Each one represents something, a memory, an unshed tear, things forgotten, things feared, and most often something I survived. I don't expect you to know that, and even if you did I wouldn't expect you to understand. You hold your breath, watching them fade, smiling as one by one they are erased. My feelings are declawed and toothless, worthless, unfitting to survive. Each mask is a lie that was once a dream now forgotten.
Confusion is all that I feel unless the pain wells up around it. It feels like quick sand, sucking me down, the two emotions mixing together to form a deadly swamp that threatens to suffocate everything I am. Ironically it is fear that keeps my head above the surface.
I am afraid to give into that pool, if I do who knows what will happen. The present confusion is more stable then the futures unknown. The paradox of my life continues. The sinking feeling is preferable to the uncertainty that lies past the surface.
The pills I take suppress my sins, hiding my nature behind chemicals and spells. I am nothing more then a marionette, a pinocchio of the modern age. Better that way then to be the beast I am. Forgiveness lies in chemicals and cleansing in blood. Who am I any more? Which mask do you see? Do you see the one who does no wrong, the rebel on her own, the merciful angel, the controlling tyrant, the understanding friend, or the scared little girl who can't be heard over the sound of her own sobs? Do you understand that I am running for your own good?
When will it be enough? When can I forgive myself? When will I be able to erase the scars without feeling each ones death as a betrayal against my soul? When will you understand that I have no where left to go? I am trapped by my own selfish depreciation. I devalue myself at an alarming rate, unable to believe I am worth any more then my weight in bricks. I know it hurts you more then me and yet I can't stop, I can't make myself care, it is the only thing I can feel without multiplying my guilt.
My sole regret is that I am not my only casualty.

It's a horrid feeling. It comes crawling out of the shadows and wraps itself around you so that you can see nothing else. It cuts you off from the rest of the world, blocking out the light of people around you. It squeezes, getting stronger with each moment instead of tiring. You try to distract yourself, to feel something else. You close your eyes and whispers lies to yourself. It doesn't exist, it's wrong, it's only in your head. Day and night don't mean anything anymore, all that matters is you are alone in this terrible darkness. You wonder if peopl notice your absence, hope they'll come after you, but then when you think they are you hide; you can't let them see you like this. So the cycle continues and you die a little more each day.
You become a monster, a vacum, feeding off the lives of those around you, living off the lies that are presented for your comfort. Maybe if you squint enough the picture will change and everything will be ok again. All you have to do is act normal, ignore the specter feeding off your soul. You have to ignore the hole left behind that your life is slowly leeking out of. Tell yourself that nothing was lost, nothing was given, and maybe you'll get it back.
Cover your eyes and count to ten; it's only a game. Olly olly oxen free. . . When no one answers you run. If you pretend they are chasing you then you are not alone. Laugh and smile, you're having fun.
A broken mask is all that's left. It cuts into your skin, leaving the angry red marks of denial and rejection behind. It's what you deserve. You're not good enough, you never were. Why do they keep saying you are.
They don't see. You won't let them. If they see what you really are, what you are really worth, then they will leave. No one can love something that's not real. You reach for the blade and carve a little deeper into the melting skin. Stretch the smile a little wider to cover the scars. No one wants to see depravity. Avoid the mirror, you don't want to see it either.
Borrow a smile from a magazine and a laugh from the t.v. Become what they want, you have nothing better to be. Lose yourself lest they find you.

Lines and scars and rivers of tears. The map of my life is drawn out on the skin. Pale, timid flesh is reprimanded by red, angry scabs, the writing of a mad man archived on my arms. I hide them away, keeping the pain secret, in the dark where absolute power belongs. I cry out under the glittering edge, watching as the world grows red. If Midas turned everything golden, then my touch turns it crimson. That is the lot of one such as I. Everything that bares my kiss dies and turns to dust. Yet I cannot die. My caress leaves gashes and gaping wounds where my fingers trace over your face. You are dead, and I watch as you rot from the inside out. You become another x on my map, a treasure buried beneath my skin.

My life is on course to somewhere I don't know. Behind me the crying, the moaning, the dead, and the damned, mark my path. There is not one beautiful thing amidst the gore, not one living creature from out of the massacre. I don't belong in this world, I shouldn't be on this road, and yet here I am. I am unmoving, unchanging, and clothed in pain. The water beneath my feet turns red. It grabs my ankle and I fall. The grime of destruction wrought from my own hand clings and eats away at my skin. The life I never knew slips through my fingers and mixes in with puddles of sin.

