“You’re more broody than usual,” Trystain notes later on, brushing a curtain of hair away from my face. I shrug and angle myself ever so slightly in the other direction.
“It’s that time, isn’t it?” he persists.
“What time?” I ask, though I have an idea of what he means.
“That time of the month.”
“No. And guys shouldn’t know about that anyway.”
“Yes it is, I can tell. And I think they should, since you women can be so difficult and not explain.”
“I’m just moody. Shut up.”
“You don’t have to lie—I can smell the blood.”
I shoot a glare at him and don’t reply.
“I have to admit, it makes it rather difficult to hold back.”
“That sounds perverted.”
“I know it does. I also knew that it would actually make you respond.”
“Go away.”
“You bore me today,” he pouts mockingly. “Why don’t you at least tell me what you’re mulling over?”
“I’m not here to entertain you, Trystain,” I reply sourly.
“That’s what you think. I’ve never stuck around the same human this long.”
“I thought you just liked my blood.”
“I do. You have the same blood type as I did when I was human, so I do.”
I roll my eyes and pull idly at the grass beneath me.
“So what is going through your head?”
“Nothing, I’m just moody.”
“Nobody just gets moody for no reason.”
Self-pity. That’s what it is, ingrate. Self-pity, because you’ve hurt your pride. And even when it isn’t hurt, you find something to hurt it so you can wallow in self-pity again.
I shake my head to avoid having yet another argument with me, myself, and I, forgetting momentarily that there’s someone watching. I glance sideways at Trystain and notice a satisfied smirk.
“Come on. Tell me about it.” He obviously isn’t offering a sympathetic ear; he just wants something to do. Regrettably, I’m so sick of only discussing it with myself that I take what I can get.
Even as I explain the complexities I’ve set in my own way to him, my mind adds more to each one, all self-degrading and bewildering in their logic; and humiliatingly, as they all unfold, I start to cry. Crying in front of the prince of evil and antagonism. I’ve got to be the most idiotic person on the face of the earth. But with even the slightest implication of familiarity and empathy towards my confusion, I break down.
No. I don’t want empathy. I don’t want anyone to truly understand. I want pity. Pity and attention. I want to be the center of the universe, just for a while, just for being me. But doesn’t everyone?
“Isn’t it natural to be selfish?” I continue between sobs. My head is resting on my knees now, the tears dripping onto my legs and into my lap. “Isn’t it just human nature? I feel like I don’t understand any of it…but I also think I feel that way because I understand all of it. Because I understand it, and it’s so overwhelming…it’s scary…because I don’t have a solution for it.”
Those words have a final ring to them; my mind is starting to repeat itself. Within a minute or two, I stop sobbing, but an occasional tear keeps trailing down my cheeks as I wait for the demon beside me to make his offhand remarks.
“You’re an idiot.”
I look up to glare daggers at him, and he lets out a monosyllabic chortle when he sees my expression.
“But you’re a smart idiot.” Another laugh as my face changes to confusion. “Fine, I’ll explain. Everything you said is absolutely right. You can be as selfish and horrible as you want to be, and yeah, that’s human nature. You guys are pretty base beings when it comes down to it,” he adds mockingly. “But the part that makes you stupid is that you’re trying to come up with a solution. But that, too, is human nature. Idiots.”
I roll my eyes.
“So you’re saying there is no solution?” I’ll have to deal with this uncertainty for the rest of my life?
“Exactly.” Trystain stands up and stretches, cracking his back. When he looks back down at me, his hair falls over one eye—the tips are pitch black from when he dyed it, but the rest is reddish blonde—and the visible eye sparkles laughingly. “The key is not to look for a solution. The problem is, you have difficulty simply accepting what goes on around you; you try to do something about it. And then you get mad at yourself and the world because nothing changes. 'Ingrate.’” He flashes his pearly teeth at me in a grin, and my heart skips a beat, despite the sting the name produces.
Stupid vampire novels.
“So, have I solved your problem, or are you going to keep brooding?”
I sigh and wipe away the traces of tears still left on my face.
“Fine, whatever. I’ll stop being boring.”
“Good. Get up and let’s go.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. After listening to you bitch for so long, I just feel like moving around.”
“Well, excuse me,” I reply sarcastically, reaching a hand out for him to pull me up. He eyes me quizzically and then turns on his heel and begins walking away. I let out a small scoff of disbelief and stand up myself.
“Hey, Trystain-butt, wait up!” I yell, running to catch up—he’s unbelievably fast, and already far ahead.
“Thanks for waiting, jerk-face.” I shove him, but he barely stumbles. I try to do it again when he turns around, grinning, but he catches one of my wrists and maneuvers me so that before I know it, I have one arm pinned behind my back and have been pulled backwards against his body. His mouth dips down to my ear.
“Maybe I should have mentioned this earlier, but I charge a counseling fee,” he taunts.
“Like hell you do!” I retort, struggling to get out of his grip.
“Like hell I don’t,” he chuckles, and sinks his fangs into me before I have a chance to brace myself. I hiss in pain and stiffen to keep still. Struggling, I know, only riles him up, and the movement makes the pain worsen as his fangs shift positions in my neck. I have a high threshold for it, but it’s much harder to stop the bleeding if the wounds aren’t neat and clean.
When he finally pulls his fangs from my flesh and untwists my arm, I slump wearily against him.
“Don’t do that again…”
“Not used to losing blood two weeks in a row?”
I reach up to my neck to massage the skin. “Great. Now I need two band-aids. Mom’s gonna freak.”
He laughs quietly to himself, licking traces of my blood from his lips.
