Our Secret Place

When Emily was five years old her grandmother would take her every weekend to a park a few miles away from her house. It was just like any other park except for its seclusion. A place that was once thriving with life, now stood abandoned, empty and a broken shell of what is used to be. Situated between the Stenberg Woods people often drove past it, not once stopping to take the time to appreciate the remnants of the park.

Born with an alcoholic father and crack addicted mother, Ems parents were never a constant in her life. She was practically raised by her grandmother and considered Nana Fille her mother and father. Nana Fille was a retired nurse, therefore taking care of others came naturally to her. She did not despise her daughter for her drug habit, rather pitied her. She had tried several times without fail to get her help but to no avail. Even before Em was born into the world Nana Fille had sternly informed her daughter that she would be fighting for custody of Em and be the one raising her. Her daughter hadn’t even batted an eyelash at the threat and not even a few days after giving birth to one Natasha Emily “Em” Fearson, went out to get her first hit. It didn’t take long for the court to grant permanent custody of Em to her grandmother. Em had the unfortunate pleasure of being born to an alcoholic, deadbeat dad. Em would later find out in her teen years that she was the result of a drunken affair that took place on the streets of Wellington Avenue. A place most educated, sane people would never go to unless they were asking for trouble. Em had visited her parents a few times, but at barely four years of age had point blank stated to her grandmother she wanted nothing to do with them. Nana Fille couldn’t stand to see tears grace her little Em’s face and so with resolute determination she promised herself this wouldn’t happen again. A few months later she packed her and Em’s belongings, drove off and moved two sates away into a little neighborhood in the suburbs’ of Ohio.

Every day without fail, Em and Nana Fille would say a little prayer of thanks and set off to do their daily ritual. From the age of six until the age of fourteen, Em was homeschooled. And she loved it. Her grandmother held so much wisdom and passion in whatever she taught her. She soon learnt that English and Art were her favorite subjects. Nana Fille was pleasantly surprised to have experienced her granddaughter was a gifted artist; dolling out realistic drawings of scenery and people that most adults weren’t capable of creating. She didn’t have a problem with the other subjects. Her grandmother made sure of that. As soon as lunch was over Em would get this sparkle in her eyes and turn to grandmother with a wide, playful smile. Her grandmother would return the smile with one of her own. It was time to go to the park.

Even before Nana Fille could stop the car, Em would unclick her seat belt and bound down the abandoned area of the park. It was her and Nana Fille’s little secret. It was a place built only for them. Nana Fille would wipe down the wet, dingy bench with a cloth and settle down with a book in hand, always keeping an eye out for Em. Em’s squeals of delight would echo around the woods as she flew up and down the swing, legs kicking wildly. Every now and then she’d settle down quietly on the swing and silently watch her Nana in awe. Another routine that Em held dear to her heart was one in which she’d sneak up on her grandmother and throw herself into her arms giggling wildly into her chest.

Nana Fille would in turn laugh, gather Em into her arms rocking her as though she were a baby. She would then whip out the most outrageous, wonderful story to Em’s delight. A look of heavy concentration would etch little Em’s features, all the while her little hand resorting to playing with Nana Fille’s peach scarf.

“Yo Moo!” A high pitched voice broke Em out of her little daydream and into reality. Em sighed, swung her messenger bag over her shoulder and followed her friend out of the train and into the train station to await the next train. Em had grown into a beautiful, strong and brilliant woman. A woman who could dish out insults just as fast as she could take them. Now in her junior year of College, Em was studying to become a nurse like her Nana. She had made this decision lone before entering high school. “I want to be like you Nana Fille!” she would boast prideful. “I want to help people and make them smile. And tell them wild stories”. “You will do all that and more my little one” Nana Fille would respond in return. A few months into her sophomore year of College, Nana Fille passed away peacefully in her sleep. A fate only a few lucky people receive. Em was devastated and nearly dropped out of College, only managing to handle the rest of the year with the help of her best friend Sarah.

Sarah was always involved in everything community oriented and was the first person to break Em out of her quiet shy girl routine in high school. Even now in College, Sarah was a hyper-active student involved in clubs, sports and the Campus Life. Everybody on Campus knew Sarah, but there was only one person Sarah would share her deep, dark secrets to and only one person Sarah would go to for help in anything, her best friend Em.

