Fan Fiction ❯ Daughter of Venus - the Vampire Rosaline ❯ Summer night ( Chapter 4 )

4

I, clad in a pair of red, cheap, and tatty pyjamas stood at the bottom of my garden (which was situated upon a hill) and was staring down at the farmer's field below. I liked it up there, all was calm and I could watch the everyday people continuing on with their own everyday lives, I did not have to worry about my own. I could watch the combine harvesters butchering the heads off the ripe, golden wheat or the `pick your owner's who fought wildly in the fields for the ripest strawberry or the freshest sprig of broccoli, yes a most vicious but magical place was the bottom of my garden. I always liked the summer nights the best; it seemed an enchanting place where the faeries could weave their spells across the dark and I willingly succumbed. I used to lean against the gate and gage at what point the day faded into night, I used to think that it would come upon me when I was not looking. The stars would shuffle in whilst I rested my eyes and the sun and moon greeted and passed whilst I turned my back. Sometimes a dog walker would ramble past and issue a friendly "Hello." I would smile or pretend to be doing some weeding so that I would not have to enter into conversation, for if someone caught me I would be given the speech of talking to strangers.

There was something in the air tonight, it had been building up for two weeks until it would finally reach its climax (for me), I just knew that something was going to happen, it had to happen, the mood was far too electric for nothing. Other people had been picking up on it too. The local rag had been publishing articles about strange occurrences in towns surrounding our village.

A girl had been attacked in Dartford Park only for the assailant to be scared off when her rather brawny boy friend showed on the scene with companions. A few minutes later on the other side of the park (at least five miles from the attack) a tramp lay dead outside his residence of a public lavatory. There was nothing for a few days and we thought it had been a singular, savage attack but now all children in the county of Kent were on summer holidays. Parents worried that something would happen to their little cherubs, rightly so. I suppose you could say the nearby town of Dartford is a suburb of London, but as I can remember it is no utopia. Holidays meant that gangs of teenagers; `Pikies', `Skaters', `Goths' and `Trendies' would stand around street corners trying to appear more `cool' than the next. It is in every teenager's makeup to feel rebellion against their elders and so parental protests about staying out late whilst the murderer was not captured lay unheeded by these hormone filled groupies. This was to be to their down fall as three days after the tragedy in the park the attacker once again made his presence known. A gaggle of four girls were falling around each other drunk after being thrown out of the `Bull and Vic' for being under aged. In blurry vision one saw a friend beckoning to her from an ally way. Going to investigate she left the group. Less than a minute later they heard a scream; one girl ran for help and the other two intrepid ladies entered the ally. That is all that was printed, as when the police arrived two of the girls were found dead and the third in a faint (or so it was thought) on the floor. The third girl still has not been revived but instead in dream told her tale - up to the point where she enters the ally-way.

The wind was cold and once again Night had tricked me by entering when I was on another train of thought. I knew I should have been afraid, incidents such as this had been happening every third or fourth night and it was coming up to that time now. Maybe I did not care anymore, maybe I wanted to escape. I had often been told by my drunken father death was the only great escape - if that was so I wanted to be Houdini. I used to ask myself why I wanted to…break free. The answer was so blatantly simple I used to make up a reason that it was some complex hormonal disease that all people got once in their lives. Inside I knew this was not so. Inside I yearned to flee the very same drunken father and village that held me back but I knew I should not leave my mother. She was ill and had just returned home from hospital - there was nothing they could do for her. She only had a few weeks left and then we did not know how many. I knew I should have been with her, every waking moment, just in case that day was her last…but he was there, bottle in hand - I could not bear to watch such a grim scene. I only hoped that she could understand it was better that way, me staying outside…rather than causing turmoil.

Whilst, like all depressed children of the millennium debating the meaning of life and whether boy friends were a beneficial pursuit I saw a young man coming so swerved to leave. It was getting late.

"Excuse me Miss," he called out, "do you mind opening the gate?"

I did not really want to talk so kept my back turned, twisting my head slightly; "This is a private path."

