Waiting For Sunrise

Irene barely made it to the bus stop in time. With her thoughts full of the unusual morning she had, the ride to school seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. Irene heaved her bag over her shoulder and headed across the school yard. At the entrance to the school grounds, she heard her name being called. Irene twirled around, until she saw an awkward teen with a shock of thick curls growing in just about every direction but down. Pale golden streaks ran amidst the auburn hair, creating eye-popping contrast. Irene met her blue-grey eyes with a reluctant, mild smile.

"Irene, I didn't see you at the tennis court! What's up, girl?" the redhead asked, her rosy cheeks lighting up, almost hiding the freckles that dappled her face. The way she raised her eyebrows suggested to Irene that she already had her answer.

"Something came up..." Irene muttered, looking towards the school doors. Students lined the paved walkway up to them, while more congregated on the lawn. The familiarity of it gave Irene the space to process and unwind.

"Oh, right, something came up." There was a superfluity of sarcasm in Merle's voice that put Irene on edge. "Would that something involve a certain injured fella?"

Irene froze at the mention of an injured man. How did she...? Oh wait.

A waggle of unkempt eyebrows brought Irene back to reality. Merle couldn't possibly know about the morning. "Of course not. Would you stop looking at me like that?" The eyebrow wags became even more pronounced. Irene sighed and shook her head, familiar with Merle's exaggerated theatrics. Irene often blamed it on Merle's obsession with cartoons, but she suspected it was more than that.

"Oh come on, Irene, I saw that deer-in-headlights look! You totally ditched practice to go see Jordan. Not that I blame you," Merle chirped playfully. Irene relaxed a little and gave a small amused snort. "The fair maiden tending to her injured knight!" Merle butchered a British accent. Which British accent was anyone's guess. Some of the students passing by rolled their eyes at Merle then giggled to each other, but Merle seemed unaware.

"Shouldn't the bell be ringing soon?" Irene looked down at her wristwatch. She suddenly jolted and quickly yanked her sleeves over the band before looking away, hoping that Merle didn’t notice. ”A-Anyways! I just got off to a bad start. My morning jog took a lot out of me.” Irene discreetly tried to scratch the residual dried blood off her watch with her fingernails.

"Heh heh, Irene! Maybe your body is finally catching up with your brain, and you're turning into a granny to match your dear old soul," Merle teased gleefully, mimicking a weathered old lady voice.

"Well they say mind and body are one. You are evidence of that," Irene countered, still distracted by her watch.

"Wha- hey! What's that supposed to mean?" Merle sputtered, her hands going to her waist akimbo.

"Childish body; childish mind."

Merle's face flushed and she crossed her arms over her chest, exhibiting every token of embarrassment and insecurity. "That was real low, Irene!"

Irene cringed at her own cattiness. "Sorry. I... I'm sorry." Irene stammered.

"You better be!" Merle groused, arms still held tightly over herself as she turned away.

Irene looked pleadingly towards the school for the bell to ring. Intense palpitations hammered the shame she was feeling for her blunder. Merle was severely delayed in physical development. As a friend, Irene knew better than to poke fun about it.

As if in answer from a kind entity, the school bell rang. Merle jumped to attention and loped off towards the portables. Irene exhaled out the tension and gratefully hurried into the school lobby.

Irene struggled to push the early morning events out of her mind and concentrate. Although retrieving the three points of intersection on the parabola was usually an easy task, she stared at the graph blankly.

What will happen when I go home? Irene stared blankly at her graphing calculator. I can't do anything about it now. Worrying solves nothing. Right now I need to solve this math problem. Focus! Instead of focusing, Irene doodled spirals along the margin of her notepaper as a reflection of her whirling thoughts.

"Did you forget which class you are in, Irene? Because this isn't art."

Irene sat bolt upright, startled by the voice that crashed through her thoughts. She didn't need to look up to see her math teacher looming. Irene set her pencil down and shook her head. "Sorry," she muttered, not looking up to shield her embarrassment.

"Don't say sorry - show me by getting back to work."

