He's a vampire. She's not. They're in love. Everyone knows, including the two, but it's an unspoken confession. They've kept it like that for a while now, because nothing good will come of it. Unlike in books and movies, humans can't be turned. To b...
"Ugh," Rosia groans. Unusual pain gripped her from the top of her head to the soles of her feet. She felt so weak, so sick she was ready to collapse all while throwing up.
No. I still need to talk to Valentine. But it was highly unlikely as her symptoms were worsening by the minute. She grips her head trying to stop the spinning. She had no choice but to end the day early. So, she pulls out her phone and texts her dad.
Abbie, I'm not feeling good.
He replied immediately, I'm coming, babygirl.
She shambles to the restroom knowing Valentine will be hunting her down. She heads for the stall meant for the disable. Inside, she plops to the floor placing her polka-dotted bag on her lap. Boy, did she feel terrible. Her head was killing her, so she leans it against the wall the coolness easing the tension. However, her stomach demanded food. Now! She opens her bag and pulls out a honey, rips off the plastic and chomps it up in whole bites swallowing them down without chewing. It wasn't enough. In fact, it did the opposite effect and made her hungrier. She reaches into her bag and pulls out more junk food tearing the plastic with her teeth and stuffing them into her mouth greedily.
Her eyes stung, her face was hot, her breathing became shallow. The memories of his first rejection came pounding on her head followed by his words on the roof.
Arms wrapped around his torso, the sound of his drumming heart in her ears the feel of its pulse against her cheek; warmth radiating off his body; his scent, fresh and calming, how she wanted to envelop herself in it until it was seeped into her pores.
'I don't feel the same.'
'I'd never imagined you could be this stupid as to believe I would ever feel the same.'
'Don't ever tell me that again. Don't ever mentioned it either.'
'I told you before and I'll you again I don't feel the same! I never did and I never will!'
'What's going on? Are your parents alright? Are you alright?'
Tears rebelliously streamed down her cheeks, they felt like acid against her skin and tasted like vinegar in her mouth.
Hurry up and admit you love me, stupid-jerk.
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Fourth period came and there were no presents. Lunch came and he received no text message. Fifth period came, still nothing.
Valentine sat in his science class, gazing at the assignment sheet before him indifferently. His eyes were only half-open as they heavy with sleep; his energy dissipated; his mind empty of thoughts, except for the fog that he refused to lift. He couldn't focus on the lecture; even if he tried, the words would only slip through his head, entering through one ear only to exit out through the other. In fact, for much of the day he's been unresponsive. He can't remember any of the classes. He's not even sure if he attended them. Then, again, he doesn't remember coming to fifth period. So, why is he taking notice now.
He looks at the clock on the wall. Although Rosia didn't leave him a gift in fourth period, there was his car.
She's got something big planned, Valentine concluded.
A strand of hair swipes across his mouth inducing an itch to which he rubs with the back of his hand. However, that triggered an unwelcome memory.
He, immediately, pulls his hand away from his face, but the deed was done and his lips began to tingle from the recollection of the ki-ki- . . . kis . . .
His body flushed furiously at the memory he became beet-red.
"Whoa, Valentine," a fellow classmate remarked. "You look hot."
Someone whistled.
"Not like that!" The woman snapped, blushing herself. "I meant, he looks like he has a fever."
Everyone at their table turns around to examine V, who redden even more.
"Yeah, you're right."
"You okay, Vale? You look like the mascot for Red Lobster."
"If you're sick, then, leave. I can't afford to miss school. I have too many projects to do."
Their pointing and comments eventually involved the professor who, embarrassingly, places the back of his hand against V's forehead.
"You do feel warm. Maybe you should leave early, Valentine."
"Are you sure?"
"If it's true you're sick, I can't let you remain here and contaminate the tools. So, please, do us all a favor and leave."
Well, that's considerate of you. He wanted to say that, but this was a perfect opportunity to clean up whatever mess Rosia left behind before a crowd gathered to record his humiliation. He gathers his belongings and bid adieu. Rather than head for the restroom he breaks all the security cameras in the halls and zooms off for the parking lot his energy returned. He prayed there wasn't a live band singing love songs. He, eventually, arrived to his destination where he learned it was worst than he could possibly imagined. There he found the worst of her gifts and, unfortunately, the largest crowd gathered, excitedly taking numerous photos.
His car was covered entirely in balloons that weaved together to form a rubber crochet that included impressively handmade flowers that mimicked certain species from roses to asters, as well self-inflating butterflies. Floating above the hood of the car for everyone to see were weather balloon-sized, holographic hearts with the words, "I love you, Valentine! I always will!"
Am-bro-siaaaaaaaa!
In an instant, the entire covering exploded with firework pops, and like fireworks they unleashed a display of confetti colors. Under the sunlight, they resembled glitter, but on closer inspection they were hearts and the infamous words, "I love you." And somehow - as if Rosia has telekinesis herself - the confetti swarmed him; they got into his hair, his clothes, his mouth, his eyes, even his nose. He tries to wipe them off of him, but they only sank deeper. In an act of desperate he disappears in a flash not thinking someone could have caught him on their phones.
Blood. He needed blood. Already, his teeth were changing shape - he tried to slow the process by clenching his jaws, but it only succeeded in producing pain. His mouth was parched with thirst, his tongue heavy and rough as sandpaper, and his strength depleting. His senses were on high alert, the scent of blood suffocating him like smoke.
