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“Then how did you come into contact with them?” he asks, seeming genuinely interested. Though I have to question his motives.
“I was in the night club the other week, stuff happened, they tried to compel me and it didn’t work. Ever since then I’ve found myself with some new,
strangely persistent friends.”
“Oh I’m sure they’ve been very friendly,” says the slayer. “They’re only interested in you because you pose a threat. They need to discover why you’re immune to their compulsion so that they can make sure this ability of yours will never be replicated. Don’t you know what this means? You could help us fight the vampires, if we could figure out how to simulate the resistance you hold then it might change the way we hunt forever. No longer would they be able to compel us to stop fighting with one glance of their eyes on ours.”
“Hold up. I never volunteered to help you. Besides, I don’t think this is something that can be replicated, I think it’s unique to me and me alone.” I tell him, though I have no clue how unique my ability is, I just don’t want this slayer thinking I’m the answer to all his problems. I have no intention of becoming his lab rat, and I’m unsettled by the look of the zealot in his eyes.
“Don’t you want to help defend humanity?” he says, and I hold in my laughter at his use of the words that make up the name of the organisation to which he is so dedicated.
“Is that the DOH’s maxim?” I ask him, not able to hold back on laughing now. “Sounds like the tag line to a cheesy action movie.”
“I see you’ve already been swayed by them,” he replies with distaste. “And you know very little of the race to which you are aligning yourself.”
“Look, I’m not aligning myself with anyone, whatever friction there is between vampires and slayers is none of my concern. But if I were to pick a side, I’m not sure it would be with a group of people who set out to destroy an entire race, even if they are a race of predators. Would you shoot a lion just because its nature is to kill? It’s the way of the world for one species to prey upon another, you’re extremely gullible if you think that a group of men with a mission is going to change any of that.”
The slayer looks at me intently, and he seems slightly taken aback. “No,” he says. “I would not shoot a lion under normal circumstances. But if that lion were to murder my entire family then I would not bat an eyelid before killing it dead.” The look in his eyes is murderous right now, and as his words sink in a realisation hits me, and I feel unendingly guilty for it.
“Did - did a vampire kill your family?” I ask cautiously. He seems very worked up all of a sudden.
“My reasons for doing what I do are none of your business. Now, will you at least consider assisting us?”
“I don’t know.” I tell him, and the guilt I feel prompts me to add. “I’ll think about it.”
“That’s good enough for me,” he replies, instantly much more upbeat. “I’ll see myself out,” he continues, and walks toward the door.
“Wait, aren’t you going to tell me your name?” I ask hesitantly.
“My name’s Finn Roe,” he says.
“I’m Tegan.”
He shakes his head. “I already know that, love,” and shoots me a charming smile before sliding out the door, closing it easily behind him.
Chapter Ten
Bringing Him Back To Me, If Only For a Moment
After the slayer leaves my place I sink down to the floor, my legs curling beneath me. I hold my head in my hands and rub at my temples. I’m falling deeper and deeper into this pit of surrealistic crap. Every hour that passes I become more heavily involved in a world I wish would just fade away. I grab one of the chairs from my kitchen table and shove it up against my front door after I’ve turned over all the locks.
No more unwanted guests are entering my home. I go into my bedroom and lock that door as well. I undress, get into some comfy pants and a t-shirt and throw myself into bed. I lie there and scowl at the ceiling for a half an hour, angry at the injustice of the world. Why should I have to make any big decisions about helping slayers to kill vampires, or helping vampires to do I’m not sure what, or allowing Marcel to work magic on me. All of a sudden, going back to college doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.
I pick up my phone and text Amanda. “How did things go with Lucas?” I ask her, because I’m fretful as to whether he might do some scary horror flick shit with her again. It takes about ten minutes for her to reply. “Still with him, going great!” Jesus. I really am sick of caring about how foolish she’s being, whatever happens it’s her own funeral. Literally.
And then, as I lie back in bed I remember what I’d planned to do when I got home before I was accosted by Finn. I get up and go to sit on the floor by my wardrobe. My eyes bore into the darkly shaded wood, I allow them to linger on the flowers engraved into the handle of the bottom drawer for a number of minutes. I trace the outline of the petals with my fingertips, almost daunted by the box that lies within.
Slowly, I open the drawer and remove the old brown cardboard shoebox. The moment I open it I fall into a dreamlike state, lost to the world in my fascination with these inanimate objects. First I pick up the guitar plec, I rub my thumb over its smooth surface, savouring the very ordinary texture of plastic. Matthew always used this when he played his guitar, it was his favourite one, and it feels as though it’s been moulded by his persistent use, shaped so as to accommodate the movement of his fingers.
For a long time I don’t look at anything else, I remain sitting on my carpeted floor with a piece of plastic between my thumb and forefinger, as though merely touching it could give me a high akin to euphoria. Well, it’s not the object so much as the memories it brings rushing back to me, those are what I’m after. All of the times I ever witnessed Matthew using it are in my head now. In the living room of a friend. At a house party. An open mike night. In this very bedroom.
My hand brushes over his book of poems and song lyrics, I have only ever read the first few pages. Once I got to the fifth poem I began to feel guilty, like I was intruding on his most personal thoughts and feelings. I want so much to read all of it, but what I have read is so dark, it troubles me. I didn’t know how far gone he’d been. And now, looking back on it all, I feel like a blind idiot for not having noticed the signs of his depression.
Taking in a deep breath of courage, I flick to where I left off the last time. The next poem is entitled “A Darker Shade”, and it’s written in very neat hand-writing, which is odd in itself because the other few that I have read were practically scribbled across the page. The pen having been stabbed into the paper with a brutal force. The poems held exclamations of anger, feelings of loneliness and sorrow, references to things in his past that I didn’t know about. Let’s just say his family were not exactly the nicest of people. But this poem, it’s like a sea of calm compared to the tornado of the previous pages. There are only two short verses, I read the first:
No one knows it, but I do.
No one sees it but me and you,