Is this what you see? A faceless, skinless, skeleton of a little girl wrapped in rags of intangible pain. No wonder you looked away. No wonder your mouth is open in a silent scream. Pure terror. Now you understand the shattered mirrors around me, the shards left to embed themselves into the emboldened traveler's feet. My poison to a dying soul. It will eat away until your eyes reflect mine, 'til your heart turns dark. Until you are the living dead.

Have you ever crashed? Have you ever stood on the edge of the cliff, looked down, and stared yourself in the eye? Have you ever let yourself fall? Have you reached up for a hand and found nothing but air?

The feelings rush over you as you tumble down. You scream and cry; anything to make the falling stop. You didn’t think it would feel this way. You just thought that anything was better then standing at the top of that cliff alone, the cold winds battering you.

Then as your body shatters on the ground you realize two things, you’re not dead, and you’re still at the top of the cliff. Nothing has changed.

Your world shatters. You can’t escape. So you jump again. When you’re falling, you may be terrified, but you’re free. Instead of cold nothingness there is a thrill. Adrenalin pumps through you; the rushing wind stings your face. When you’re falling you don’t have to look yourself in the eye. It doesn’t matter that you have no reflection in the mirror; all that matters is that you feel.

There is no pretending when you fall, no masks to ease other people’s fears. The people who watch you aren’t in free fall. Nothing exists but you and the rush. You’re beyond everyone’s touch, including your own.

Each time you fall a little more of you is chipped away. Each time you crash another crack appears. You ignore them, accept them. A crack and a chip is a small price to pay to feel alive. Others don’t see it that way. They see the traces on your body from meeting the ground and are afraid. They are afraid that one time you will fall too far, you will crash too hard, and you won’t come back. They feel that each of those marks represent failure. Not just your failure but theirs as well, and so they look away unseeing. They think that death is what you want. Death by falling would be a perversion.

Falling and crashing is a selfish thing. It’s not about them; it’s about the lack of them. It’s about pushing everything aside so you can live for one more day; make it through one more trial. Falling is about standing on your own. Crashing is a reminder that no matter how many people surround you, you are always alone.

Sometimes you want to drag them down with you. You want to lead them to the edge and force them to follow or loose you. Sometimes they’re willing to hold your hand as you try to keep from jumping; sometimes they just can’t. After all, they’re not strong enough either. Sometimes when you think they have you, you step off that edge, you expect to dangles, but their hand slips and you find yourself falling. When they’re at the bottom to pick up the pieces it hurts, but when they walk away and pretend you were never there; it’s worse.

You turn, expecting to see love and instead you see them denying you everything. At that time you want to fly one last time, crash one last time, you want to live one more time. You want to feel that rush and then as you lie on the ground, feeling euphoric, you want the ground to open up and swallow you. You want to die.

Tissues stained with tears and blood lay around me on the floor. There aren’t many, but enough that anyone walking in would be disturbed. Next to me sits a long forgotten bowl of water, a once white washcloth turning the liquid a reddish brown. I watch the blood seep out of the ten evenly spaced, uniform cuts that go from my just bellow my wrist to my elbow. Most of them are raised and an angry red, already working on knitting the skin back together.
I hear the front door open and shut, footsteps coming down the apartment hallway. The door to our bedroom opens and he let’s out a sad sigh. The tissues and water are quickly collected, not a word exchanged. I tense as I hear him coming back, expecting him to be angry with me. His calmness is almost worse.
There is a steaming bowl of water in his hands, and a fresh washcloth and hand towel tossed over his shoulder. He sets them down and pulls the first aid kit out from under the bed. It used to be kept in the bathroom. I get up slowly and sit on the bed in front of where he now kneels. His hands are gentle as he washes my face and arms. We don’t meet each other’s eyes; short commands the only communication between us.
The white bandages he covers the cuts with are a sharp contrast to the red I had been staring at. They make my injuries look much worse as they cover the entirety of my forearm. As he secures the wrappings he finally looks at me. “Why?” One simple question that we both know is too hard to answer.
I think back to all the times I’ve disappointed him; Fresh wounds on our wedding day, not from depression but from stress, loosing my job when uncovered wounds tore open during a presentation to a potential client, scars that still live on my stomach from the aftermath of a miscarriage. I don’t know what to tell him, so I don’t tell the whole truth. Instead, I open our bedside drawer and hand him an empty medicine bottle. He looks in and finds two more. His face almost looks relieved.
He stands to leave and I catch his wrist. “Don’t go.” My voice is small and scared. “Need you.” I pull him down next to me and reach up. He smiles sadly as he leans down to kiss me. My hands are tangled in his hair, holding him to me so that I know he is real. I lay back, bringing him over me. My kiss is hungry and bruising, and it is exactly what I need. He always tries to be gentle at these times, but that feels too much like a dream. He tries to pull back, tries to make things less intense; I growl and bite his bottom lip, trying to tell him exactly what I want. That’s all it takes, when the skin breaks so does he.
Suddenly he is no longer gentle, no longer cares if he is hurting me. He needs to know I’m real too at times like this. He needs to know he hasn’t lost me. He’s stronger then he looks. His hands are bruising on my arm as he crushes me to him. There are gasps, curses, admonitions, and apologies between kisses. Clothes are removed harshly, seams pulling and buttons threatening to leave the cloth entirely.
When our clothes are off we both stop to look. Scars cover his skin too. There are bite marks on his chest and collar bone from sex like this, long pale marks from operations, puckered flesh from bullets, and jagged, angry streaks from various violent incidents. We both trace the marks on each other’s skin almost reverently. We have to make sure we’re both all there. As my hand slips over a newer scar, one that I put there, he snaps back to being ruthless.
There is nothing pretty about our coupling. There are no sweet words, no begging, and no rhythm. There is pushing and pulling, taking without giving, and pain to keep us connected. We don’t take our time, we don’t bother with foreplay, and neither of us worries about making sure the other is satisfied. We just take our own pleasure out of it. It comes to a crashing end for both of us, leaving us tangled together.
Soft kisses are pressed to new wounds, hair smoothed out of the way, and words of love and forgiveness given. We move together to comfort and reassure before drifting into sleep. It doesn’t matter after that. It never happened. Suddenly everything is real and he has saved me once again. He knows I am safe and can breathe once again. He is curled protectively around me, trying his best to protect me from myself.