Embarrassment turned to vexation as Irene heard a snicker from behind her. She was certain her classmate was laughing at her, but she was too proud to look over her shoulder and show that she was affected at all. Irene quickly began plunking numbers into her graphic calculator, trying to at least appear busy. This seemed to mollify her teacher who continued his patrol of the classroom. Irene sighed as she tried to redouble her efforts to concentrate.

"Aw, did the teacher's pet get a scolding?" goaded another one of her peers. Irene was not going to engage. After a few more remarks behind her back, her peers grew bored, as they always did, and found something else to whisper about as soon as the teacher wasn't in ear shot.

Lunch time rolled around.

Irene forgot to pack a lunch that morning in all the commotion, which made the break seem to stretch on. She passed the time reading in the library, although with some difficulty. She occasionally glanced out the window into the school yard, where some students were in the middle of a pickup game of kickball. She wanted to be out there, running and using her body instead of her brain, but her stomach chastised her with a stern reminder that she had not eaten all day.

By the time lunch had ended Irene's mind had gradually drifted away from Cyrus and flowed into classic literature. Focusing on the fictional woes of Shakespeare's tragic heroes, if one could call any of them heroes, helped her to temporarily misplace her own worries. However, the last bell of the day echoed a stern reminder that life had yet another complication to offer her.

"Irene! Hey!" came Merle's bubbly voice from behind. Irene reluctantly turned around, daunted by the thought of dealing with her friend's temper. Merle marched over and slung her mottled arm around Irene's shoulders.

"Merle," Irene stiffened up, anticipating an ambush.

A trickle of laughter cascaded from her fellow teen. "Irene, you're always so serious! Come on, let's go!"

Irene did not budge, flabbergasted. "Go... where?" Despite the relief that rolled in like a wave on the beach, it receded just as quickly. What did I forget?

"Movie night! Movie night! Remember?" Merle bounced around excitedly, clearly having been expecting it for a while.

Irene's insides flopped like a beached fish. Dismally, the recollection that she had promised Merle a movie night materialised. But she couldn't stop herself from worrying about the man in her house.

What if he dies and I get blamed? I need to know he's alright. Was it really okay to leave him?

Irene eyed Merle. If she told her friend the truth, Merle would invite herself over to see for herself, which opened up a whole other host of problems. Merle was excitable and impulsive, and this was a situation that required calm and careful consideration. This meant she'd have to go back on her word, and Irene took her word very seriously.

"Sorry Merle, but I have to go straight home."

Merle's happy face transformed into a pout. Irene braced herself for Merle going off like a firecracker. "But you promised!"

"Movie night can wait," Irene replied assertively. Any gentleness Irene may have once used in disappointing Merle had long been strangled out by desensitization to Merle's extreme moods.

"Oh, don't tell me you are going to go ditch me for your boyfriend again!" Merle squawked, tightening her lips.

"I won't be seeing Jordan today. I really need to get home."

"What can you possibly need to do that will take up your whole evening? Your father isn't going to be home for another week!" Merle exclaimed, her bright eyes smoking with disappointment.

"I don't have time for this Merle! We'll have to do it another day," Irene turned back to the direction of the buses. She knew it would take some sweets and a double feature to smooth over Merle's ruffled feathers. Merle was home alone as much as her, but unlike Irene, she hated it. "I'm going to miss my bus."

"Okay, fine," Merle relented petulantly. "You go do whatever is so important. But remember, all work and no play makes Irene a dull girl," Merle prophesied before stomping off, shoulders up like an ornery gorilla.

With a mighty yawn, Irene finally made it back to her porch, struggling with the lock like she did every day. Her thoughts drifted to Jordan. How Irene wished he was there. His presence would have been a stalwart ally to her composure, and she'd feel a lot safer having him near until her unexpected guest had left. But he'd be in recovery for some time. Shame bloomed as Irene derided herself for not visiting more, but being in the hospital was too difficult for her. Why did Jordan have to show off by not wearing his helmet!?

Irene alone had to face the consequences of that morning's heroics. A transformation overcame her as her heart raced as the doubts formed. Why did I let Cyrus talk me out of calling an ambulance? Once he's better he'll probably trash the place and rob me blind. Not that there's much worth taking. But I still can't just ignore someone who needs help.

