ONE: A Nightmare Superimposed on What Should Have Been Daylight

I saw him there after school again on Tuesday. He was older than I, probably almost thirty, and had started waiting at the bus stop the week before. Maybe he had a little brother or a cousin at Sandia High School. Usually I wouldn’t have cared—I wouldn’t even have noticed a lone man across the street. But seriously, this guy looked like a video game character, complete with long flowing hair, black leather trench coat, and excessive use of belts and chains. If I met him alone in a dark alley, I’d run screaming my brains out and wishing I had some damn pepper spray.

I turned away from the game character and saw another guy I’d rather avoid right now: Jack Guinness. At least he was facing the other way, probably trying to find his sister. The path to my car would cross right in front of Jack, so I adjusted it to circle around him. Now was not the time to deal with Mr. It’s-not-that-you-aren’t-nice-Kylara-I-just-think-you’re-a-little-plain.

Plain! Of all things. I had to be the loudest, brashest, most exciting girl he’d ever spoken to. Of course, that didn’t matter, not to a guy who could have replaced Jack Black in Shallow Hal. No. Jack Guinness only cared that my breasts were small and my face was homely. But out of every word he could have chosen, why “plain”? I have magenta hair for fuck’s sake. Yeah, that’s right: magenta. A deep magenta too, none of that neon or cotton candy crap.

He didn’t see me until I’d reached my blue Focus—okay, so maybe my car is a bit plain, but it’s still awesome—and by then Jack could only wave as I opened the door. No chance there for my best friend—make that formerly best friend, currently just a dick—to insult me again.

“Oh, Han,” I asked of my car—yes, I named it Han Solo—“Why are high school boys such assholes?” The car didn’t answer. Not like I expected it to anyway. With an exasperated sigh, I pulled out and headed for home. Which meant spending about twenty minutes stuck in the parking lot before I reached the road. At least I got out eventually. And in just over a year, I’d be out for good and off to college somewhere more awesome than Albuquerque.

I lived far enough from Sandia that I could have taken the interstate, and close enough that I didn’t really need to. Han Solo sent me the psychic car vibes of “Let’s drive with the windows down today, Kylara,” so I rolled ‘em on down and kept to the normal roads.

The wind blowing through my still magnificently magenta hair calmed me down. Jack was just a boy, and a boy with spectacularly terrible taste in girls at that. He’d never brought home a girl who didn’t have a chance of being a model someday. And he’d never stayed with any of them for more than two weeks. As much as he liked them, Jack just didn’t get along with pretty girls. He was a geek, a cute one, but still as geeky as they come. And for whatever reason the beauties he brought home were morons to a one. The smarter pretty girls knew to steer clear.

The current girlfriend was Janice Argyle, bitchy cheerleader extraordinaire. She was blond, beautiful, busty, unusually flexible, ditsy, stupid, slutty, and just plain mean. They had been going out for about three hours now.

I found that one out about two minutes after letting Jack “douchebag” Guinness know that I liked him rather more than friends usually do. He said he didn’t want this to “get in the way of our friendship,” so of course I agreed and silently imagined decapitating him with a katana for the rest of the day. That’s normal, right?

I screamed along to Dragonforce as I drove, wishing all the while that I could rip a certain jerk-off to shreds with just my voice. I may have managed doing it to my throat at least. That’s something, I guess. Lame, and sort of painful if I drink orange juice, but something.

As Han Solo and I approached the Dion’s on Central, I noticed a guy going into the building. After a double-take I realized it was the same man: the one who stood in front of my school looking like he just walked out of Final Fantasy and needed directions to where he could kick Cloud Strife’s ass. I may not have realized it was him, but he turned and looked at me as my car approached. I had to make a right turn into the street right by the Dion’s, so I had a good, long, few seconds too stare at him and wonder how the hell he got there so fast. When I said I spent twenty minutes in the parking lot, that was a blatant exaggeration—it’s called hyperbole. And this guy was a pedestrian using the public transportation system, which, in Albuquerque, sucks ass.

Then I finished the turn onto Elizabeth and he was gone, past, behind me. I forgot him again. Who cares if the guy was creepy as fuck? I had Jack Guinness to be pissed at. Jack Guinness who wouldn’t do more than hang out and watch crappy anime with me because I wasn’t hot enough to have a chance going out with him. No matter than I’m smarter, nicer, geekier, and just plain awesome-er than any girl he’s ever taken to dinner.

When I pulled into my driveway—now violently belting out to Audioslave—I came in too fast, slammed my foot on Han Solo’s brake, jerked forward in my seat, and blamed the whole thing on Jack. Because I could. So shut up. I raked my fingers nervously through my hair and charged into the house.

