intent of stopping at the appearance of sixteen. I want people to take me seriously.
Time passes, the clock on the wall behind me ticking obnoxiously. My mom didn't feel the need to fill space with empty-headed conversation. She could see that I was thinking, and she left me to think freely. I loved that quality about her. I noticed that her sandwich was only a fourth of the way consumed, but she had stopped eating. I threw the last bite of sourdough into my mouth, empty of fillings that had fallen out all over my napkin. I tried to pick up the mélange of veggies to eat them, but most of it fell from the grasp of my fingers half-way to my mouth. I was left with only a scrap of lettuce to show for my efforts.
I tried again, and I could hear my mom snickering at my attempts.
"You ready to go home?" she asked me. I could tell from her voice that she was anxious to get home, to see if my father was there yet.
I smile in response and nod. We head for her sleek, aqua sedan and speed off toward the sanctity of home, the only place where I can be open about myself, who—and what—I am.