Sarah parents considered Em their daughter, which fit quiet well seeing as Sarah considered Em her sister. Born with three brothers Sarah was as tomboyish as Em was. And the two connected at their first meeting in high school. Every Thanksgiving Sarah and her family would visit Em and Nana Fille adorning the Fearson’s with a ton of food and gifts. In return, Nana Fille would spoil Sarah and her brothers’ rotten, by baking them a ton of pies, cookies and everything in between. As though reading Em’s mind a small, silly smile graced Sarah’s face. “Remember when Jason ate half of Nana Fille’s Peanut Butter Banana Cream pie” she stated a dreamy look appearing in her eyes. Em burst out laughing as Sarah looked like she was practically drooling. “Yeah, I do.” Then barely above a whisper Em continued, “I was the one that dared him to do it”. Sarah looked over at Em, a look of shock adhering her face, quickly being replaced by a burst of giggles and snorts. “I can’t believe you dared my brother to do that!!”

“Yeah well, the grownups were having all the fun! Besides your brother looked about ready to kill someone” Em stated a look of amusement on her face. She and Sarah sat on the bench in silence waiting for the train. Out of the cornier of her eye Em saw a flash of color. She turned her head to the left and spied an orange colored scarf on the floor. Her heart stopped for a second, and immediately picked up pace as she retreated to pick up the lost scarf. She once again sat next to Sarah and stared at the scarf in silence her fingers absentmindedly stroking the soft fabric. Then as though her grandmother were reassuring her, a whiff of banana wafted through the air. Without looking at her, Sarah leaned over and squeezed Em’s hand, gently stating “See Em. She’s with us and she’s always watching over us”. As the train came to a stop, Sarah and Em gathered their belongings and entered the train. “Thanks” Em whispered to no one in particular. But she swore she heard her grandmother laugh.

Easy Way Out

The veins in my arms have become the curious destination to which my eyes settle on, at least three or four times a day. On my left arm my veins are shaped as two Y's that overlap each other. Y. Ha! (God always did have a sense of humor)

Y. That's a very good question.

Actually the main question is 'What if'?

Would I hesitate to draw the blade across my skin or get it over with in one swift slice. Would I instantly accept the pain, embrace it like it were my lifeline. Funny, seeing as it would end said lifeline. (I'm all types of funny today). Would it take seconds or hours for me to gain the strength to cause such harm to myself in the first place. Would I be a coward and withdraw at the last second.

Y. That's a very good question. The simple answer to that, is that 'it's the easiest way out. A cowards way'.

I always was a coward. Always taking the easier routes in life. Always playing it safe.

Interesting. I'm already talking in the past. As though I've already committed the deed. As though the deed is final and set and there's no going back.

Y. That's a very good question. A question that resonates in my head with a fierce power, more strongly than it did before. Maybe it's the changing of weather. Maybe I'm just having a shitty day. Maybe I'm looking for pity. Maybe I'm tired of facing my non-existent life that drags by so slowly, it makes facing each day harder. It makes me not want to look forward to the same boring, consistent cycle of depression hidden away and camouflaged, through images of television and pointless browsing of the internet.

Maybe I don't NEED a reason to commit such deed. Hell, you don't need a reason to do something. Sometimes you just feel like doing something because...Eh. Who am I kidding?

It's the depression that I've repressed for so long because it's frowned upon in my family. It's the anger that I've hidden so well that has stemmed from years of being used and verbally abused. It's this overwhelming feeling of having little to no control over my life.

So, either I continue to face this difficult path knowing that someday; maybe a week, a month, hell, probably years from now, life will indeed get better.

OR I can bring this all to an end by choosing the easy way out. The Cowards way.

I always was a coward...

Together

I'm sitting here on a bench, in a park. It's almost midnight. There are no kids in sight. No girls swinging on the swings while the wind seeps through their hair. No boys competing with each other to see who is the fastest and strongest to cross the monkey bars.

