Under the Moonlight (It's Too Dark to See)

That morning, I was too tired to drag myself out of bed. Rhys couldn’t, either, but because he couldn’t stand without falling, not because he was a lazy-ass like me.

That being said, Mum allowed us to stay home from school and start our weekend by a day. I laid against my Skellington-print sheets, sighing as I let my hair fall messily on the pillow

The previous night was still buzzing in my head. I knew Gavin was the reason Rhys couldn’t stand and why Matt’s jaw had to be wired shut because it was cracked. And I knew he would’ve killed me, had I presented him with the opportunity. I knew I should hate him for what he pulled, but there was this part of me that wanted to give him another shot at redemption; a second chance. The rest of me, though, wanted him dead, staked and mounted on the living room wall, like a trophy.

I couldn’t think straight, so I went where I always did when my mind was clouded: my roof. I stepped beyond the French doors to the balcony and gazed at the tarnished stone, where the stain remained from Matt’s mouth spewing blood on the surface. I shuddered. I hated seeing blood if it wasn’t my own. I closed my eyes and stepped toward the daffodil-covered trellis (how Mum got them to climb is beyond me--she was always coming up with new ways to spruce up flowers) and placed a bare foot on the latticework, then my hands. Next came the other foot, and I climbed up it swiftly, reaching the roof, where I sat and stared over the ranch-like property we owned.

The property was pretty much just a huge field extending about three acres behind our house. It really wasn’t a ranch, because we didn’t have any animals living at the house, unless you count my Pembroke Welsh Corgi--which I named Kessler after the werewolf in An American Werewolf in London--and several sheep that came and went as they pleased, munching on the grass. I don’t complain about the sheep, though, and that’s because they cut my grass so I don’t have to. And that’s what I call a good deal.

I bit at my fake nails--this time they were black with white French-manicure style tips--and wondered aloud, “What’s so great about it here?” What was so great about Wales? And Merthyr Tydfil, for that matter?

My friend Gareth--aka Snoz because his nose is huge--said that Merthyr Tydfil is Welsh for “Major Landfill” and I can see that. The place used to be so pretty back in the coal-mining days, or so my geriatric grandmother says.

The mines have since shut down, and everything’s desolate except for the tourists’ attractions, like Cyfarthfa Castle or the Cefn Coed Viaduct (which I don’t understand. What’s so great about a stupid stone bridge?).

My house could be considered a tourist attraction, but it’s not because it doesn’t have much history to it. Well, scratch the much part. This house has no history whatsoever. Mum just got a wild hair up her ass and decided to have a mansion built on a big plot of land. I don’t think she ever weighed in the fact that tonnes of people stop by everyday just to look at the stupid thing.

I’m sorry, but maybe I’m missing what’s so grand about this place, because I live in it. It’s just another house to me. What’s so special about a solid white marble house with limestone pillars and three stories (not including or counting the attic and basement), two balconies, five bedrooms, parlour, library/study, studio, two spare rooms, and an office? Maybe I’m missing the point.

There is one room that I forgot to mention, however, and that’s a room that no one outside the Lewis hunters (and their partners, obviously) has ever seen in their lifetime. The room holds logs of vampire captures and battles or run-ins with vampires, along with anti-vampire weapons: stakes, garlic cloves, crucifixes, and vials upon vials of holy water. I used to hang out there as a kid, usually by myself. Sometimes, Rhys and Matt would come in and we’d play a game we made up known as “Vampire vs. Hunters,” in which I was always the bloody vampire and never the hunter. Other times, my dad would come in and tell me stories from his logs. He usually twisted the truth, most of the time romanticising vampires.

Why he did that, I’m not a hundred percent sure. Maybe he didn’t want to let a four-year-old in on what was actually going on. Maybe he didn’t want to instill such a hate in the species as he had in himself. And I think that’s the reason Rhys’ hatred for them runs so deeply, because he was told stories of good vampires as a kid, and then a vampire turned around and killed our father. Mum and Dad were both hunters, but Mum gave it up after she got pregnant with Rhys and became a full-time mother.

