The first time I saw her, she was a seven year old child. A sick, dying seven year old child.
Her mother came outside, screaming in the middle of the crowded street, on July 29th 2003, begging for someone to call an ambulance. Her little girl wasn't waking up. So, being the kid person I am, I took her to one side and asked if I could see her child. "I'm a doctor." I promised her. Well I was. Once upon a time.
She believed me and took me right to the child's room. There were a couple of Bratz dolls strewn over the pink carpet floor, along with a couple of - what were they called, Barbies? - I bet she claimed she was too grown up for. Oh, and the room was pink. A very bright, very loud, very shocking pink.
In the bed lay the child. She was a small thing, with dark circles that stood out on her pale skin resting under her eyes and she was coughing like a madman. Well, that's what I got from a first glance. Then I knew exactly what would do it.
"What's her name?" I asked the mother.
"Sophie," she whispered, as if she didn't want to wake Sophie. I asked her to leave the room, because I could fix Sophie, but I'd need to be alone with her. Understandably she was very wary about that, but a little of what I liked to call reassurance managed to get her to leave. Then I was able to get a proper look at Sophie.
After that, I felt something odd, a sort of connection between myself and her. I knew, oddly enough, that it would last my whole life. Please trust me when I say that I will most likely have a very, very long life.
"Okay, Sophie," I murmured, certain she could hear me, "I'm going to make you much better. Just try and open your mouth if you can okay?" When she couldn't do it, I gently prised it open for her, then bit into my wrist. After squeezing the cut a little to make sure that blood was actually going to come out, I let it drip into her mouth, and she obligingly swallowed. I let more and more trickle out until I was certain that she had drunk enough to be okay without weakening me.
After wiping all traces of blood from the now healed cut on my wrist, and of course her lips, I let her mother come into the bedroom again. I told her Sophie should wake up later on, twenty-four hours at the most. She thanked me and asked my name. "Seamus Hart," I replied, and Sophie's mother took my hand.
"Thank you, Mr. Hart."
Of course, that was seven years ago, and the feeling I get everytime I saw Sophie as she grew up never changed. In fact, I think it has only intensified, now she is a teenage girl.
I promise you though, I am no paedophile, or pedophile - however you want to pronounce it, I am not one - no, I am a vampire.
"Hi Mum, I'm home!" I called, placing my keys in the little bowl she always has left out.
"Hello Sophie." I turned to see Seamus Hart, a family friend since I was about seven. I always thought it was funny how it has never been mentioned to me about how he became a family friend. You know, it was also funny - in an odd kind of funny way - how he seemed to be around a lot more lately. I hoped he wasn't getting any ideas about my mother when my dad had only been dead seven months. Well, his looks never changed. Like always, he was freakishly tall and his brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, his skin was vampire-pale - haha, the thought of him sucking at someone's neck really is hilarious - and his blue eyes were ice cold. Nothing changes there then.
"Oh, hi Seamus. Is Mum in?" Stupid question Sophie, I reminded myself.
"She's in the garden." Of course. Ever since The Crash, Mum spent a lot of time in the garden where we spreaded Dad's ashes after the cremation. Well, he always was a bit of a green-fingers. I think his favourite were - oh what were they called? - zinnias, I think. I prefer roses myself, being the hopeless romantic I am. Just kidding.
I walked past him and opened the kitchen door. I stepped out into the garden, and saw Mum sitting on the bench opposite Dad's favourite place in the garden, the place where he'd planted his favourite flowers, along with a couple of flowers I had planted. Just a few beginner daffodils, mind. "Hi, Mum."
She looked around, her eyes had welled up with tears. "Mum, what's wrong? Did someone say something to make you upset? Was it Seamus?"
"No, no, nothing like that sweetheart. Today was the day I first met your father. Not exactly an anniversary or anything like that, but it's important to me. Sorry if I scared you." I hugged her tightly, hearing about my dad always made me a little clingy. Other times, I normally was not a huggy person, unless of course it was with Mark.
Mark was my boyfriend. He had come over here from America about two years before, and according to him, I was his first friend. Yay me. But of everyone he could have had, he asked me out. Him, with his tan skin and kind of long blonde hair...and those eyes. Those dark, beautiful eyes. Yep, I have to say I was pretty glad when he asked me out. Since then we had been really close, and we had never really argued once. I wondered all the time if this was going to be like Mum and Dad. I hoped so.
Anyway, back to the then and was now. Mum was crying over the fact that this was the anniversary of the date she and my dad had met and fallen in love about twenty-ish years ago, meanwhile I was betting that Seamus fancied her. I mean, why else would he be around here basically every single day?
Yep, my life was definitely one of the crazy ones. Well, that couldn't be helped, could it? So I called Mark and invited him round.
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