The see saw is slanted against the mud; the last reminiscence of a child and his father's laughter,
echoing in the breeze.

So, here I sit on this dewy bench. Just me, my notebook and this calm peaceful serenity that
almost brings tears to my eyes. The few remnants of water from the rain is soaking up my jeans.
But I could care less.

Right now I am enjoying the view. The night sky, the stars, the wind in my hair. It's a fucking
cliche. But I am so fucking HAPPY right now. And this overwhelming feeling of awe and safety
ladies and gentleman, I can trace to the figure sprawled a few feet away from me. My best friend, my lover, my soul mate. Lying on the grass, humming a tune I can barely make out. Like there's no care in the world.

We've been through a lot. Fought with each other more than we have loved each other. I've messed up and taken other people's sides over my own love. And still she has stuck by me. That's right she. My lesbian lover. My baby, who chose to FIGHT with me, by me, FOR me. Who refused to give up when I gave into cowardice. Who took my hand and stood by me when I didn't have the courage to face what I was. Who defended me and loved me when I finally awoke to realize and accept what I was..what I am.

As though reading my mind, she turns her head and looks at me and smiles. A smile that assures me that things are gonna get more difficult, before they get easier. But I'm going to get throught
it, we're going to get through it, together.

Ever had so much bad luck your whole life that when everything turns out fine you start panicking? No? Just me then, huh? [Note to self: question marks aren't THAT cool] See, ever since I can recall from my early childhood life has been, to say the word shitty, would be undermining it. Things have never gone the way it was supposed to. I was supposed to be this wonderful gift from God that made their parents proud. The kid that was involved in every extracurricular activity you can name. The kid that raised their hands proudly in class and answered every question without a second thought. The kid that awed other parents and was hated by all the children. Yeah, turns out that child is only found in fictitious books. Although, I have yet to come across such a book. Nope. As it turns out I'm a complete and utter disappointment to my parents. Not just a disappointment, I'd gladly take that title. No. Even worse, I am a mistake. An accident. A curse. A waste of time and space. Moi, negative? Please. This is me being positive. As it turns out I am that kid that stares blankly at the teacher as other students get what's going on within minutes. I'm the kid that lusts after girls with gorgeous, curvaceous bodies that don't look anything close to mine. I am the kid that smiles at every person I pass by no matter how terrible my day has been. I'm the kid that sits around while other people live their life. I watch from the window of my room or the bench in school as children, teenagers, adults run around. Playing, laughing, talking, bitching about what a skank Mary actually is even though she portrays this holier than thou attitude. Ya know, everyday things that normal people do. Socialize. I, like to sit under trees, with a book in my hand and attempt to draw something. Someone. It would help if I could actually sketch something, but life would be too darn easy if you got everything you wanted. No, instead I stare at what is supposed to be the a face of... a girl? Beats me. Could be an alien. So even the one love I have, art, I majorly suck at. Joy! Most people my age have graduated college and have a steady, wonderful job. They have bodies of which twenty year-old somethings are supposed to have. Sexy, toned bodies fit for showing off at the beach. They have parents that are proud. They have people who love them and people that they love. They have friends that are intelligent and encouraging. Some are stupid and fun. But they have friends. I am friends with everybody, yet I do not have friends. Instead, even now in my late twenties I am still in school striving to finish my undergrad because I fucked up and didn't pay attention. Education is everything. I get that now. A few years a little late. Still finishing my undergrad because I was stupid and ignorant in my early childhood years and I didn't pay attention to what I was supposed to do. So here I am, still in college surrounded my..jesus fucking christ...teenagers, that are sadly more mature than me. They already know what they are going to do with their life. I. Still. Don’t. Fuck. *takes long deep breath* So, I decided to change ALL of that this semester. This semester would be better. This semester I would make real friends. I would join clubs. I would strive for all A's. I would make my parents and myself, for a change, proud. Well, I've joined clubs. I've made new friends. I'm doing well in almost ALL my classes. See, I have one of those asshole type teachers that choose their favorites and pick on the rest of the class for the remainder of the semester. Fuck him. I'm better than that. I will NOT let him take me down. Everything else is, dare I say it, perfect. Except for one thing. See all this change I have made doesn't make a bit of difference to my parents. Nope. I am still a disappointment and failure to them. Doesn't matter when I graduate. It's not on time. My father still looks at me with the disgust i have learnt to accept as love. Yes, without this disappointment towards me, he'd stop being my father. He’d be a stranger to me. So I have accepted this look of disgust and disapproval I have come to accept since childhood. I am and will always be a failure in the eyes of my father. But hey, that's his way of telling me 'I love you'. And truthfully, I'd rather have that, than nothing at all.

