IHasCupQuake Is A Vampire?

Chapter 8

I decide to light the house on fire, by lighting a match and dropping it on the floor, and as it ignites with the carpet, I quickly speed out before I can even smell the slightest of smoke. I swiftly get in the car, turn the key in the ignition, press my foot on the gas pedal, and drive away.

When I get home, Mario looks worried.

"Oh, good, you're home." He wipes his forehead. "I've been calling you five times."

"What happened?" I ask.

"Kat is out of her medicine, and she keeps . . ." A scream interupts him. "yelling and stuff. So I need to go and pick up some more, but I can't leave her alone."

"I'll watch her." I step inside, and Mario steps out, with his car keys, and gets in the car, waving to me quickly, then the car rushes off at the speed limit. I close the door, and look around for Kat.

"Kat?" I yell throughout the house.

"L . . . Living rooM." She shakily screams, and I quickly walk into there. Kat is on the couch, her hands over her ears.

"Wh . . . where's Mario?" She asks.

"He's out getting your medicine, don't worry." I sit next to her, and rub her back. Should I rub her back? It's not like she needs a straightjacket, but then again I have no idea about this except that she hears voices.

So I just keep rubbing her back. It can't do any harm, anyways.

"T . . . Tiffany?" Kat asks timidly, after a few minutes.

"Yes?" I answer.

"The voices . . . they told me," Her voice turns from low to a whisper. "They told me I can't trust you. They told me that you're dangerous."

"That's strange, I don't think I'm that dangerous. But I'm trustworthy. Don't worry, the voices are just in your head." I stop rubbing her back. "Are the voices still there?"

"No, they faded away." She shakes her head. "And they told me I should open the hatbox."

Kat looks at me with wide eyes. "Do you think I should?"

"If you want to." I put my hand on her shoulder. "Do you want me to be there with you?"

"No, I want to be alone." She shakes her head.

"Okay, we should wait until Mario gets home, though. He'll insist you take your medicine even though the voices are gone."

"Alright."

At that chosen moment, Mario appears through the door.

"They gave the medicine to me as a nasal spray form, but it should still work." Mario takes out the prescription from the plastic bag, and goes to Kat. "Hold still."

The nasal spray makes a little woosh sound, and I can tell it feels weird to Kat. After a few seconds, she sneezes.

"aaaaahhhhhhhhhhCHOOOO!!!!" She sneezes, then she sniffles. "Ugh, now my nostrils itch."

Mario looks at the side effects on the spray bottle. "Itchiness inside nasal and mouth area, yep, that's a side effect, but it shouldn't last long." He squints as he reads something else on the label. "Administer weekly or whenever mentally disturbed person starts to go crazy . . . wow, Vacinez is racist."

"I'm going upstairs." Kat runs to the stairs, clomping her feet on them.

Katherine's POV

I run up the stairs. Boy, Vacinez makes you feel light-headed. When I reach my door, I throw it open and shuffle around under my bed. Junk, junk. Wow, this stuff accumulated fast.

Yes! The hatbox! Success! More exclamation marks!

"Lets see what you hold, hatbox." I take a deep breath, lifting the heavy hatbox and carefully sitting on my bed, I place my hands on the box, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. "This is it."

My fingers clasp around the edges of the top, and slowly, I pull it up, and with a small satisfying POP! from years of being closed (and I suspect also lightly glued).

I open my eyes, and smelling the musty old smell, I carefully pick up a photo. On it is a beautiful woman with red curly hair and blue eyes and freckles, about twenty, standing with a young man with spiky brown hair, gray eyes, and tough-looking tattoos standing on well-muscled pale skin. They look . . . familiar.

The man is wearing a t-shirt advertising an old late-nineties band and freshly washed jeans. The woman has a blue floral print dress and sunglasses on, and her and the man are standing against a fence of metal rails, smiling and looking happy against the background of a blue ocean or river.

The photo is one of many in a thick pile, fastened together with a rubber band. Carefully I lift the rubber band off, and cautiously take off the top picture and go to the next one. A picture of an ultrasound.

That has to be me. I think.

There's another picture of an ultrasound, and another, until I look so big I'm ready to pop out. After that, there's a picture of the man and woman again, but this time the woman has a small bump and wearing a lilac shirt. She looks healthy and smiling.

The next picture has her trying to smile, but she looks worn out and tired. She hasn't showered in days, her red hair is dull and volume-less, and she's standing next to a tape recorder. Her belly (AKA me) has gotten bigger.

The picture after that is her, with her sitting on an old, patchy burgundy couch. Her hair is tousled, and she isn't smiling. She looks even more tired and worn out, and her stomach is as big and round as the moon. In her hands is a tape recorder, and she's talking into it.

The next picture is her in the same clothes, same scene, as her eyes flare red and throwing down the tape recorder, in the blurry picture, she's attacking the cameraman, who I'm guessing is my dad, who accidentally pressed the camera button again.

The next picture is a tiny baby with red fuzz on her head, with her tiny little fingers curled up and her eyes shut, wrapped up in a little blanket.

It's me.

I stare at the picture in amazement, and that's the end of the pile. I reach into the hatbox, and pull out a stack of large pictures of a wedding, my parents in fancy wedding attire. My mom or dad must've been rich.

I flip through the pictures, looking at her dress, a creamy white mermaid tail with delicate lace and pearls. The woman has a slight bump, but not too noticable.

There's a few tapes and an envelope in the hatbox also, but I decide to leave those for later.

They can wait." A voice whispers in my ear, sounding eerily familiar. I put the pictures back in the box, and then I hear Tiffany shout "Kat! It's time for dinner!"

"Already?" I mutter, as I look at the clock on my bedside table. It's been two hours since I came upstairs!