"I'm sorry." His voice caught me by surprise.
"Excuse me?" I turned to face the boy behind me, my arms folded defensively over my chest.
"I'm sorry." He repeated a pained look on his face that melted my heart. The steely look on my face stayed, not giving him any reassurance.
"Go on." I leaned back against the wall.
He licked his lips nervously. "I- I need you."
I raised an eyebrow. "That's nice." I pushed off the wall and turned to walk away.
"Wait!" I stopped but didn't turn to face him. "Yo- you can't just walk away!"
"It seems that is exactly what I am doing."
"You're just going to turn your back on me?" His voice was small and sad.
I whirled around and brought my face inches from his. "You turned your back on me." I hissed. "You need me? Where were you when I needed you? Where were you when I reached out again and again? What happens when you don't need me anymore? How can I trust you not to walk away again? How can I trust you not to abandon me?" I felt tears start to gather in my eyes. "How can I trust you at all?"
"I swear I will never leave you again." He pleaded with me. "You have my word."
A bark like laugh left my mouth. "You think your word means anything to me now?" I turned around again so he wouldn't see the tears that were now running down my cheeks. "Fuck you." I whispered.
A strong pair of arms wrapped around my waist. "I was wrong. Let me love you again. Give me a second chance."
My resolve crumbled. I wouldn't face him but I nodded slowly. The arms around me tightened a little further and a light kiss was pressed to the side of my head. I closed my eyes and leaned back into him. I was home.

She snuggles closer, feeling the warmth take her, but it isn't the same. She dances and moves, her body pressed against another, but it isn't the same. She kisses and hugs and gives herself away, but there is nothing left to give. She pulls a familiar mask from the drawer and sets it over her face. A little more pretending and it might go away. The gaping hole is boarded over with rotting wood, but it's all she has. People fall away taking a little more of her with them. She make belives it will be ok. She smiles and nods, laughs and sings all the while hiding the crying and bleeding. She wants to reach out but her hands are bound, she wants to cry out but her mouth is stopped, she wants to run but her feet are stuck. She wants to leave but she has no where to go. People breath a little life back into her but it quickly fades away. No amount of breath can replace the beating of a heart. People fall away, afraid to be sucked in, or ignore the loss she presents. The hole grows bigger, life leaks out, and she wishes for the end. She watches from the window as life goes on.

I was watching him again. I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help it. For three years he was right next to me and I never thought to look, never thought to follow him around with my eyes. Now he’s across the room and I can’t take my eyes off of him. He’s so easy going with everyone. I watch him smile and laugh. I watch him chase people around the room, or pelt people with candy. I watch to see if there is some hint that he misses me.

I don’t think he believes me. I don’t think he can accept that I love him. I know I screwed up a lot but at least I didn’t give up. Sometimes it makes me bitter; most of the time it just makes me sad. I tried to stop this from happening. I tried really hard to make everything right. It wasn’t until he asked me to walk away that I understood. I understood that it didn’t matter how hard I tried, it wouldn’t work unless he was willing to let it.

