Until the Moon Burns

How could someone be so impossibly perfect?
“Phew, it’s pretty hot in here, isn’t it?” Miss Peterson fanned herself with her hand as she walked over to the fan.
Weirdly, it was warm. None of the windows were open and the air conditioning was on, and with the class sitting so closely together in such a small room, I suppose the room heated up quickly.
As she pressed the button, my hair flew everywhere, and any sense of organization or style it had once had was gone.
A sharp pain around my wrist alerted me and I jumped a foot in the air, terrified. I felt like my wrist had been broken, like my hand had been snapped off, crushed under a truck. I would have cried if I could have, but the sheer shock of the harsh pain had made my breath catch in my throat, choking me.
Edward was staring at me furiously, thirst evident in his coal black eyes, and he was ready to kill me. I was ready to die. He was going to take me by the throat, drain me, throw me aside, then kill everyone else in the room. Thank God I hadn’t made any real friends yet-I didn’t want to think about who was going to die, all because of this one slip up.
Bye, Mum. I love you.
Bye, James. We had a good run.
Bye, cruel world.
The pain was now stopping me breathing, the sheer shock of how powerful gripping me, I started to panic, gasping for air. It was exactly the same sensation as when you wind down a window while you were driving very fast-the air just hit you too hard and none went into your lungs.
His face fell, and he released the pressure. I was able to exhale, and I rubbed my sore wrist, to no relief. My wrist was quickly bruising and swelling.
I felt like crying, sobbing, running out, but I was frozen with fear, staring at the bruise forming on my painful, throbbing wrist. It had to be hidden. It wasn’t his fault-it would have been like an addict smelling their drug of choice. I tucked my hand into my sleeve, fighting back tears that burned painfully at my eyes, threatening to ruin my facade and ruin Edward Cullen.
He grabbed his bag, flashing me a horrified look, and ran (at human speed) out of the door, leaving me alone and in agony, clutching my wrist to my chest and blinking back furious hot tears. I knew that if I allowed myself to cry, I wouldn’t be able to stop. I rocked back and forth, cradling my sore wrist and focused on my pen, trying to distract myself (without success) from the immense pain.
I only noticed the end of the lesson as the bell shrieked in my ears and Miss Peterson put two sheets in front of me, grinning like an idiot.
“One for Edward,” she told me, handing me the sheets.
“Great,” I muttered, quickly escaping the room.
I had a plain blue sweatband, I remembered, that would cover up the black and blue bruise forming rapidly in the shape of fingers around my wrist. I snatched up the sheets, barely noticing the equations on them, and hurried to the car park, where I hoped I would see him, about to drive off, or maybe a personalized licence plate.
I realised I had no idea what car he drove.
I figured that, as a vampire, he had had a very long time to accumulate money, and no food, gas, electricity etc. to spend it on. Maybe a Porsche? I’d sure as hell drive a Porsche if I had the money. Or a Lexus.
I stood, checking out every decent car for a while, and then the silver, waxed Volvo 560R I had seen the other day caught my eye-and so did the vampire brooding inside it.
So it was his car.
What, no Aston Martin? No pretentious, show-off ride? I must admit, I was disappointed, though the Volvo was nice, in a kind of everyman’s Ferrari kind of way.