"I see," he looked at me so hungrily I almost felt sorry for him, "could I just check anyway?"

I admired his persistence, "Sure, just don't blame me if you're not surprised."

He grinned as I fiddled with the rusty metal, in the end after a lot of trying the gate opened quite easily, I turned to show him the way calling back to him, "Be sure to shut it afterwards, we don't just want anyone coming in do we?"

I'm sure on a normal day he could have navigated the path to perfection but instead he stumbled and once I had to unhook him from a protruding rose bush. I had excuses for him though; it was getting darker every second and like I said, he looked hungry and so must have been weak.

The garden, a small square of grass that had slowly been built on, flower borders and three green houses stood dilapidated. It had once been the pride of its owners but my mother became ill which in turn made my father to drink. Sometimes I felt like Mary Lennox in the Secret Garden but I knew these flowers cried out to be cared for. It broke my heart to see them in such a state and that like the flowers there was nothing I could do to help.

When we finally reached my house he sighed and moved closer to me.

I turned beaming and said, "You're not from here are you?"

"No," came the reply.

I seated myself on a step that led into my house and patted the area beside me as if to say "sit beside me". He did.

"So what's your name? What're you doing here? And…" I dropped my playful tone, "gosh you look hungry, can I get you something to eat?"

He listed his answers, "Armand, I suppose you could say I'm travelling to discover myself and my ever changing world and…you'll do fine."

"Well it hasn't affected your humour," I obviously had not got the joke, "if you don't mind waiting I'll see what I can find."

"No, I…" he let me rise so I could fiddle in the kitchen. We had had roast chicken the night before to celebrate my mother's return home. She had not eaten much and so there was an ample supply for a sandwich for Armand.

I often wondered why Armand spared me in those first few moments we met. He could have quite easily killed me at the gate but instead humoured me. Maybe it was that; he was going to humour me until I finally tagged on - maybe he got a buzz from terrorising his prey, maybe it did something to the blood.

I have worked out another motive though; maybe, just maybe he felt sorry for me. Whilst he was reading my soul (vampires can do that you know) he found that little area of loneliness inside my heart that he had felt those centuries ago when he was a boy. Having to live with the pain and torment and the loneliness, all those years he had spent alone; I shared that with him. Just thinking about it now I remember how sorry I felt for him, when he did finally tell me. Being alone is the worst thing for a human naturally sociable to endure and still it can happen in this little, crowded world.

There was a third reason, one he told me in heat. I always pray though that it was just the anger talking - you will learn of that final option later. I had to tend to my guest.

"I hope you don't mind chicken!" I called to him from the kitchen, "Of course you don't, everyone loves chicken…okay apart from vegetarians, vegans, people with allergies…well nearly everybody loves chicken."

I placed the plate between us on the step and continued my inquisition, "So what kind of music do you like - do you like the arts?" This was a question I asked anyone I ever met; it was very important I knew what I could talk about without completely boring my counterpart - knowledge of the arts was where I reigned supreme, well in this village anyway.

"You go too quickly!" He laughed, "I don't even know your name."

"Oh," I blushed, of course, "Rosaline."

"That's better…"

I went in for the kill, continuing without a breath, "You'll probably think this is strange but I like classical music especially opera, I love the Romantic period as the songs are so full of emotion closely followed by the violin. With most pop singers I think they sing just for the money and the fame, they lose their love for their music and you can tell - I like a man who can make me cry," I winked at him playfully.

"No I totally agree with you," he said passionately, "never before has `modern' music been so commercialised, yes these singers may have talent but for what? You must understand a song before you can sing it to the full ability of how and why it was written. This isn't just happening in the pop circuit though - never in my life have I seen a world that is so dominated by means of acquiring money. People say that we've bridged the gap between the rich and the poor but…it makes you just want to give up and go home."

"You speak as though you have lived forever!" I said wildly, "But yes I understand! That's why I favour the unknown singers, the foreign writers…those who are only appreciated by the addicted theatre go-er or the person who buys a forgotten recording of a show nobody has even heard of…"

"Fame has not gone to their heads…" he appeared to read my mind.

