Of course, after that girl died, my parents were called into the principal's office, their faces painted with shock and disbelief. It wasn’t just the principal who wanted to talk; the court was involved too. Thank goodness my father was wealthy and influential; he had the resources to get me bail and keep me from facing any serious consequences.
Despite his wealth, my parents were horrified. They couldn’t comprehend that their daughter—sweet, innocent me—could do something so unthinkable. They opened my mouth and examined my teeth, gasping when they saw the sharp canines that gleamed in the fluorescent lights of the office. In a panic, my mother accidentally cut her finger on one of my teeth, a deep gash that made her wince.
“Why do you have such sharp teeth?” my father demanded, his voice trembling with confusion and fear. My mother quickly bandaged her finger, but the concern in their eyes remained. They decided to keep the incident a secret, not wanting anyone to know about my... condition. They thought it was for my safety, that the world outside was too dangerous for someone like me.
They started researching, digging into anything they could find about unusual dental structures and abnormalities, hoping to explain my teeth and perhaps find a solution. I could feel their anxiety in the air, a heavy cloud that loomed over our home.
Eventually, my parents enrolled me in another school, imposing strict rules and regulations about my behavior. They didn’t want to leave the city, fearing I would attract attention. I was their daughter, after all, and they needed to protect me, even if I didn’t understand why.
“I won’t do anything bad again,” I assured them, but deep down, I didn’t fully grasp what had happened. I felt stupid for not knowing.
Despite my family’s attempts to shelter me, the world outside loomed ominously. I had a court case hovering over me, and I was no longer addressed as a normal citizen. The government had labeled me a potential threat, which filled me with resentment. I hated that I was seen as a killer.
At school, nobody wanted to talk to me. They were terrified I would lash out again, afraid I would kill someone else. It was a lonely existence. I was friendly and kind, perhaps a desperate attempt to prove that I wasn’t dangerous, but no one seemed to care. I went through classes with empty chairs beside me, feeling the weight of isolation.
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Four years later...
Now I was eight years old, and I had learned to control my anger a little better. I had become aware of my issues, and I knew I needed to manage my feelings. But life at home changed again when my baby sister arrived.
When I first saw her, a bundle of soft, innocent flesh wrapped in pink, I was overwhelmed with joy. She was just a normal human, not like me. I felt a sense of relief wash over me; she wouldn’t be burdened by my family’s fears. I could protect her, shower her with love without worrying that she would be labeled like me.
“She’s perfect,” I whispered to my parents, who smiled down at the little girl.
I took care of her, bathing her and rocking her to sleep, feeling a connection I had never felt before. For a while, I was the center of attention, the beloved older sister who doted on her sibling. But slowly, the joy began to wane as my parents' focus shifted to the new arrival. They were enamored by her tiny fingers and soft coos, and I felt a pang of jealousy I didn’t understand.
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Two years later...
Another baby entered our home—a little brother this time. I didn’t want him. I didn’t love him. He was just another attention-seeker who cried for everything. His wails pierced the air, demanding my parents' attention, and I found myself retreating into the shadows, feeling pushed aside.
“Why does he get all the love?” I wondered, bitterness creeping into my heart. I resented him, but a part of me was also curious. He acted different from other kids. I initially thought he might have some powers like me, but as time passed, it became clear he was just a regular human, crying for milk and cuddles.
As I watched my parents dote on him, I began to question my place in our family. Why was I the only one who wasn’t normal? Why did I have to be the rare one, the oddity among my siblings?
I started to feel isolated, but deep down, I was beginning to understand that I wasn’t truly bad. There were many like me, hiding in the shadows, living under the radar. I had made friends with other vampires, and they shared their stories with me, revealing that there were many who lived in secret, just like I did.
They taught me about our kind—about our strengths, our weaknesses, and the hidden world we belonged to. I realized I wasn’t alone in my existence. I was different, yes, but not isolated.
Still, my friends warned me about the dangers that lurked in the shadows. Vampire hunters roamed the streets, seeking out those who dared to live openly. They were ruthless, armed with knowledge and weapons meant to destroy. I was told I had to be careful, especially since I was powerful—a fact that both excited and terrified me.
“Be vigilant,” they said, their voices low and serious. “You are more than just a vampire; you’re a target.”
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The tension at home escalated, especially with the pressure of my newfound knowledge and the weight of family expectations. My anger issues flared up again. I couldn’t help it; the frustration of being surrounded by normalcy while I felt so different was suffocating.
One day at school, the frustration boiled over during a particularly heated argument with a classmate. It started innocently enough—just a disagreement over a game. But the moment he insulted me, something snapped inside me.
“Shut up!” I yelled, my voice rising in pitch, the fire of rage igniting within me. The other kids watched, their eyes wide, their faces pale.
“What’s wrong with you? You freak!” he spat back, pushing my buttons further.
At that moment, I felt the overwhelming urge to lash out, to show him how powerful I really was. I charged at him, fists clenched, and when he saw the fury in my eyes, he backed away in fear.
“You don’t want to mess with me,” I hissed, my voice low and dangerous. The other students shrank back, whispering among themselves, and I could feel their terror feeding into my anger.
But before I could lose control completely, I took a deep breath and forced myself to calm down. I couldn’t give in to that part of me—not again. The memory of the girl I had bitten haunted me, reminding me of how easily things could spiral out of control.
I stepped back, shaking, trying to regain my composure as I fought against the darkness within me. But it wasn’t easy. The pressure of my family life, the fear of being discovered, and the pain of feeling like an outcast all weighed heavily on my heart.
“Just leave me alone!” I shouted before turning on my heels and storming out of the classroom. I could hear the murmurs behind me, the fear and gossip swirling like a storm.
I found myself wandering the school’s empty hallways, the echoes of my outburst still ringing in my ears. I couldn’t understand why I was like this. Why did anger consume me so?
To be continued...
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Vote or I'll bite you as well!
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