Surrender

“floating away in a dreamless slumber
her laughter will be the last thing that comforts me
as I drift away from home”

I often dream about how it’s going to take place. Maybe a slip of the foot, and I “accidentally” fall into the pit as the train approaches, unable to stop itself from coming to a halt. What will it take…a second or two for my vertebrae to snap? For my head to whiplash against the windshield as the driver watches in awe...or maybe its horror. I smile briefly at the image of my blood splattering across the walls to the right of the train, and the left side, onto the faces of the shocked onlookers. A passenger on the train opposite me smiles back, misinterpreting my intention. There will definitely be blood. Lots of it. Hmm. Splattered blood. Sounds…artsy. Or how about my elbow accidentally [yes. Accidents do happen a lot. Especially to me, born a klutz.] swiping a glass, at the edge of a counter, while I clean the dishes. When no one is watching I will carefully collect a few sharp pieces. Small enough to hide, but sharp enough to cut through my skin. My wrist. There are a few, veins [that crisscross each other] that protrude above my left arm. Huh. They look like Y’s. weird. There I go again with the “artsy” stuff. Anyways. I’ll probably miss the first time. What with me having the strength of a four year old. Ha! I know. Pathetic. So it might take 2 or 3 tries before the cut is deep enough to break through the skin. A pool will form around me as I slump against the wall of the bathroom, eyes glazed open. A smile on my face. No. The bedroom. My sisters bedroom. The lock on her door actually works. Plus, I can’t help but feel satisfied knowing it's going to be a bitch to get the stain out of the carpet. A few of the creepy crawlies that we can’t see with the naked eye might have the unfortunate destiny of drowning in my blood. At least they get to eat before they drown. [sorry. horrible humor] Then again pills are the safest and fastest way to go. A mix of the wrong drug and...nah. Overdosing. Now that’s the way to go. Marilyn Monroe AND Elvis Presley did it. See, it’s a trend…among cool people. [They always wanted me to be cool.] Sigh. My sister knows me too well. Even as I write this down [while standing on a train and walking across the bridge. That’s skill!] with a smile on my face, she’s very aware that I’m writing about suicide. Ah, my sister. I’ll miss her the most. I’ll be thinking about her a lot, as I go though it. Whether it be a train or a sharp object or pills. She’ll be the last thing on my mind.

“I drift away from home”

Sarah

Vampires. People have always been fascinated with vampires, since their introduction by Bram Stoker in [insert year]. The reason people have been able to connect with vampires is because, unlike other demons, vampires undertake the form of humans. It isn’t until you are faced with one, that you realize what they really are. They’ve been romanticized through the centuries through movies. Well, I can tell you that they’re anything but romantic. They’re animals. Plain and simple. They feed and mate. And mate and feed.

They’re soulless creatures. Creatures that roam the earth waiting for their next fix. Drug addicts. We, humans, are their drugs. Our blood is. We’re just a shell that carry it. Some vampires use up all of us. Everything. But those are drafens. Infected vampires that are very different from the Kravens. The vampires we know. The drafens are so looked down upon that if a Kraven were to come upon one, they would kill it.

You are completely aware once the transformation is complete. Everything around you is different. You can see a fly as clear as day, and that’s without the help of a microscope or magnifying lense. You can smell things you could never smell with the human nose. Your senses become twice as heightened as that of an animal. You crave the dark and loathe the light. Any form of it. Silver becomes your poison. And garlic. It does shit.