So I did walk away. I watch him from across the room, daring every now and then to talk to him. I really just want to hold him and say I’m sorry. I really just want him to see how much I am willing to do to have him back. I know it sounds stupid. I know it sounds pathetic. I can’t change how I feel, as much as I want to sometimes.

I made a promise you know? I promised him, not in front of other people, just God, that I would never leave him. I promised I would live my life by his side. I promised I would love only him. I wore his ring as a symbol of that promise. I don’t have the ring anymore, but there is faint imprints of where it sat that will never leave. A lot of people think it’s stupid. They think that me not wanting to break those promises is moronic. They think that just because he broke his promise that I am free from mine.

I am not free. I love him, and that love binds me to him, I made promises, those promises secure the bondage. It’s a willing bondage though. I walked into my servitude with eyes wide open. I walked into it gladly.

People say you can’t help who you fall in, and out, of love with. People are wrong. Love is an action. Love is a choice. I chose him. He is everything I have wanted in a man. Or at least I thought he was. Up until this he has been faithful, strong, fair, loving, kind, supportive, encouraging and patient. I never thought that patience would run out. I never thought he would break a promise. I never thought he would give up on me. I never thought my heart would be thrown away.

He betrayed me. The one person I truly trusted stabbed me in the back, and it hurt more then anything else. It still does hurt. I can’t see him doing it without a good reason. Too bad I don’t think he’s going to tell me what that reason is. Yes he did give me a reason, but truthfully it was a weak excuse at best. Why wouldn’t he tell me the truth though?

That is the other thing that binds me to him, curiosity. The bad thing is I can’t ask. I face him to ask the questions that plague my mind; I go to ask him the question that I, quite literally, dream about asking him, and I freeze. Maybe I don’t really want to know the answers. Maybe I am afraid they’ll hurt me more. Maybe I’m afraid he’s not the man I know he is, and he grew tired of me. Maybe I’m afraid he stopped loving me. Maybe I’m afraid the answers will finish the job he started of silencing my heart.

You never believe how much love hurts until it leaves. It hurts even more when it asks you to leave. I know I should move on. I know I should not sit around like a puppy waiting for its owner to call it back. I’m trying but I can’t take my eyes off of him. It feels like the moment I turn away is the moment he’ll ask me to come back, but by then it may be too late. I may be gone with someone else, someone who will have to understand that they will never have all my love. I left too much of it with him.

I want to take care of him you know? I want to support him the way he did me. I want take over, I want to lead and give him a break. I want to be the person he knows isn’t going to leave. I want him to lean on me. He says he can’t. That probably hurts the most. Then again, I did something similar. Difference is, I tried to fix it, and I changed.

What do I want to ask him? I want to ask him what the real reason is behind him doing this. I want to ask him if he’s tired of me. I want to ask him if he will let me love him and take care of him. I want to ask him if he still loves me. I am scared of the answers.

What do I want? I want to be able to talk to him again. I want to give him things. I want to make him things. I want him to listen to me. I want to hold him and love him. I want to take care of him. I want him. I don’t care what baggage he may come with. I don’t care what he’s done. I just want him to let me love him.

Yes I am aware of how pathetic I sound. There is one thing I haven’t explained. I won’t force myself on him. I won’t beg him. I will not be the person he settles for. I won’t trust him the way I did. Most importantly, I won’t wait forever. The promises I mentioned before, they dictate that I try to make things right. The love I have given commands that I give him time, and a second chance. The heart can only take so much abuse though. Eventually I will walk away. Perhaps it will be on the arm of someone else, perhaps it will be into a life of solidarity.

So you see, while I don’t want to love anyone but him, I don’t want to loose myself to him, to this. I can hope, I can pray, I can try, and I can wait, but not forever. One day he may turn around and I will be gone. He’ll turn and find a ghost of what we had in my place.

Do I think he was wrong? Yes. Did he hurt me? Yes. Do I think we were meant to be? Yes, and I still do. Do I love him? Yes. Would I forgive him? Yes. Would I forget? Eventually, yes. Do I want him? Yes. Will I beg? No. Will I wait? For a while. Would I give up on him? Never. Does he love me? I don’t know, but if he does why isn’t that enough?

There is a voice in my head that tells me I am not done. The path I walked with him is not over. There is something else for me to do. Catch is the little voice won’t tell me what. All the voice says is love him and wait. Love and wait are two of the hardest words to deal with.