I think Mum wanted to be a futbol mum. And I think maybe she might be a little disappointed that neither Rhys nor I ever exhibited an interest in futbol, but wanted to be vampire hunters. Every time I tried to learn, though, they kicked me out of the way and told me to go play with my dolls. I would sometimes lock myself up in my room and think about vampires, draw them, write about them. It’s through these methods that I got so screwed up over time. When I became a teenager, I wanted nothing more than to be a vampire or marry a vampire, if only just to piss off Rhys. That’s when my obsession with them started. I wasn’t afraid of them, and I didn’t want them dead. I actually wanted to live among them. However, if I ever let this little fantasy of mine out, Rhys and Mum would probably kill me or, worse yet, have me checked into a mental house.

“Hey, Isola!” a voice rang, snapping me out of my thoughts. I looked down into the yard and saw my buddy Snoz standing in the yard, gazing up at me. I waved slightly at him and smiled.

“Come on up!” I called down, sitting back on the asphalt shingles, bringing my skull pyjama-clad legs up to my chest and rested my chin on them. I laughed as I watched Snoz clumsily falter up the trellis, each cautious step making him all the more clumsy. He was cute, in a way, with a long face and long black hair that lined his pale features to the tip of his chin. He had big, brown eyes that made him look somewhat innocent, and he wore glasses every now and again. He was kinda chubby, too, which made him more adorable and huggable, as though he was a teddy bear. He’s also rather tall, but, as I said, he’s a teddy bear. I sometimes call him the Jolly Green Giant or the Friendly Giant or something that effect.

I suppose Snoz is actually what some would call my soul mate, but the fact is, after being best friends for as long as we have, it would just make things awkward. He’s my biggest fan, always telling me that I look beautiful and have an amazing voice, but I just can’t bring myself to believe him. Sometimes I think he’s just hanging out with me to get in my pants, but Rhys has known him much longer than I have, and he says that that’s just not Snoz. I know it’s not like him to do it--in fact, I think he might even be gay--but I still have my doubts. I’ve had guys do that before, and it’s not fun being played by a scumbag.

So, every time he compliments me, I tell him he’s full of shit. Every fucking time.

Snoz finally emerged onto the roof, somewhat breathless. I suppose I would be, too, had I climbed three stories because my pesky friend didn’t want to come down. But, alas, that’s not me because none of my friends have three-storey mansions. I only have four friends, anyway, and they’re December, Snoz, Jim (who insists I call him Bob), and Jamie. They’re all normal, with the exception of December. She’s a werewolf. And Gavin's sister, as I later found out.

“I heard about what happened last night,” Snoz said as he sat next to me with a small thud. He looked in the same direction I was, probably wondering what I was looking at.

I only nodded. “Yeah. Rhys is traumatised.”

Snoz frowned. “That bad, huh?”

Again, I nodded. “Yeah. You’d have to be there, Gareth,” I said. “Gavin went absolutely ballistic.”

“Gavin!?” he shouted in disbelief. “As in, Gavin Butler?”

“Yup.”

“As in bright blue eyes, dark brown hair, and a real knock-out good-looking guy?”

“The very same.”

Snoz looked at me strangely. “What the bloody hell was he doing here? Does the dumb fucker have a death wish?”

“He’s apparently developed a crush on me,” I said as though it wasn‘t a big deal and switched my gaze from the rising sun to his face. “He says he loves me; that I’m the most gorgeous human he’s ever laid his years-old eyes on.”

“And?”

“I don’t believe a word of it.” I turned my attention back to the sunrise off on the horizon as the sky turned beautiful shades of scarlet, orange, red, and pink.

Now, before I go on, I should probably explain a little more about what I look like than you already know. I’m about 157 centimetres tall, weighing 52 kilograms. My hair is blacker than the night sky, as straight as a ruler, and hangs down to the small of my back. I’ve got bright green eyes that people say are the prettiest colour they’ve ever seen. I’ve got a sort of hourglass frame going on, with a large, full chest and wide hips. Yet, my middle is flat as a board and relatively skinny.

