It was not that he couldn't love me. It was that he wouldn't. I remember the mocking words of my best friends as they teased me about the dark, handsome stranger I dreamt about every night. What I never told them was that I actually saw him. Almost everyday. On the last stretch of my journey home from school, I had to walk through a busy park, with a children's playground, a big fountain that I remembered swimming in as a small child, and lots of trees, thick around the edges. My brothers and I used to play murder-in-the-dark there every new years, until my oldest brother Tommy left for Uni when I was ten. Then two years later were the twins, Raphael and Luca, left too and three years after that, three years of it just being me, my brother Harry, his girlfriend at the time and his loud, perverted and boisterous friends on New years, Harry left too, when I was just fifteen. He didn't leave for Uni. He said there was no point. He left in search of Immortal Life. Life as a Vampyre. Everyone heard tales of Vampyres, every small child had nightmares of them.
Rumour, coupled with hundreds of news reports, told that the vampyres only preyed on the extra-ordinarily beautiful. Hundreds of bodies of helpless, but gorgeous young men and women had been found ever since time began, all over the world. The worst part was that these bodies could not be buried. At least, not straight away. It was impossible to tell which of the bodies was dead, and which was going through the changes needed to begin immortal life. No-one wanted to be embalming a body and then have it come back to life in your grip, hungry for blood.
No-one was truly safe from the vampyres. But no-one showed their fear. No-one except those below the age of ten. Once you were eleven, you began to think that if you hadn't been bitten yet, you weren't going to be bitten. Once you reached thirteen you were at the cocky stage, kidding yourself that you could take any vamp that ever had the cheek to attack you. You genuinely though you were 'hard' enough to take on a vamp. By sixteen you realised your mistake when one of your acquaintances was bitten. You began to get scared again.
I'm sixteen, four months and one day. And before you ask, I'm still a virgin. I'm not one of those girls who think its totally uncool to lose it when your legal, or one of those girls who are so desperate to get laid that they lose it to some randomer they don't even particularly like at their sixteenth birthday bash.
As you can probably tell already, I am not your average sixteen year old in the world of today. Yes, I wear make-up, yes I go out and party almost every weekend and holiday, but no, I'm not afraid of the vamps.
Back to the first sighting. I was walking through the park, listening to my ipod, nodding my head to the music. Then, in the corner of my eye, I saw a pair of bright, blood red eyes. I was twelve at the time. I turned and looked. In the shadows, almost hidden by the trees, he stood. He was impossibly pale, and his blood red eyes were large and unblinking. His lips were full and his nose so sculpted it looked like someone had carved it from pure white crystal. Scratch that, it looked like his whole body had been carved from pure white crystal. Including his incredibly perfect six-pack which I could see underneath his unbuttoned short-sleeved black shirt. He was wearing skinny black jeans, and an teeth-bared smile. I could see his incredibly long, pointed incisors.
This proved it. He was a Vampyre, and he was staring straight at me. But for some reason I couldn't fathom, I wasn't scared. I smiled back, and continued walking. And that's when it started. A few times a month, for years on end I would see him there. His clothes never changed, nor his expression. If he had been there everyday I would have sworn he was a statue. But some days he wasn't. He was never there when I was with others, or when the park was so packed that someone else would see him lurking in the shadows. The weather didn't effect the days he came on. In fact, he was most often there when it was raining, since the park would be deserted. I would always hope with a passion that on these rainy, deserted days he would come over to me. Talk to me. Bite me.
Of course, he never did. At least, not until that one day, over a year after I became the only child left in the house, over a year since mum and dad had began to disregard me, not caring if I came in late, not caring if if I stayed out for days at a time. They were so hooked on watching the news, sitting by the phone. Waiting for some sign of my brother, Harry. He disappeared a year ago, when he left to pursue immortal life. He was never found dead, or even 'dead'. He wasn't found alive either. Missing person posters were put in every town across the country, with his face on them. Not that anyone would find him. I was the only one who seemed to realise this. Mum and dad didn't even acknowledge the fact that I had spoken when I said it at sunday dinner, four months after his disappearance.
Somehow, my vamp new I wouldn't be missed. Knew I was insignificant. And that's when he struck.