I will never give up on him. I may walk away, but I will always believe in him and us. I may, for my own well being, move on, but only because he made me.

“I told you she’d break your heart.” I stood in the doorway staring down at his prone figure laid out on the couch, keeping my voice low, not wanting to wake him. “I told you time and time again, she doesn’t know what love is . . . but then neither do you.” I crossed the room silently, settling myself down on the floor next to his head. “You played with her as much as she did you. I warned you both.” a tear tracked its way down my cheek. “You were both too young, too afraid. I should never have let it come to this. I can’t live without you both.” I slowly raised a hand and ran it through his hair. “She’s already gone. Did you know that? I warned her. I warned you both.”

His eyes lashes flutter gently, fighting against sleep. “What are you doing here?” he asks me in a sleep laden voice.

“I’ve come to say goodbye.” I answer him softly.

“Where are you going?”

I don’t answer him, afraid that if I speak, I’ll shatter. Instead I look down at him pouring years of love and friendship into the last moment we had. Carefully I reach for his hand and hold it in mine, the confusion on his face growing slowly as he becomes more awake. “Ai Shiteru,” I whisper softly, tears falling off my face and onto his chest, “Today we both die of it.” His eyes widen as I drag the small knife along his wrist. I place my hand over his mouth as he opens it to scream. “Shh.”

I watch carefully as he cries silently, his blood running over our joined hands and onto the floor, pooling around my knees. “Why?” he asks weakly as I reach across him, placing the knife at his throat.

I smiled softly for his answer. Hesitating a moment I lean down, placing a soft kiss on his forehead. Leaning my brow against his, I draw the sharp blade lovingly across his neck.

Standing, I gaze down at him. “Nothing left.” I say to the air. “Only me, and what am I without them?” I walk silently to his balcony, remembering the day’s events, remembering the blood on my hands. “Nothing to see. Nothing to feel. No more life.” I laughed and it rang hysterical in my own ears.

I look down at the blade in my hand. So small, the blade slightly curved and razor sharp. “Nothing.” I say again, placing the cool metal against my own throat. I close my eyes and lead the tiny knife on its path across my own flesh. I feel the first droplets of blood run down my throat as I feel my knees hit the carpet. I open my eyes and stare at the blood spreading around me.

A smile crosses my face. All for nothing, yet nothing is right.

There is this common misconception that he and I are exactly alike, and that’s not true at all. In a large group you find him in the center, charming his way into everyone’s hearts and memories like a beloved prince. No one really expects him to remember their name but they all remember his. I, on the other hand, can be found near the outskirts, hiding behind a good friend and sipping at a drink, waiting for the group to disburse so I can be alone again.

His thirst for adventure is almost as unquenchable as his thirst for knowledge and both of these are far outstripped by his thirst for God. While I love adventure, knowledge, and rival him in my thirst for God, he has this wild abandon he approaches these things with that I could never match. Practicalities be damned if there is an adventure to go on, knowledge to seek, or God to serve, where as I will sit back and look at the big picture before acting.

Then there are the little things about him, how his hair is always slightly mussed, his clothes a little crooked and his glasses a little smudged. How he remembers noone’s name yet everyone’s face and some little thing about them. How he has this uncanny ability to know when you’re upset and to cheer you up. How he approaches everything with passion and zeal and how you can’t help but want all that energy focused on you alone. Sometimes I can feel a little invisible at his side, just out of the spot light that follows him. But then just as I start to think he forgot I was standing there he turns and gives me a smile that can’t be mistaken as anything but love, reminding me that he could never forget me. When he thinks no ones looking, he leans over and places a light kiss on my forehead or whispers a kind word in my ear, reminding me of my special place in his life.

He has no fear of life itself. Elevators don’t make him cringe, slimy fruit he enjoys and he can stand up and tell the teacher they forgot him without feeling like he’s a looser. Sometimes I feel outstripped by him as each of those things make my knees tremble and my stomach drop. Then again I can sit in the car for a few days with no one but my mom and not come out having killed her. Sure he could do that with his own mom but ask him to do it with mine and he’ll laugh at you. He doesn’t hold back his admonishment for me when I am being stupid or have done something wrong. I, on the other hand, need to gather the courage to tell anyone they’ve wronged me or are being stupid for fear of hurting them.