Irene rolled back her shoulders, took a few deep breaths, and prepared herself to show only confidence. Irene grabbed a plastic cup and filled it with water, then ventured downstairs. I can still call the authorities if things get out of hand. Everything is fine. When this is all over, it will make a good story. I'm doing the right thing.

The bed in the basement was still occupied. Cyrus didn't stir at all. He was as still as a corpse, as still as her sister was as she was laid in her coffin. Irene could clearly remember the gleam of the white satin reflecting the pink hues of the makeup, which wrongfully set the illusion of life. She could see the strands of the golden wig now, spread out on the pillow. People remarked that it looked like she was asleep, but Irene knew better. Her sister smiled in her sleep, but there was no smile on that mask. Her sister was lively, what laid there couldn't be her. That was just a shell that looked like her; a mere doll dressed and propped.

Awareness of something cold and wet dripping down Irene's arm snapped her out of her memory. She turned the cup upright, muttering under her breath. A slight movement crept into her peripheral vision. Her eyes darted to Cyrus, who had turned to face her. His dark eyes followed her every movement as she walked towards him. A sick feeling lurched in Irene's stomach. Irene dismissed it as mere nerves, leftover from her memory.

"Here, I brought you some water. I can get you some toast if you are hungry." Irene passed over the glass, trying to maintain her composure.

"I'm not hungry, only thirsty," he responded, taking a sip.

Cyrus's lips were a shade pinker than the rest of his face. Weren't they split? Now they were hardly swollen. In the back of Irene's mind a siren was blaring, but her reactions were sluggish, awaiting a more rational explanation for the change. Maybe her memory exaggerated the extent of his injuries. It was dark; she must not have seen clearly. There were plenty of other explanations. Resolved to continue on the course of compassion, Irene knelt down beside the bed, grabbing the first aid supplies she'd stashed just underneath.

"Drink as much as you would like..." Irene opened up the plastic case, looking for the scissors.

"You don't look very old. Do you live alone?" Cyrus asked abruptly. Irene lifted her light brown eyes, fixing him with a stern stare to cover the wave of anxiety the question stirred.

"I live with my father." Irene said firmly. She suddenly wanted to get her hand on those scissors as soon as possible.

"Really? I haven't seen him… he doesn't mind me being here?" Cyrus pried.

"He's working." Irene didn't need to tell him he wouldn't be home for a few days. Irene swept under the bed to see if the scissors had fallen out underneath.

"Where's your mother?" Cyrus asked. The bed creak as he shifted, a shadow falling over Irene.

This line of questioning was making Irene very uncomfortable. "Dead," Irene snapped, anxiety disguising itself as irritation. She quickly backed away. Irene eyed the man, feeling increasingly more vulnerable. What did I get myself into?

"Oh. And your sister? You mentioned…"

"Also dead," Irene didn't want to talk about it, but she also didn't have the presence of mind to come up with a suitable lie. She hoped her clipped responses would send a signal to the man to back off.

Apparently, that signal was not received as the man continued his line of inquiry. "So your family's all dead or absent? That sucks," the man responded with a blaise attempt at sympathy. Irene eyed him for a solid minute. Getting no further response, Cyrus added, "I bet you're lonely, or at the very least, miserable."

"No," Irene responded curtly, her impatience growing. "I'd rather not dwell on it." Finally, she noticed the sought-after scissors sitting atop the drying machine. She clicked her tongue at her forgetfulness and retrieved them. She was feeling just a bit more reassured now. Maybe she should leave and go find a neighbour. But that neighbour might call the cops. And they might ask where her father was. Irene was terrified that the system, purported to safeguard minors such as herself, would rake her father over the coals. Warming at her touch, she gripped the plastic handled scissors even tighter.

"Really? I thought that's what all teens did, dwell on everything." Cyrus sounded inappropriately amused.

"I've got better things to do than throw a pity party. I have no use for that attitude." Irene returned to Cyrus' side, kneeling beside him with scissors in hand. If he tries anything, I'll be ready. But maybe I'm worrying over nothing, he might just be socially awkward, like Merle.

"And what, pray tell, do you find useful?" Cyrus asked quietly. An icy gaze was Irene's first response. A protracted silence was the second. Finally, came the third - which was to move things along. She kept her hand steady; if she showed fear then he might guess how alone she really was.