Moving on to body modifications, I’ve stated before that I’ve got around eighteen tattoos and thirty-two individual piercings. I have my Monroe, septum, eyebrow, lip, bellybutton, ears, tongue, and back pierced.

And yes, the back piercing hurt like hell. I don’t wear it all the time, only when I’ve got an open-back shirt on.

The first hole in each ear is gauged to a size 2 barbell, and each hold above that (nine in each, making eighteen) is filled with either a small silver ball, a metal skull, or a platinum ring. I sometimes stick safety pins or staples in there for fun, and to gross out the priss that I sit next to in my Physics class.

My face could set off a metal detector in an airport, I swear. Forget to take out the tongue ring and BAM! the fucker goes off.

My tattoos are set up like this: I’ve got both arms covered in sleeves, as well as my stomach. I have a tattoo in the tramp-stamp location, but I don’t look at it as a tramp-stamp, considering I’ve never done anything. I also have a tattoo of my initials on the side of my neck, and the words “No Apologies” on my left wrist, and “No Regrets” on my right. Put my wrists together, and you get my saying: “No Apologies; No Regrets.” I tend to live by that.

So, that being said, I’ll cut to the chase: I don’t think I’m beautiful, whatsoever. But that doesn’t really stop Gareth from saying it.

I hugged my knees to my chest and yawned. “He’s bullshitting me,” I muttered, playing with my tongue barbell, then my lip ring.

Gareth sighed. “How come you think that? You look just like your Mum!”

I raised a brow. “Ew. Snoz, shut up. That doesn’t make me feel better at all.”
Mum’s pretty to most people. Not to me. Probably because she reminds me of myself, had I kept my chestnut hair and been born with Rhys’ eyes.

“Look at me, Isola,” Snoz said.

I didn’t.

He grabbed my chin and turned my head. “Look at me.”

“What?”

He moved in and, faster than I could react, kissed my lips lightly and gently. He pulled away after just a second.

“Would I lie to you?” he asked. “Would I have just done what I did if I wasn’t telling you the truth?”

I looked at him dumbly. “Uh… Uh… I guess… I guess not.”

Snoz smiled. “Open your eyes, Isola. You’re more beautiful that you’ll ever give yourself credit for. And you need to take advantage of it.” He looked at the sky. “I gotta go; it’s 7:30.”

I nodded. “See ya,” I said. And then he began down the trellis, hopping down the last few “rungs” (as I referred to them as). Within a few minutes, he disappeared down the street.

Later

I was laying on my couch, watching Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey for about the thousandth time on my laptop when an IM popped up from Gavin.

Gavin says:
isola?

I raised my eyebrow. What did he want?

Isola says:
What do you want?

That came off a little ruder than I intended…

Gavin says:
are you okay?

Isola says:
More or less… Why do you care?

Gavin says:
what’s wrong?

Isola says:
My brother is so traumatised he can’t walk--what do you think?

Gavin says:
what happened?

I was about to type back, but stopped. Did I even need to justify this with a response?

Isola says:
You don’t remember? Gavin, that is the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard.

Gavin says:
no, i don’t… enlighten me.

Isola says:
Oh, let’s see… You busted Matt’s jaw last night. Annnnndddd…. You almost killed me. Gee! I wonder why!

Gavin says:
are they alright?

He was being a real idiot, and there was no reason for it. I wasn’t about to let this bastard play the moron in this game.

Isola says:
You know what happened, Gavin. Don’t be a dumbass.

Gavin says:
Factually, no i don’t. which is why i said to enlighten me. what went wrong? did something happen?

Isola says:
No, nothing happened. It’s nothing.

Gavin says:
i don’t believe that.

Isola says:
Who gives a fuck what you believe?