There’s a myth that has led people to believe that garlic kills vampires. Well, that’s just it. A myth. It mostly just irritates us because of the smell, and our now intensified sense of smelling. It’s ironic really. I used to be infatuated with them. Vampires. Must have had something to do with Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise playing them. Or maybe it was the sensuality they possessed with their victims, as they drained them dry.

I was only seventeen when I met him. It was love at first sight. At least for me. He carried himself so gracefully, his trench coat always swaying behind him. Like an upside down cloak. He had this intense, broody look in his eyes. His eyes. God. They held so much, yet spilled nothing. Deep brown, soulful eyes. They turned a dark pool of black every time he was angry…or turned on.

Our meeting would go on like this forever. Well, it wasn’t really a meeting. Two or more people have to be involved in a meeting. No. It was more, me stalking and appreciating him from my seat in the club. And he in turn, stalking the object of his desire. A short, blonde, petite girl. It’s always a blonde. Completely oblivious to my infatuation with him.

generation gap

The wind has a nice balance to the hot scorching heat. That way people were not too hot or cold to play about. The laughter seemed to bounce from one person to the other. I sat under the tree, intently observing the others. Kids were waiting in anticipation for the game to begin. The young adults had "abandoned" the others to go swing. Kids are growing way to fast these days. So it would only make sense that as we grow up we tend to grow immature, to make up for the loss of our childhood.

Then again, kids these days are all about excuses.


The elders stood in their own circle joking and discussing about the past. How they used to race up the rooftop of their homes and jump back down, then repeat the process.


This was their childhood.


Walking bare feet for miles, on the stone paved road because they couldn't afford to buy a pair- let alone one-of shoes, and never complaining once about it. Coming back from school, finishing their homework, then waiting anxiously for dinner as thier mom watched all ten of them eat, then eating whatever was left of the meal.


They didn't have televisions or radios. The never talked back to their parents or even looked at them the wrong way. Teachers were their second parents. And they respected them just as much as they respected their parents.


Funny, how things have changed.


Kids these days. *shakes head* It's not enough that they get a car, but it has to be the right kind of car. And the right color too. If their parents don't buy them a $5000 dress or a Wii, their parents hate them. "Kids" these days are that of materialism. They're not loved if their parents don't buy them enough stuff. I should know. I'm one of those materialistic kids. And I, like every other kid, know just how to manipulate my parents to a tee.


And who can blame us.


Nowadays, both parents are working hard for their family, to provide them with the proper life. Which, unfortunately results in them working longer, and not being able to be there for their kids. So the only way they can make it up is through materials. Which is a sad, unfortunate thought.


Whatever happened to the days, when parents scolded their kids and the kids knew with every ounce of their being that their parents loved them to death. What happened to the time when a brother tattled on his sister, yet defended her when required.


It's a huge part of me not wanting to have kids. I have seen the greediness, and selfishness and cunningness of kids these days. And to know that I could have a little version of me running around, carring my traits.


Uh huh! Not happening. Sorry! I'm too selfish and greedy to ever have the patience and dedication my parents had raising me and my sister.


And if my generation is anything like me, I fear to think what the next generation will be like.

bad boys

Why do we always fall for the bad boys? I mean they ignore you. They don't call you back. They could care less about what you say or think. About anything. Uggghhh!! I would kill him in a heartbeat. Only problem is that I'm head over heels in love with the jackass. Eric McKenzee. I think Eric is the perfect name for an asshole. I think it was meant for assholes. And he does his job well. He aces in asseology. There were the few times I came this close to killing him, when I threw a knife at him. Yes, a knife. He didn't hesitate to throw something back at me or even hit me. Makes sense. After all assholes don't have any concern for others, but themselves. The only problem is that after these violent fights take place, it leads to sex. Raw, angry, animalisic sex. And that is the best part of this relationship. The sex. God! I'm turning into him. Figures. After all, hanging around too much with a cocky, self-absorbed person, turns you into one of them. Why do we fall for the bad guys?!

A cup of Josiah

The cool night breeze gently sweeps through my hair curtaining my hair, and for that split second I become that quiet, shy girl I once was. He nudges me from my thoughts, playfully shoving his elbow into my tummy. I look up and smile, assuring him it’s nothing serious.

My whole world changed since I met Josiah.