“Tadaima!” I called. It was Japanese for something not quite “Lucy, I’m home!” The cats were at my ankles in seconds, assuring me that they hadn’t been fed in something between seconds and millennia. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” I told them as I dropped my backpack by the stairs. “Come one,” I called and clicked my tongue. “I know what you want.” Food. What else? I fed the cats, grabbed my backpack, and headed upstairs to the safety of my room.

So of course my mom intercepted me partway there. “Kylara, honey!” She called, but hesitated when she turned onto the stairway and saw me. “Oh, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing, Mom.” And if by “nothing” I meant I wanted the tear out Jack Guinness’ intestines and make him eat them, then, yeah, I was being completely honest.

“Don’t give me that ‘nothing.’ It’s so emo even I can tell. Now what’s wrong, sweety? Did something happen at school?” She moved to hug me on the stairs.

“Now I regret teaching you what ‘emo’ means.” I muttered, but she didn’t respond, so I sighed. “It’s just… I’m not plain, right?”

Mom pulled back and looked me square in the eye. “Kylara, anyone who called you plain was lying, badly.”

I laughed at how completely serious she was, and my mom smiled. She squeezed me and promised to leave me alone so long as I stopped emo-ing all over her house. It wasn’t much, but I felt better. Now I could do without making him eat the intestines. That was gross anyway. I’d just throw them in the garbage after I cut them out as he watched.

I hated homework as much as the next high school junior, but it distracted me from brooding over Jack. By the time I had packed away my trig book and started reading Frankenstein, I had almost put Jack from my mind. At least he wasn’t the first thing that came to mind when the doorbell rang. Not until I heard him talking to my mom from the hall anyway.

A knock sounded from my door. “Ky? It’s Jack, can I come in?”

“I’m gonna go with ‘hell no, go away.’” I rushed over to the door and locked it before he got the bright idea of just barging in anyway.

He started to say something, but my mom’s voice cut through. “I take it you’re the one who upset her?” She sounded angry and accusing. Go Mom.

“Yeah… I, uh…” I liked hearing him off balance. It simulated the feeling of punching him in the face, only less awesome.

“You were just scared and said something really stupid, right, Jack.” I started to feel like she had betrayed me here. Wasn’t she supposed to yell at him? That sounded suspiciously like taking an asshole’s side over her daughter’s.

“Yes, Mrs. Scott.”

“Or maybe we just never realized what a terrible person you were before?” I called through the locked door.

“Oh, please, Kylara,” my mom answered, “If Jack were such a bad guy, I think we’d have noticed some time in the past eleven years.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Scott.”

“But you should know, boy, if you can’t convince my daughter of that, then you still won’t be welcome in our house.” Then she raised her voice, “Now let him in and hear your friend out.”

“No!” Traitor, traitor, traitor! I sat down against the door with my arms wrapped around my knees. Why should I listen to him? He’d already made it clear that I lacked the excitement factor he needed in his life. And I still wanted to hit him. If I let Jack in, I couldn’t assure myself that I wouldn’t at least try to.

Mom let out an exaggerated sigh. “Just wait here, Jack. I’ll get the ice pick.” We had all known for years that shoving a thin, cylindrical object exactly like an ice pick into the hole at the center of all our doorknobs would instantly unlock it, so long as the pick stayed in there. It was fun at first, then annoying, then we all stopped because it got boring and old. At least the front door didn’t have that hole, and it had a deadbolt.

“Fine!” I shouted. Making as much noise as humanly possible—or maybe just a little bit more—I turned the lock and threw open the door.

Jack looked sheepish, clutching a hoard of Pocky and Ramune in his arms. Mom looked smug. I’m sure I looked like a red-faced dragon ready to eat a not-so-unsuspecting boy whose last name was also a brand of beer. Or maybe I looked less vicious than I thought because Jack herded past me into my room while my mom winked knowingly and turned to walk downstairs.

“I brought peace offerings.” He said as I closed the door.

“And?” I imagined his skin peeling off bit by bit. It kept me from kicking him in the balls at least.

“Oh come one, Kylara. I didn’t know what to say!” He threw his arms in the air. “You know I have never dated a girl I actually care about. So why the hell would I do that to you?”

“There’s a fault in your logic, Jack. Most people do date people they care about. That’s kinda the point.” I shoved my finger into his chest and glared with all my might.

“Yeah, sure. And then they have a terrible break up and never speak to each other again. I’d really rather avoid that.” He dropped himself heavily into my computer chair and matched me glare for glare. “I want to stay friends with you. It’s not worth it to risk driving you off Ky.”

“But why not? And why waste your time on all the morons you do bother to go out with?” I heaved myself onto the bed. Jack and I were terrible at arguing; we always made ourselves comfortable.

“I already said I’d rather be friends with you than exes. And I thought it’d be obvious what dumb beautiful chicks are good for.” His eyebrows were still furrowed, but his voice had lightened with honest surprise.

