Promises and Lies

Chapterete 2

The rumbling approached at speed, and nearly as fast, the old man and I had jumped in the bed. A pair of jeans had been thrown out the window and the man had donned them while I loaded his effects. A Hispanic man and a Caucasian woman, hair shock white with age rode in the cab. All the while there was no talk between any of them. They went about with their business like old friends, no different than picking someone up from their house. Then the road began to sweep by, cool and refreshing, almost as fast as…I wouldn't start thinking like that.

I talked with my strange partner over the roar of the wind, and we made a quick turn-around trip for my bike. If anyone was surprised that I could pick it up and stow it, one handed, they didn't show it. Rust and the wet weather of Washington had destroyed the brakes, not that I used them much anyway. One of the pads had popped and started to grind against the rim, I knew better than to drive it like that, Jacob, the bastard, would be proud.

Despite all my hopes for speed we made Phoenix after nightfall. Still on the outskirts we pulled into a truck stop, seedy bar, gas station and motel. That suited me fine; I needed some time to muster the city itself. Still silent the group parked and made their way into the restaurant. I hesitated, wondering whether to follow them, or unpack the Ducati and get a room at the motel. The old man turned to me and gestured to follow them; and, feeling alone and self-conscious, I complied.

In the darkness of the bar the Three ordered a pitcher of Coors. I tried to get a Dolce de Leche, and upon meeting a blank stare from the waitress, just asked for a milk and a shot of rum.

"Ye ain't human." Loud enough to make me start, the Old man said.

"Um…no."

"Butcha ain't a vampire." The others looked on, content to let the convict interrogate me.

I was shocked and startled, even my grandfather had never come out and said that word. I had never heard a human say it before, other than in movies and TV shows. It took me a bit to answer. To my embarrassment, I saw my shock and dismay written large across the faces of those across from me. When my humiliation hit them the all turned their heads. I couldn't thank them enough for that. That simple kindness made talking easier, and I did my best to tell my story.

I hate telling stories. My superpower allows the listener to pick up on subtleties and nuances that simple words couldn't convey. This meant a story from me was like a radio show combined with a psychic movie. When I was younger my family would all gather around to hear about my day, and for awhile I enjoyed that. Then I got older, and my thoughts and feelings began to get more confusing, and more private. Still my family insisted on hearing about my day, and as my deepest secrets and darkest fears were poured out to them, I began to dread even a simple conversation with them.

They thought it was cute.

I began to realize that what was a terrible ordeal was a joke to them, a way to giggle and smirk about my life.

So I don't talk much anymore.

Now in the darkness of the bar, closeted and confused I began to talk about my life.

I was born into turmoil. Even my birth was an event witch threatened the safety of my family and friends. I was a mistake pure and simple, but this was never something that my family worried about, they saw it as a testiment of their love, both of each other and of me. I believed them then, and still do to a certain extent.

I had a vampire family which loved me, and were-wolf friends who would die for me. The perfect family if it was held together by more than promises and lies. My mother believed in true love, and I grew up with lessons that led back to love at every juncture.

I finished my drink, and sat for a second thinking. At this point the only way out of the story was through, so I pressed on.

"How old do you think I am?" I asked

The question was greeted with a sucking silence. Apparently age was off limits here

"I'm 13," I answered myself.

My mother was human when I was conceived, I don't know much about my birth, only that she was a vampire shortly after I was born. I don't really know what I am, but I age differently than humans. I'm not as strong, not as fast, my senses aren't as good and one day I will die. I've spent my life around a family that was simply better than I could ever be.

I don't know how old I look, I've been told anywhere from 18 to 26, but I only have thirteen years of thoughts and experiences.

I gave a hollow laugh then and added, "Puberty was a hell. My aging slowed around physical age eight, but I still went faster then normal. I went through all the changes in three years."

My vampire family was adventurous in the country; I spent most of my time outdoors, learning to hunt. My constant companion from the day of my birth was Jacob, the bastard. He was my baby-sitter, my teacher and my friend. Jacob, the bastard, was a were-wolf, strongly tied to his pack, so I grew up in a close family environment.

I stopped talking to order another drink. If I explained more I'd have to get more personal. I wanted to talk, it felt good, explaining was helping me to take stock of my life. But I was putting things into perspective, and the picture hurt. I couldn't continue. The mood at the table was subdued; I could see these people understood more than I wanted to and it made me angry.

"I don't even know your names" I muttered. I never was good at aggression. My family and friends were nearly invincible, and had no problem with violence. On top of that my father and Jacob had started their relationships at each others throats, and as time went on it got worse. My mother played mediator on a daily basis, and I picked up the behavior at an early age. Angry people frighten me, and my own anger is terrifying. How can I be safe from the feelings I fear when they come from inside of me.

"Peter, Peter Carpenter." This from the old man.

"Jesua." He pronounced it Heshua, and I almost giggled. I was near hysteria, and the table was beginning to feel it. I only made me more ashamed.

"Maude." Said Maude, and that was it for introductions.

The table fell silent then, and I began to regain some control.

Somehow we made it through the next two hours without any meaningful discussion. I can only remember that nothing important or revealing was ever said, but that conversation was both pleasant and colloquial. But as the night went on, and I continued to imbibe, I began to feel less and less comfortable with my unfinished story.

Alcohol tends to have a debilitating effect on the super-sense. It has a debilitating effect on any sense really, but the psychic results are more unpredictable and unstable. Fortunately for me this usually manifests as decreased impact of my broadcasts. I have less control over them, but as long as I'm telling the room about pink elephants, and not my period cramps I'm happy.

At one point a hush fell on the table, and as the three turned to me I picked up my story without faltering.

Jacob adored me, he believed in destiny and romance as well and I started to apply all my mothers' lessons of love to him.

He was my first, and I did it because I thought I loved him, I thought he loved me, and I thought it was the right thing to do. On top of that, I was 13 (developmentally) and puberty had hit me like a brick wall. I spent my time avoiding my parents, which meant that I was outside a lot. Vampire hearing is excellent, my father is much more psychic than is good for the people around him, and my broadcasts all made for a tense home situation. My confusion, anger, self esteem worries, and secret teen-aged shames couldn't be kept private when under the same roof. I spent my time out of doors, and away from my family. Jacob, the bastard, was always there for me, his own history with my parents, encouraged my own feelings of isolation, and I began to worry that my life with them was unsustainable.

I fed these feelings in the way most teenagers do, excess. My sexual relationship with Jacob, the bastard, became torrid and frantic. I drank to excess, which is practically a sport in La Push, and I experimented with self-mutilation.

By this time we had moved outside. I stopped the story as we ordered rooms, Peter, Jesua, and Maude in one room, me in another. Drunk as I was I couldn't help wondering if they all slept together. My god damned super-liability kicked in, and I turned around quickly, my face flaming hot, praying not to see their expressions.

When I turned back I saw no sign that any of them had heard me, and we made our way to our rooms in blessed silence.

The reaction or lack of reaction to my broadcast was one of the kindest things that any normal human had ever done for me. The neutrality was so breathtakingly unexpected that I nearly broke down, when I was alone. After I arranged what little I had with me, I opened the door between the rooms (theirs was already open, waiting for me) and continued.