An art and film major at the University of Champagne. It was his smile and personality that won me over. A medium-built man, with reddish blonde hair, a goatee and the bluest eyes I have ever seen on anyone, he always wore t-shirts that had statements stitched onto them. And he always carried a brown messenger bag, slung across his right shoulder that included everything from his Ipod to his laptop to his favorite book.

I was sulking over something at the library-I can’t recall over what-when he slid over to the seat opposite me, and simply stated “brooding doesn’t suit you”. It was something so unexpected and honest that I couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

He had me smiling and laughing over simple topics that we had to leave the library from repeated complaints of us disturbing the others. We walked to a Starbucks coffee place, not three blocks away. Before I knew it, three hours had passed by. I was pleasantly surprised by my meeting with him, that I took the step of asking him his number.

From then onwards, we would meet at Starbucks once in a while and after coffee and an intent discussion on the subject of the day, we would take a stroll. These strolls started getting longer and lasted trough most of the night.

Josiah became one of my best friends. Every problem I had, I would bitch to him about. He would always listen, never complain and advise me on what to do. He would always be my pretend boyfriend for events that required couples. And we both thoroughly enjoyed secretly playing boyfriend and girlfriend with each other.

One day, I hope we can truly have a relationship. One that will include making decisions as one. One that involves moving in together. One that would involve private picnics and make out sessions. Cuddling up during a movie or just holding hands while we walked.

Until then we have our coffee and our night walks.

Change

Seems like cockiness comes with becoming thinner. Or maybe it’s just confidence. I wouldn’t know. It’s new to me. All my life I’ve been obese. As I gradually loose weight I find myself staring at the mirror and actually liking the way I look. I actually care what I look like or what I wear for the day. A simple task that involves taking the garbage outside now takes fifteen minutes instead of five. My hair has to be the right way. My clothes should look descent. What if my neighbor happens to be standing outside? I wouldn’t want them to think I‘m shabby or don’t take care of myself. I swear it never used to be this way. Even going out to family events, I take the time to wear the right kind of blush, eye shadow and lip gloss. Even my attitude is changing. I’m more positive and enthusiastic about stuff. When people put me down I just shrug it away and go on with my life. If it were said to me in the past, I would have nodded, agreed with the person and done nothing about the situation. People notice it too. Now I get complimented a lot. You look nice. You’re loosing weight. You look different. That’s cause I am different. Weird. I’m turning into the people I hated the most-chirpy, happy skinny people. And you know what, I look forward to it.

Nikki's dream

They danced with fevered passion, oblivious to the danger around them. I could smell their blood from where I stood twenty-three stories above the club. They were young, naïve and careless. And that worked to my benefit. It would make the chase all the more fun. It was their last moment that sent desire coursing through my veins. For in that moment they would understand what was going to take place. That there were other beings on this earth, that were bigger, stronger and smarter than them. When they cover in fear against the corner, that’s when their blood tastes even more sinful. And before they have the time to take it all in I would take them in my arms, like a lover does, and drain them of their life source.

For when one dies, another is born.

I smile in anticipation of the kill. I have targeted my victim, the strong, silent type with more wisdom then people three times his age. Yes. He will make a great partner and lover. But I have to be aware of my surroundings for there are many others that also lurk around, and they will kill their own kinds just to get a taste of the others.

Over the past few months our tiny group of fifteen has expanded to a large forty seven. No doubt, the carelessness and hunger of the younger ones. We were to wait, choose our victims carefully, as I have done mine. The strong ones are good. The silent, innocent ones even better. After the transformation they became much stronger than the strong-willed, bold types.

Brian is his name. I’ve heard the other girls giggle and whisper about him. He walks by unfazed by their girlish laughter and their excessively tanned skin. Some of them look disappointed; others are more turned on by his ignorance. I enter the club; one of the few silhouettes bathed in black. I have become quiet accustomed to the stares of people, men and women alike, and can smell their desire. They often are stunned and drawn to our marblesque forms, and our sharp green eyes; that if caught causes hypnosis and even more deadly, paralysis. Presuming you use that power on them. I should know, for I was once drawn to it too, giving into my fate.