"They fight to survive in the savage world of show biz but with passion…"

"Which they put into their work…"

"They don't go out buying new fur coats for that premier…"

"Life's hard."

"I hate the film stars," I said bitterly.

"Oh?" he turned to look at me.

"Well, not all of them…just the ones with no talent who were born with a spoon in their mouths and it served to them on a silver platter. They'll never have to suffer, have to live in a place like this…nowhere and become no one! I don't want to be a no one! I was never given a choice…" I stopped embarrassed at my outbreak and turned so that I would not have to look at him.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, "I…didn't mean to sound selfish…"

"Come now," Armand held my hand. I turned to look at him with dilated pupils, the tears welling in my eyes but I knew I was not to cry. He moved the plate to just inside the doorway and shuffled so that he was sitting beside me. I rested my head on his chest as he wrapped his free arm around me. I was cold and I shivered slightly, he was not any warmer. He bent down, his lips now resting on my neck. I felt a tingling radiate all about my body and I sighed, he needed not to have been any warmer. He cooed and gently stroked my hair; no words would have been more comforting.

"Shall I tell you how I knew that you didn't come from here?" I asked excitedly, leaning back into his caress.

I did not wait for a reply, "Because you understand."

"I've done a lot of terrible things and felt a lot of pain myself," he looked down at me. I looked back up at him, for the first time in my life I meant to look a person straight in the eye. I had always been too afraid to at school; the teachers were so stern and disapproving that any unsuccessful attempt would lead to a term of hidden glances. I did not want to risk it.

He lifted his head and stared into the distance. With restraint he said, "I must go now, it has got late and the night is dangerous. I still have to hunt…for a place to stay."

"Oh."

"I won't burden you, you already have too much to deal with," he said gently pushing me off his lap.

I raised my head as he rose from the step and straightened himself before me. He turned and gazed into the darkness with painful eyes striking a mythical pose. He then turned completely as he started for the path back to the field whilst I rose to watch him from the shelter of the doorway. Stopping he waved to me…Armand.

Fear struck me.

"Armand wait!" I screamed as he struggled with the shrubbery.

Thinking he must not have heard me I dashed from the house only to find him footing the dust by the gate.

Standing timidly I asked, "You will be back?"

He looked down at the dirt, "I…I don't think I should."

"Oh…but I get so lonely and…I like talking to you and…we actually have things to talk about and…" I needed not have continued after `lonely'.

He took my hand and said to me solemnly making probably one of the worst promises in his life, "At the same time then."

This time I let him go. I lent on the rusty metal of the gate as I watched him disappear into the darkness. I sighed as the Moon laughed down at me; maybe she too could read my heart. I had never talked to a boy before, my age, by myself, about things. I wondered if all boys were like this; so wonderful and intelligent and gentlemanly and unreal and…maybe it was just that. Maybe it was just some awfully wonderful dream that I would once again wake from only to have to face reality.

"Never ask twice," I told myself. A boy like Armand would not happen everyday for a girl like me…

It had become far too cold and far too dark; I struggled to place my footing as I found my way to what would soon become our grassy stage.

"Ah! Armand," I sighed as I locked the conservatory doors. What a name, oh but for such a special boy. As I remember him, he appeared as though an angel. His cherubim face gave nothing away about his age. His countenance was almost framed by a head of flowing, bronze curls. His skin was pale and smooth like my own but so much more so, with his pouting, peachy lips. His eyes were inset emeralds, which gave him an overall Nordic gaze though his accent was a confusion of Italy, France and predominately and probably most recently American. He was slightly taller than I was and so I guessed that he was in his late teens, just a few years older than myself. His seraphim voice still resounded round my eardrums as I finally took to my bed. Oh but the words it spoke of, they were far too superior for its years.

"My Armand," I gasped exhaustedly as I slide down into the soft cotton folds, "tonight the sheets feel like silk, because of you…I'll see you in my dreams."