Some people only see his goofy side and they are missing out on a lot. He can be serious and deep no problem, and when we’re alone that’s mostly what he is. When we’re alone, he lets himself go, returning to his private self who’s a little more quite and calm and, so it seems sometimes, a little scared that he’s not on the right track. Those times when I get to hold him and tell him everything will be ok, when it’s just the two of us, hands interlaced, quietly pondering the day. Those are the times I cherish most. When I get to see him, open, when he lets himself be vulnerable around me and I am reminded that he needs me as much as I need him. That we’re partners in life. Then as he falls asleep with his head on my shoulder I raise my eyes to Heaven and say a quick prayer of thanks before dropping my own small kiss on his closed eyes and smiling, waiting anxiously for the day ahead and bringing closer to the day behind.

Prologue

You don’t know what it’s like to be eight years old and watch your invincible mother die. To hold her hand as she draws in shaky breaths and expels blood with every word she speaks. Do you know what it’s like to realize your mother is human when you’ve been under the impression that she’s an angel. Angels don’t die.

I remember one thing though. I had only once before that day ever seen my mother truly smile. That was when my father woke up and she realized he wasn’t dead. That day I watched from behind the door as my mother fought with her mentor. With a man she was forced to trust and respect despite her better judgment.

I watched as Ethan, her teacher’s, knife plunged into her stomach. I watched as my mother brought her own knife down across his neck. Killing him as she had so many others.

I saw my father rush over and catch her. I stepped into the room slowly. For the first time ever I saw my father cry. “Please don’t leave me.” He whispered against her temple, tears streaming down his face. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Take care of Holly.” She rasped. “Make sure she doesn’t become me.”

I remember running over to her side. “I’m here mommy.” I told her, taking her other hand.

“Holly. . . I love you.” She whispered. I felt the blood soak through my shirt as she hugged me to her. “Go stand with your Aunt.”

I remember feeling tears falling onto my head as my mothers best friend held me close, covering my eyes.

I remember turning around panicked when I heard the gun shot.

I remember hating my father, who’s tears didn’t stop the smoke from rising out of the muzzle of his gun.

I remember running to her side and demanding that she woke up.

Until I saw her face. She was smiling. Then I knew.

My mother hadn’t been an angel but a monster. She had the humanity forced out of her and she was forced to become little more than a machine.

She was smiling because she got that back. She was human again.
---------------------
Chapter 1:
Holly and Tiny


I have seen a lot in my short life. I've seen my mother kill a man, and my father kill my mother. I've seen the downfall of a way of life. I watched the people I love struggle to fit into a world they were trained to protect, but had never lived in.

When I started third grade at a local public school, even I had a hard time adjusting. Before anyone got to what my parents did for a living I was set apart. I had no mother. I lived not just with my father, but with my aunt and two of my uncles. So I was the only child living with four adults. I could never bring other kids home to play because of the strange things lying around our house.

When The Tri Point organization fell, there were a lot of munitions left over. My guardians didn't want those munitions falling into the wrong hands, and so we have an armory in our house. None of my adults can keep from playing with the stuff. There is a gun under every pillow, except mine. I secretly kept my gun in my bedside table drawer instead. A lot of evenings, instead of sitting around the TV, we sat around, the adults blind folded, seeing who could assemble various guns first. We have a shooting range in the basement. The house always smells like smoke and chemicals, and I am positive that we are the only house hold that spends more time looking for armed and lost detonators then our car keys.

I often could be found home alone, my adults not understanding the law that said one of them had to be home, after all, I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I wasn't allowed to stay over at anyone’s house for an extended period of time, and never over night. I have violent nightmares, mostly about classified material. Oh, and did I mention that my father seems to think that every wife on the block is secretly a terrorist waiting to kidnap me and torture me for national security information. Just forget the fact that I have been drastically removed from that business for the last three years and know nothing that is still relevant. I think he's crazy.

Needless to say I had a pretty hard time making friends. This wasn't helped by the fact that I had learned almost everything the public education system had to offer in their elementary schools by the time I got there. The boredom with my education kept me sufficiently ahead of the class. This is why I was so shocked when a new girl picked me out and started trying to befriend me.



“Hi.” The new girl in the class slid into the seat next to me. “My name is Tiny.”

She was smiling brightly waiting for my response. “Holly.”

“I think I live near you. I saw you and your dog walking to school this morning.”

I blushed. My father had trained a black lab to follow me to and from school. “Wesson is rather attached to me. You live about five doors down from me I think. That was the only house for sale on my route to school.”

Tiny giggled and my blush deepened as I realized how I must sound. “Does your dog wait for you all day outside?”

I shook my head. “He's trained to come and back at the end of the day to walk with me.”

“How does he know what time it is?”

I sighed. Defiantly couldn't let this one anywhere near the house. She asked too many questions. “There's an alarm set for him. When he hears it he leaves for school.”