I choose to ignore their stares and instead focus on him.

He turns slowly as though he can sense my desire towards him..and then to my amazement he smiles. From the looks of girls I presume he rarely does. He walks to me with such grace and…predatorness..that I’ve never seen any human own. When he stands inches from my face he towers over me and suddenly, I feel a vulnerability that I haven’t felt since I was human. He smiles, gently-which eases me a bit, then leans down and whispers with the smoothest voice, “meet me outside, away from these slobs”. And with that he leaves, his powerful shoulders striding past the crowd.

I blink my eyes, still stunned as to what happened. I shake of the numbness and descend back to the hunter I was. I walk out of the club and make sure to side step the vomit, no doubt from the excessive drinking of some of these kids. He stands against the brick wall, arms folded, a smirk on his face as he turns his head to acknowledge me. I feel myself getting turned on, and am very confused as to where these feelings have come from. I am the hunter therefore, I should be in charge. Not him.

He is quiet aware as to what I am, for when I come to stand face to face with him, he discards his trench coat on the floor and reveals his smooth, muscular chest to me. “Don’t make it so obvious”, he states with such smoothness. “If we lay on the ground and your lips are on my chest, they may think otherwise.” I look around as though doubting myself for the first time, then turn back to him. The next few hours are a blur.

All I remember is hours and hours of unbridled passion. Our bodies rhythmically moving against each other, animalistic grunts echoing of the empty room, our sweat sleeked bodies fitting perfectly together. There are at least a hundred bite marks and scratches on our bodies. Our relationship is forbidden and it is this very thought that makes me want to fuck him more.

He drains more blood from me than I from him. And the next few days are a mystery to me. Suddenly, I don't just want to drink people's blood, but tear their flesh from their bodies. The moon becomes my teacher and leader and I follow it as the change comes over me. I grow fangs three times the size I bore before, and I find myself easily being able to leap from building to building. The sharp talons on my feet and hands make it all the more easier to climb up walls, sneak up on anyone, and tear my victims apart.

And suddenly he's there. Brian. Chasing me down with a rifle. I race frantically trying to avoid the silver bullets. The game has suddenly changed.

The hunter has become the hunted.

Angel

It happened on February 23rd, 2007 precisely at 7:31 in the evening. I don’t remember getting into the car or driving 2 hours, just to see him.

The oldest son of Mr. Rammstein, owner and creator of Krate Industries, a billion dollar industry he had it all. The ginormous mansion that stretched for miles, and included everything from bowling alleys, to a kitchen the size of three living rooms, to a backyard with an ocean view. Their ocean. Yes, I said backyard with an ocean view, because they could afford to have it that way. A pool that could fit a whole house in it or maybe two, and that was just one pool. Five dogs, three cats, two hamsters that were paid little to no attention at all, and a parrot just cause it was ‘cool’ to have one. Two younger sisters that made Paris and Nikki look modest. Ha. And two brothers, one two years younger to him, the other four years younger. Spoiled would be an understatement to best describe the occupants of this house. Except for him.

He seemed so beyond the money and royal treatment and could care less what the trend of the day was, be it clothes or a nightclub. It was for his modesty that he came to be the outcast of the family. That, and he never really was close to his siblings because of the age gap. As other rich kids do, he had the privilege of going to the best schools in and out of the country. He traveled a lot. Met a lot of famous people. But nothing affected him or touched him more than seeing the sight of the impoverished people in Africa and India.

But it wasn't his modesty that drew me to him. Or his deep, dark brooding eyes. There was just something about him that I couldn't quiet place my finger on. There seem to be this sadness in his eyes. As though he were pleading silently from the world to help him from something he couldn’t escape. It has been 5 years since he last saw his family. That day he walked out of the house and left everything he became a new man, a changed man. If one were to hear the story of Angel Rammstein or come to know of him, their demeanor towards him would take a complete 360.