"I'm going to change your bandages now... and then I want you to leave."

Cyrus laughed in response. Unnerved, Irene cut the medical tape and unravelled the bandages. Her furrowed eyebrows rose in disbelief. All the bruising and swelling was gone, and the cuts were closed and scabbed over as if they'd been healing for days. This was impossible, and yet, she was touching him. He was real. In fact, his very real hand seized her wrist and squeezed. Irene gasped and tried to pull away, but his grip was firm.

A futile struggle ensued, and Irene gazed frightfully into his dark eyes as she tried to pull away in vain. Stupid, stupid! I should have left the moment he asked if I was alone. His grin widened, and with little effort he threw her back. She tumbled and fell to the ground, quickly crawling away from the man, but still clutching the scissors tight. Every panicked attempt to get to her feet resulted in her losing balance and falling down again.

Cyrus swung his legs to the side of the bed and rose to his feet with ease and grace impossible for an injured man. Irene took in a deep breath to scream, but instead held it in her chest, trying to steady her racing heart. She looked at the exit. Get up and move! Why can't I move?

"Thanks for helping me, but you probably should have looked the other way. Now that you've seen too much... yaddi yadda..." Cyrus shrugged, not bothering to finish the cliché.

Irene grasped the scissors behind her back. She gulped, and rose to dash for the exit. With uncanny celerity, Cyrus crossed the room and pushed her up against the cold wall. She yelped in dismay more than pain. Irene held the scissors firm and slashed at her attacker's exposed chest. Her hand shook as she made contact. Red liquid gushed out, spattering across her nose like tiny garnet freckles. Irene recoiled in horror.

Cyrus hissed and he grabbed her throat and lifted. The weight of her body strained her neck and her legs swung fruitlessly. He held her aloft with one hand with seemingly no effort, while his other hand grabbed the wrist holding the bloody scissors. His thumb dug into her wrist, burrowing between tendons. Irene squeaked out a partial yelp; the bloody scissors fell to the floor.

No!

Irene thought he was going to toss her aside, but instead he set her down again. With force that belied his small frame he slammed her into the wall. Irene felt the air flee her lungs with the shock of the impact.

While she struggled to reinflate her lungs, she could feel a hand on her neck. Cyrus's savage gaze dropped from Irene's teary, unyielding eyes to her slender neck. The danger was real, and yet her heart began to slow down. She was still afraid, but the panic had burnt out, leaving confusion in its wake.

How could this happen? I was only trying to help!

Reality struck her with reinforcement. Irene could only muster an airy gasp as a piercing pain penetrated the skin on her neck.

He was biting her. She could not believe it. He was biting her!

Light-headed and fuzzy, all Irene stared in horror at her own blood being licked from the man's lips. Again sensations dulled, and she was barely aware of the pain or blood trickling down the side of her neck.

A chuckle erupted from her assailant. Cyrus placed both of his hands on her cheeks, squishing them together, forcing her lips to pucker. Irene broke out of her daze and glared at him. Anger bloomed in her chest, and steadily rose like liquid fire in her veins. Cyrus moved his face closer to hers, and her lips unwillingly connected with his, the taste of salt and iron invading. Then Cyrus threw back his head and laughed.

Instantly Irene's hand flew to the puncture on the side of her neck, pressing hard to try and stop the bleeding. However, she was too angry and afraid to speak, and too confused and sore to try and run.

"Speechless? Oh… I have that effect on people." Cyrus grabbed her once more, his palm pressing into the nape of her neck.

Please stop! She could not make the words, and she doubted they would dissuade this monster even if she could. His other hand pulled at her wrist, breaking the cover over her neck wound. Irene cringed. He brought his face close to hers and Irene turned her head, causing the pain in her neck to sting even worse. She needed to search for a way out of this. Anything!

Shivers slid up and down her body as she could feel his slimy tongue sliding along the open wound. The pain gave way to numbness, and the only sensation on her neck was a moist chill and a dull pulsating. Cyrus ceased licking her and took a step back again. His lips parted into a broad grin, showing off his long, inhuman fangs. Irene stared in shocked silence. She wanted to rationalize, but all of her attempts ended in defeat. She was left with only one absurd conclusion. "But vampires don't exist."