“Oh.”

I didn't talk to Tiny again before the bell rang, and practically ran home so she couldn't ask to come over. I headed strait into the back yard to run through the obstacle course my father asked that I run through everyday. This was his one neurosis I actually liked. I was a little surprised when, in the middle of hanging upside down, an irritated Nate came out to tell me I had a guest.

I threw a pair of track pants and a jacket over the spandex skin I wore to work out, and trotted around the house to the front yard, Wesson at my heals. Tiny stood on the front porch, her purple back pack slung over one shoulder, the inordinate amount of key chains clanging together as she shifted from one foot to another. I sighed and hopped onto the porch, startling Tiny. “Oh! Hi Holly. You took off so fast after school that I didn't get a chance to ask you if you wanted to do homework together.” She adjusted her backpack, unable to stand still.

“Oh.” I blinked at her for a second. “Well, I'm not allowed to have anyone over. My aunt works night shift and is a really light sleeper.” This wasn't a lie, just not the whole truth.

“Well you could come over my house.” Tiny looked at me with a hopeful smile. Truthfully, I had done my homework in class. For some odd reason, I really wanted this girl to be my friend.

“I already did my homework.” I said quietly, letting a blush soften my features. “Maybe tomorrow? I'll wait to do it and we can walk home together.”

Tiny's face broke into a wide smile. “Ok! I'll see you tomorrow!” I watched her bounce down the side walk to her own house before going inside.

“You know you're not supposed to have people over.” Nate was leaning on the door frame to the kitchen, picking his nails with a knife.

I rolled my eyes, pushing past him to get a drink. “I didn't invite her over, she just showed up. She's new at school and just wanted to do homework together.” I took a sip of juice. “I did mine in class so I told her I would go over there and do it with her tomorrow.”

“You can't go you know.” Nate sat down with his hand gun to finish cleaning it.

“That's not your decision.” I was starting to get angry with him. His lover dying during a mission had turned him bitter, to the point where he couldn't hold a job. Hence his living with us. “Besides I really don't think anything is going to happen to me while I am writing my spelling words five times each.” I pushed off the counter. “I'm going downstairs.”



“Holly!” I stopped mid back kick, balancing on my left foot. I waited like that patiently as my father came down the stairs. “Nice form.” He mimicked my positions and then we finished the Kata out together. “I thought you were wearing out another punching bag. If I had known you were practicing Kata I would have waited.”

“I was trying to calm down. While kicking the crap out of a punching bag relieves stress it tends to make me angrier. I was already about to take the gun Nate was cleaning and shove it up his-”

“Holly!”

“Sorry El.” I looked down; reverting to the name I had called Elias since I was little.

“I hear that a girl down the street asked you to do homework with her?” We started walking over to the shooting range.

“Her name is Tiny. She lives five houses down across the street.” I picked up the first pieces of my hand gun.

“Won't that mess with your work out?”

“One day won't hurt El. She's really nice and I can get most of my work out done still.” I sighed checking my site. “As much I love you guys having someone normal in my life might be nice.” Elias was silent for a moment. “Wesson can wait in the yard. If I get stuck in the house you'll know where I am and if I leave the house Wesson can bite their asses.”

Elias snorted. “You can take care of yourself. I'm not worried about that.” He smirked. “Besides there's always that homing device I implanted. What I'm worried about is. . .” He trailed off.

“You're worried about her.” I sighed. “El the only person I have ever attacked is Nate and you KNOW how we don't get along.”

“I know but,” He looked at me intently, “teenage girls are meaner and more vicious then most mercenaries. You're not used to dealing with 'normal' kids.”

“There isn't a place for me in this world if I keep growing up the way I am. I need to get used to dealing with 'normal' kids. I need to learn how to be normal.”

“You're right.” Elias reached out and took my gun out of my hand. “Claudia wants to take you shopping before she has to go to work. Something about you needing a new outfit and her getting to play stylish aunt.”

I smiled at El and did something that I hadn't really done before but had seen other 'normal' girls do. I hugged my father.