I first met Angel when I started my new job at Krate Industries as an assistant manager. Yes, thee Krate Industries. It was Angel’s mom that convinced her husband to let their oldest son work there, for she loved him more than she had every loved anything in this world. He was her first born, the light of her eyes. Angel, had hesitated at first to work in the very company that could bring him face to face with his past. But his mom promised him that he could work under his conditions and it would never be known to anyone, that he was the son of Mr. Rammstein. And so it was, that he came to be known as Angel, and only Angel.

the slightest touch

Everybody tells you that your first kiss is the best thing ever. Or that sex is so addictive. I think otherwise. It isn’t the kiss that gets to me, but the time before I know it’s gonna take place. It isn’t the sex that turns me on, but his knowing smile and the glint in his eyes. When our lips slightly graze each other and he pulls back to tease me. When he reaches over and ‘accidently’ brushes his hand over my breast, or down my spine. When he blows slowly behind my ear or strokes the inside of my thigh. That’s when I melt. He makes sure that his hand slightly brushes mine, then turns around and pretends like it was an honest mistake. He loves to see me squirm and is elated when it’s in public. Bastard. He always manages to stand next to me, in a room full of people and I know it’s cause he’s itching to touch me. And that turns me on. He loves to see me shudder with wanting and for some reason I play this game with him again and again. It’s isn’t the act that takes place that gets to me, always the seconds before it takes place. When our bodies are inches from each other and his face tilted towards mine. It’s the slightest touch that gets to me…always.

rain, rain..go away

It's raining again. I run to find shelter before my clothes get completely wet....

I've always loved the rain. The dark atmosphere, the cold air, the bright flash of lightning, the loud booming of thunder. It all appeals to me. Everytime I tell that to Sarah, she stares at me like I have three heads. I cannot explain it to her..or to anyone else for that matter. Ever since I was a child, my mom told me, that at the first sound of thunder kids would run screaming from the room..but me, and my brother George would always race to the window, smiling ear to ear and stare at the dark, gloomy weather in awe. This strange awe for rain and the darkness that came with it, continued as I grew up.

And then I met him. Michael. One of the biggest pain in the asses I have ever had the privledge of meeting..and unfortunately for me..he sits right beside me in english class. I hate him with every ounce of breath I have..except for one thing...it's mostly him that takes whatever little I have.

Okay, so that's horribly cliche..but that's how it is.

I don't know when it started. The teacher, as usual, would read little snippets from one of the books assigned for that day, and later on in the day she'd fire away questions with such enthusiam it made half the class wince. Most of the time it was Michael that answered the questions, with such sarcasm and smugness..most of the awnswers having nothing to do with the book itself..but for some reason, Ms. Mason would just smile, nod her head approvingly and start firing away the next question..and this cycle would start all over again until class ended.

I was the only one in the class that could see through Michael and his so called 'charm'. It was like the whole class was intrigued by what he had to say, boys and girls alike. I swear there was something in the school water..which thankfully I do not drink.

But for all the attention and approval he got from the others, he seemed to completely over look it and instead focus on what I felt or what I thought on the subject. On the second day of class, he turned to me with his blue eyes, curious on what my stand was on the subject we were discussing in class that day. Of course, after I told him my thoughts on the subject he replied back with a smart ass comment that resulted in me looking like an idiot and a fit of giggles and hands, pointing all towards me. From then onwards I didn't tell him how I felt, unless instructed by my teacher and my teacher alone.

But his intrigue with me carried on far beyond the class, and no matter how much I ignored him he managaed to be there, helping me pick up my fallen books, giving me my calculator I accidently left in math class..entering his car, parked, of course, right next to mine.

And for the strangest reason that cannot be explained scientifically, it seems like everytime he's around it always rains..a slight drizzle, a few droplets of water or sometimes a rain shower that will go on for hours. I swear it's like he controls the weather or something. That or God must be having the time of his life watching me squirm over Michael.

Why does he have to steal my weather? My thoughts?

He is always there. If not in the seat next to me, then in my head. Or in my dreams. That's when it got worse. I don't remember how or why he got there. His smile, his eyes..they'd always find a way into my head and leave me feeling breathless..or..ugghh!!

I hate him! His stupid smile. His sharp-piercing blue eyes. His broad shoulders. His strong hands. His god-like, marbelesque body. His smooth, husky voice...

"Hey Gabby" God help me.