“Apparently not.” I made sure to say it as flatly as I could.

He shrugged. “Sex.”

“Oh.”

Awkward.

“So, uh,” Jack finally said after the pause grew long enough for us to start fidgeting, “I brought this Pocky.”

“Yeah, we should eat that.” I pounced that faster than my cat did the laser pointer. I hadn’t forgiven him. I agreed to eat the Pocky to escape the awkwardness, not to be happy again. I wanted to do something violent. Something more violent than awkward pauses could ever hope for, even in their most awkward of dreams.

We unwrapped the small breadsticks covered in strawberry yumminess and popped the marbles to open the bottles of Japanese soda. He’d brought a mix of original flavor and peach Ramune. I took a peach—probably a bad idea since my favorite flavor would likely sooth me. But, hey, it was delicious! I couldn’t help it. Probably.

“I know I acted like an idiot at school,” Jack started once we had our snacks.

I interrupted with, “If by idiot you mean jerk.” And if by jerk, I meant something with more profanity in it.

“Yeah, that too.” He pulled off his glasses and started cleaning them on his shirt. Whenever he was nervous, Jack cleaned his glasses. I don’t know if it made him feel better or helped him buy time. Most likely both. After the glasses were “cleaned,” he shoved them back on and brushed a few dark curls out of the way. “Your mom was right, you know. It scared me. I want to be friends with you, Kylara. And I want to stay friends with you.”

“Not doing a great job so far.”

“Just shut the fuck up and let me talk, okay! I mean it. You are my best friend Kylara, have been for years. You know that. You may also have noticed that I tend to avoid getting close to most people. And I definitely avoid combining the people I get close to with the people I, uh, get romantic with.”

I wanted to say “Is that what they’re calling it these days?” but decided to hold it back. Too much funny, not enough angry. And he wanted me to “shut the fuck up” anyway.

He must have seen something in my face though. With a sigh and a shake of his head, Jack told me to just spit it out. So I did. We chuckled before remembering we were still fighting, and he continued.

“I wasn’t trying to upset you or be mean. I just wanted to think of something that would make you, uh, not want to go out with me, you know? I thought maybe pointing out that I have a very specific taste—which, yes, you’ve made clear many times is terrible—would help. Then I forgot to think about how best to manage that and a load of shit just sort of fell out of my mouth. Sorry.”

I didn’t like how much I appreciated that last part at all. My indignant rage refused to cooperate with me and keep on flaming. It dimmed down instead. But apologies were for people who were sorry. Forgiveness was for people who deserved it. No way Jack deserved it. No.

And then I did the worst, stupidest, most pathetic thing I could. I tried to hold it back. I tried to beat it into submission and retain my cool. It didn’t work. I cried.

He moved so fast that I didn’t even catch it through my tear-filled eyes. One moment Jack sat in front of me on the computer chair, the next he had his arms around me.

“Don’t cry, Ky. I’m sorry. I…”

All that only made it worse. I liked the way it felt when Jack held me. Liked it a hell of a lot more than I liked the idea of slapping him. This whole thing started because I spent too much time imagining us close like this. Burrying my head into his shoulder wasn’t supposed to help—it should have just made everything worse. But when he stroked my hair softly and whispered what could as easily have been the opening of a book of The Wheel of Time as words of comfort for all I could hear it, I felt better. Of all things, it made me happy.

And why should I be so dependant on a guy anyway? He’d already made me nervous, pissed as fuck, distraught enough to cry, and comforted all in one day. That didn’t seem like the way to go. No way. Maybe I’d be better off just listening to Jack, no matter how stupid he sounded. We made good friends.

He looked hurt, hurt like I felt trying to convince myself it didn’t matter that he’d turned me down. I didn’t know what he was thinking. I wasn’t sure I wanted to. He leaned his forehead against mine.

“Oh, man. I feel like the biggest dick in the world. And I mean seriously, we got some major dickage around here.”

I choked on what could have been another sob, a hiccup, or something like a laugh. He patted my back.

“Still sorry here, just so you know.”

I nodded but couldn’t bring myself to speak.

Jack opened his mouth to say something, but a loud banging on my door interrupted him. “You two still in there?” My dad called in.

“Yes!” Jack answered for me. I don’t think I could have said anything if I wanted to.

“Just need to know if you’ll be here for dinner, Jack. So we get enough food made.” Yeah. I sat in my room sobbing my eyes out, and my dad wanted to ask about dinner. Typical.

Jack looked to me before answering. He waited, and I nodded. I didn’t want him to go just yet. Or maybe I did. Part of me wanted to kick him out the window—who needs doors? But another part just wanted to sit there with him until I was all cried out and the world went back to happy. That last part was bigger.

“Yes. Thank you, Mr. Scott.”

I heard my dad march away from my room.