The Bleeding Hole. It's the center of the Night Walkers culture. Young people come from all over to loose themselves in the music of the throbbing dance floor. Most never make it home.
During the day it sits as an empty abandoned building, but at night it pulses with unspeakable sins.
The bartender is a Xet Kesdu, or a soul stalker, named Aubrey. She's run and owned the place since it's opening in 1947 and had owned many like it before hand.
With her gold spun hair, wide icy blue eyes and deceptively thin frame she barely looks old enough to own about, much less run such an establishment.
The D.J. is a young vampire by the name of Orion. He was turned seven years ago. The vampire feeding on him had decided he was too pretty to rot underground and sired him before leaving him in an abandoned basement.
The main bouncer's name is Slade. Another Xet, and a life long companion of Aubrey's. He lost his humanity at the age of 26 when his lover, a vampires by the name of Lidalia had found him bleeding to death from a gunshot wound. He had lost too much blood for her to drink enough to make him a vampire so she just fed him her blood, thus making him a soul stalker.
When he awoke after the transformation he killed her in a Xet Kesdu's first rage. They say you can still hear him call out her name in his sleep.
The dark dance floor and smoky booths of the Bleeding Hole have held the most dangerous of their kind. Jem, the Day-walker, and her first sired, Chase, the hunter, always close by. Silas and Adila, those who over threw Drake and, as a result, became king and queen of the Society of the Night. Galatea, the first Xet-Kesdu, and the most feared.
They tell their stories for those brave enough to listen, but then again the curious cat is often dead.
++++++++++++++++

"Zandra I'm not letting you investigate this place." Mr Dunham put the paper down and looked at me over his reading glasses. "It's not safe. I can't let you run around after a bunch of. . . what? Vampires? It's a ludicrous idea."
"Think of the Story though! I could prove the existence of one of the oldest bedtime frights in existence. Not only that but just think of what we could learn. Some of these vampires have been alive for centuries!" I argued.
"Who do you think is going to believe you?"
I glared at him.
"Besides you said yourself, and I quote 'Young people come from all over to loose themselves in the music of the throbbing dance floor. Most never make it home.' Why should I let you walk willingly into that? Your father would kill me."
"You don't need to worry about that," I assured him quickly. "I found a vampire willing to take me in as his. . .pet. . .the other vampires, under their own laws, wouldn't be able to touch me. I'd be a claimed human. It's perfectly safe."
"Yes, unless that vampire decides to gets a little hungry." Mr Dunham's voice rose in volume as he finished his sentence.
"Mr. Dunham I am doing this with or without your permission," I stated quietly. "It's up to you weather or not you want this story. If you don't I'll just take it somewhere else."
He sighed. "You've always been such a willful child but fine I'll allow it. Just don't die on me Zandra. I'm not going to be the one to explain this to your father."


That night I found myself waiting in the icy cold to get into the warehouse that held the Bleeding Hole. I was dressed much like the other human "pets". In other words barely at all. The wind tore right past the tight leather skirt and silver sleeveless top that Darin, my vampire companion, told me brought out my eyes. I stood shivering with Darin's arm around my shoulders for what seemed like hours. Finally we reached the front of the line and for the first time I truly laid eyes on Slade.
The Xet Kesdu was a tall imposing figure blocking the doorway with his football player frame. He took one look at the way I was dressed and smiled greasily. "Welcome to the Bleeding Hole," He mumbled, pulling something out of a crate next to him and handing it to Darin. Darin took my hand and we moved past him.
Inside seemed to be nothing more that a writhing mass of bodies all moving to the music that thrummed from the massive speakers around the room, lights and hands playing over their bodies. Looking around I caught site of the platform where the music originated from and the Asian beauty who ultimately lorded over the movement of the room.
I spun around as I felt Darin slip something around my neck. "Don't want to mar that Pretty little throat fo yours." he said in my ear, trying to whisper and be herd over the music at the same time. I reached a hand up and felt what could only be a collar.
"So that's how they tell the domestic and the wild ones apart" I thought to myself before Darin claimed my hand once again and pulled my onto the pulsating dance floor.
We dance for hours before I caught anyone who matched any of the descriptions of the Night Walkers I was looking for. just as I was about to ask Darin if we could get out of there, a man and woman came up on either side of me.
Their arms were bared, revealing matching tattoos of a blue and a black rose, their stems entwined around one another. "Are you the pet who wanted to talk to us?" the man asked, pressing close to be herd over the throbbing music.
"Are you Chase and Jem?" I returned.
The woman smiled and moved in, trapping me between their ever moving bodies. I stood very still, trying not to get distracted. "We are." The woman answered simply. She placed her hand on my shoulder and spun me around, pushing me after an already moving Chase.


"You want to hear our story?" Jem's eyes had changed in the thirty seconds it had taken to get to the booth we sat in. The hard emerald of before softened to an almost hazel color.
"Yes," I answered. "Your's and a few other's caught my interest while I was talking to Darin.
"What price are you willing to pay?" Chase asked.
"Anything." I answered.
"Anything is a dangerous thing to promise," Jem said quietly. " but very well. I'll tell you our story."