a
Sunrise
Francis used to dread the morning's dawning, when he was younger. He rarely slept; none of his siblings did, and he, unlike the twins, had nothing to occupy or distract himself with throughout the night's long expanse. He would often lie awake, staring up at the ceiling as he listened to the not-so-muffled noises coming from their bedroom down the hall, and he would feel every muscle in his body tense and fail to relax again when the first strains of light began to stream through his window blinds. It always seemed to him that with a new day's arrival, there could only be new problems to contend with, new lies to tell, new people to have to hide himself and the truth of his family, the truth of him, from, and he had had a difficult enough time in the days that came before.
Morning meant beginning the routine all over again, going through the motions of normality, going through the step by step actions of a family as though nothing in their life had changed, as though they themselves were no different than their neighbors or coworkers, their classmates or friends, when they all knew very well that even one misstep they might make would send it all crashing down around them. Morning meant a new day of the pretense, a new day of distancing himself further and further from who he was as well as who he wanted to be, another day to add a layer of confusion to the thick contours already plastered over him so strongly that Francis sometimes felt he could hardly breathe, let alone move. Morning's approach, or even the thought of getting through another day in a state of silence about what mattered most, was something to be hated, even feared.
It had seemed different, after Francis began to grow up, after his first killing and Lenny's release from the box. Lenny was always awake at the crack of dawn, thudding down the hallway noisily to watch cartoons, the TV turned up at a volume he always claimed to be accidental, but that they all knew very well was simply his way of announcing his awakened state, of hoping that someone would come to join him. And more often than not, Francis would. Plodding down the hallway after his brother, drowsy and slow in his movements, he would sit beside him, ruffling his hair, and let the squeaky-voiced cartoon characters usher him and his little brother into the new day.
Usually David would rise soon after, beginning the process of preparing for work with a quick smile and greeting in their direction, and the twins would emerge last of all, arms entwined around each other's waists. Sometimes they slunk straight off into the bathroom together, or right out the door, but sometimes they too stopped in the living room, sprawling out together on the loveseat and teasing Lenny good-naturedly about whatever show happened to be playing. This was all so different from what Francis was accustomed to from before, from David bustling about smiling with manic cheer and cooking burnt breakfasts that none of them could see, simply because it was the normal thing to do. It was different from the twins skulking about getting in everyone's way, poking and prodding nerves just to start the morning off with stress and irritation on everyone else's part, and it was certainly different from Francis sulking alone in silence, hating every moment of the new day. The mornings had become pleasant, almost peaceful, an introduction into a day that may not vary often, but were nevertheless welcome and comfortable.
By the time Riley came to join them, Francis's view of mornings had shifted again; with Riley sharing his bed, Riley lying each night in the circle of his arms, her intoxicating scent inches from his nose, he began to see each morning as more than simply nice or enjoyable, but as his favorite part of the entire day. Waking up with Riley just before sunrise, walking outside wherever they were staying and leaning back against the building or the porch rail with her wrapped in his arms, Francis would watch the first beams of light begin to streak across the sky and feel his heart warm when Riley's face grew soft and dreamy with appreciation, her body relaxing back against him as she tracked the sun's progress in its rise into the sky.
"It's so beautiful, Francis," she would say, her thumb rubbing over the back of his hand, and it seemed to Francis that she was every bit as bright and beautiful as the scene before them, that she made his life seem to match up as well.
Perhaps it was ironic, the vampire and his human girl, starting off each day by enjoying the sunrise. But there were worse things than irony, and Francis had never much minded being a cliché; he certainly didn't mind the occasions when he could go against it.