Gavin says:
isola, i know something’s wrong. why won’t you just tell me?

Isola says:
It’s you, Gavin. You busted Matt’s jaw last night, and traumatised my brother. Does this not ring a bell? And don’t tell me it doesn’t, or so help me God, I’ll find where you live and I’ll stake your ass.

Gavin says:
what if i was telling the truth when i said i don’t remember anything of the like?

Isola says:
Like that’s possible.

Gavin says:
it actually is. because that’s exactly what happened.

Isola appears to be offline and will get your messages upon logging back in.

I signed out of MSN and shut the laptop. I couldn’t take that anymore. I made my way upstairs to my room, leaving my laptop on the table and Bill and Ted running. I flopped on my bed and gazed at the ceiling, then out the window. It was already dark outside.

And, wouldn’t you know, up popped Gavin’s head. He tapped on my window, mouthing the words, “Let me in.”

I tried to roll over, but couldn’t. I groaned in frustration and opened up the window, letting him sit on the sill.

“What!?” I snapped, walking across my room to my closet.

“I just want to talk to you, Isola. Is that so bad?”

“Yeah, kinda. What are you even doing here?”

He looked at me. “I… I wanted to see you.”

“Yeah, well, you caused a lot of damage last night, Gav. Do you not know this?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. “I remember it…”

“I knew you were lying to me. You’re a typical vampire!” I accused, walking up to him. I pressed my finger to his chest. “I swear, if this is some stupid game, I’m gonna stake you where you stand and mount you on my wall!”

“Give me a chance to speak, Isola,” he pleaded. “Please?”

“You’ve got two seconds to start, five to finish.”

He sighed.

“One second…”

“Okay, fine. Look, I can’t explain much because I’m not at the liberty to say. But I’ll tell you this much: I need you. I need you to control me.”

“I’m not a dominatrix, Gavin…” I mumbled. “And I’m not gonna stick around because you quote-unquote ‘need’ me. I bet you’re not even keeping me because you want to!”

“No! That’s not it!” he defended. “That’s not it at all, I promise. Look, it’s just the fact that I have commands from a higher authority in vampiric society that say I can’t tell you certain things. I’m not trying to keep them from you, but I have to. And, no, I’m not telling you to stay around because I just need you. I need you because I wanted you.”

I rolled my eyes. “Save it. Okay? Save it. You damn near killed the three of us last night.”

“Three?”

“Rhys. Matt. Me.”

“Oh, God. I hurt you?”

“No, luckily, I’m not a pansy and I bit your arm so hard you bled, recoiled, hissed, and took off.”

He fell silent. “God, Isola. I’m so sorry.”

“Didn’t I just say to save it…?”

“Look. Why don’t you come with me to my house tonight and we’ll talk it over.”

That’s codeword for: come over to my house so we can have make-up sex and forget about it. I already knew the answer to that one, which is precisely what I said.

“No,” I replied. “Listen, Gavin. Vampires and humans aren’t supposed to mix. Date a vampire girl. Leave me out of it. There are plenty, trust me.”

“But I don’t want any of them, Isola! I want you!”

“How can I be sure this whole fiasco won’t happen again, then, huh?” I asked, arms crossed over my chest.

“I promise you, Isola.”

I scoffed. “Promises are meant to be broken, Gavin. Promises mean nothing to me.”

He looked at the floor. “What will it take to convince you?”

I glanced at him. “A lot more than you can ever do or say.”

We stared at each other in silence for quite a while, neither knowing what to say. Gavin opened his mouth to say something multiple times, but apparently thought it might sound stupid and kept quiet.

Good call.

He spoke up finally. “Do you want me to go home?”

I nodded. “Kind of.”

“Can I see you tomorrow?”

“Maybe.”

He nodded, presumably understanding me, and was gone in a plume of smoke.

I shut the windows and laid face-down on my bed again.

Why was this happening? Why couldn’t Gavin be human and not trying to kill everyone for food?

Why couldn’t I be a normal girl?