I wake up in my bed. My own bed.
“Mom?” I say. There she is, standing in the doorway. She is abnormally pale. Her cheeks look hollow. Her eyes are no longer a lovely grey shade. In fact, they are like dark holes staring back at me, shining with hunger.
“Mom,” I whimper. She takes a step towards me and makes a distinct sound.
Oh God no, oh God no.
“Mom! Wake up!Wake up,” I shout, without even realizing my desperate pleas. I cower under the covers, tuning out the ravenous growls ringing in my ears by covering them. I feel her hands tug the blanket ungracefully. She only wants to feel my skin. To feed on it.
“Wake up!” I scream. But the shouting is not of my mouth’s making. A wave of relief washes over me. This is a dream.
I wake up again. Eileen is shaking my shoulders, yelling at the top of her lungs. I can’t even comprehend what she’s saying.
“He’s hurt!” she cries. Tears spill from her eyes, tracing down her blotchy cheeks. Finally, I rip off the covers. I don’t say a word. Is Ethan hurt? Anxiety and fear and dread rush through my pain. When I run in and see the crippled man on the couch, a chill runs down my spine.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he moves forward, but quickly falls back, “Damn it, Eileen. Get a grip.” His wife’s wails do not cease.
George smiles weakly. I look around the room. From the blood spilling down George’s leg, to Ethan coldly sitting in the corner. Amy’s slender figure stands over George. But where is Joe? I look back at Ethan. He is wringing his hands and glaring at me. His eyes are filled with something I do not recognize.
“It’s only a scratch,” he breaths. Then he stubbornly moves around on the couch in a fruitless attempt to get comfortable. George winces with each movement.
“Stop moving, Dad,” Ethan barks, holding out his hands. It is what’s on his hand that confirms my suspicions. Blood. Except it’s not a bluish color. It’s bright red. I barely stifle my gasp that is escaping my lips. Ethan’s head jerks towards me.
“I know what you’re thinking, Jocelyn,” he hisses, “He tripped him. In front of a small pack of Turners. To get away.” His breathing is picking up angrily. I hate him, I hate him.
Amy looks at me questionably. Her glare is so full of something, something I can’t put my finger on. At the same time, her eyes are empty. Empty of all tears that could possibly be shed. Empty of all sympathy and compassion. I don’t want to become like this.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Ethan spits, “I..”
But his words are interrupted. George coughs, and blood spills from his mouth and down his chin. Eileen rushes over to her husband. Amy stands her ground. What ever happened to the girl who cried whenever we watched a horror movie? Eileen bawls as she wipes the blood off his chin with her sleeve. For such a rude woman, she really can cry.
“Jocelyn, can I speak with you? Alone?” Ethan asks. His voice is anxious and rushed. My mind is reeling, so I nod and fold my arms. I turn around to mask my uneasiness, and feel a large hand push me into the hallway vehemently.
“In my room,” Ethan growls in my ear. Hesitantly, I walk into the room across from mine. The air suddenly becomes hot when he shuts the door. Everything becomes cloudy. Finally, I face the tall boy behind me. His hair is disheveled, his eyes wild. Yet, he somehow manages to look good.
“Tell me,” he demands.
“Tell you what?”
“That I have nothing to live for. That I am a hideously selfish murderer whom you despise.”
“I am not telling you that.”
His thick eyebrows knit together and he frowns, “But you looked upset.”
“Well I apologize I’m not rejoicing,” I say caustically. Ethan should blow up and scream, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lets out a sigh.
“You are quite difficult,” he says as he pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I know.” He looks up at me and simpers.
“You have green eyes,” he whispers. Once the words slip out, his cheeks burn a scarlet red.
“I-I know. And you have blue ones,” I swallow. This conversation is not getting any less awkward. Ethan’s cheeks burn brighter. He begins to stalk out of the room when he tugs at my wrist. My veins surge. My heart stops. Mywordsgetcaughtinmythroat.
“Jocelyn?” He says softly, still gripping my wrist.
“Yes?” I say, managing to sound like I’m being strangled.
“About last night,” he mumbles, running his thumb over my skin. He bites his chapped lower lip.
Oh God. If I didn’t have any senses, I would jump him. But I have senses, so I restrain myself. I can’t believe he is thinking about that. What do I say? Can this get any more awkward?
“Yeah, that was, er, weird, yeah?” I murmur foolishly. He lets go of my wrist and looks at it.
“I-uh, got some… on your wrist,” he mutters and begins to rub George’s blood from my feverishly-hot skin. At least he is changing the subject. Though, he is still keeping eye contact. I feel a burst of excitement deep inside of me at the sudden touch. I finally look down at my stained wrist and wheeze.
“Are you alright?” he asks, his blue eyes flickering with concern.
“Yeah, I’ll go wash it off,” I utter hastily. He smiles a little, but it looks forced.
“Okay,” he says, “But about last night…” His voice is shaky.
“What?” My stomach drops as he grabs both of my wrists and pulls me toward him. His hot breath fans over my face. His muscular arms wrap around me. Is he doing what I think he’s doing?
No. He isn’t. Ethan lays his chin on my shoulder for a moment and slaps my back. Then he walks out in two long strides.