“He’s never had great timing, eh?” Jack asked. I thought he meant it to cheer me up.

“Canadian now?” I asked around another sob.

“Sure thing, Ky.” He smiled and held me closer.

We sat together long after the tears stopped. I kept my face comfortably buried in his shoulder because I didn’t want him to see that I had calmed down and go all asshole on me again. Neither of us said anything. I couldn’t think of any words that quite fit. I doubted he could either.

Eventually Dad yelled up the stairs that dinner was ready. Pounding footsteps and crashing doors said that my siblings had heard and run down to eat. Slowly, I pulled away from Jack and wiped at my eyes.

“Oh, Ky. You should wash your face. Looks like you’ve either been crying or watching the first six episodes of Dollhouse. Oh, wait, same thing.” He stood with a stiff, sudden motion. “I’ll just let them know you’ll be a minute.” With a short wave he headed off.

I hoped that wasn’t a sign of things to come. From comfortably sitting together to that nervously awkward parting… no, things with Jack did not look good. But even Dollhouse picked up in the second half of season one, right? No, stop that Kylara. TV shows had no real relevance to my relationship with Jack, even if they were created by Joss Whedon.

Rubbing my tired, cried-out eyes, I stumbled to the bathroom. Yikes. I looked worse than Jack had said. Red blotches covered my faces, and my eyes had swollen into puffy little versions of Kirby, if he were creepy as fuck anyway. I scrubbed with cold water as best I could, and had to settle for “good enough.” Not like my family—or my best friend for that matter—hadn’t seen me looking worse. Oh yeah. They’d all seen much worse. So worse I’d rather not even think about it.

They were whispering. That was the first thing I heard as I moved down the stairs. I stopped and tried to listen in, but couldn’t make anything out. When I peaked around the corner, I saw everyone leaning in towards Jack. Ah. Interrogation. Mom probably knew before I did that I liked Jack, so no doubt she wondered when he would be picking me up for our first date. Try never. He still wouldn’t have me. Jack only wanted objects he could use and throw out (just like porn)—probably exactly what those girls wanted him for too.

With a sigh, I turned around the corner to join my family at dinner. Even if Jack Guinness didn’t—

Someone screamed. A woman. I jerked back towards the front door and faintly heard my dad yelling at me to wait. She screamed again, long and desperate. Was something chasing her? The damn peephole was useless, so I threw open the door and looked outside. I couldn’t just leave someone out there in trouble.

Nothing. I didn’t see a thing. No woman. No attacker armed only with evilness and time bombs. Not even a stray dog.

Dad came up behind me, gripping my little brother’s baseball bat. “Anything?” He asked, scanning the quiet street.

“Not that I can see.” I shook my head. “Maybe it was farther away than it sounded.” Though I could have sworn that shit was right outside the door. Where had she gone? Had some terrible murderer chased her away?

“There’s nothing we can do now, Kylara. Come on back inside.” Dad turned away and motioned for me to do the same.

I nodded but leaned out for one last look. Our front door sat forward of the garage, so I leaned around to check our “blind spot,” just in case.

I found her. Right beside us, between Han Solo and the garage door. And she wasn’t alone.

I tried to call to Dad. It didn’t work. My throat closed in on itself, and I couldn’t remember how to make it work. She wasn’t alone. She wasn’t alive either.

But he was.

And I’d seen him before.

At school. One my way home. Here. Now. In front of my house, hiding where no one would see him unless they actually left the doorway. With a woman in his arms. A dead woman. Her throat was slit. Blood fell from the wound, over her floral spring dress, onto the cement. Some of it had splashed my car.

He drank the rest.

His lips pressed hungrily against her seeping throat. As I watched, his tongue darted out to pull more blood to his lips. He gulped it down.

Cold, almost colorless eyes met mine. He smiled.

I managed to scream then, but too late. He already had me. One hand grabbed my arm—it wasn’t warm. Not cold either, just sort of… room temperature. He wrenched me forward into his lukewarm arms beside the bleeding woman. Some part of me knew Jack tried to catch me, that Dad had come back with the bat ready.

No, I told myself. This was impossible. As impossible as every single death I’d imagined for Jack throughout the day. Video game characters didn’t go around coming to life, murdering women in lame dresses, and sucking their blood. And most of all they didn’t come after me.

It had to be some sort of sick joke. Like that show Scare Tactics. Right? Oh God, please someone tell me I’ve just been Punk’d.

The warmth had mostly faded from the dead woman’s flesh, but she was still soft where her arm pressed against my own. My skin crawled. I felt nauseous. The man—the vampire—put his hand to my temple. He drew it back quickly and then slammed it in the spot he had pressed gently before. My vision grew first fuzzy; then a soft blackness seeped in from the edges. Jack’s screams followed me into unconsciousness.