by T. S. Ryder
After breakfast, I join my mother in the living room. She is sitting on the Ron Arid stainless steel sofa — the most expensive sofa in the world, although I don’t know how anyone can stand to sit on it — with her ankles and knees together, legs slanted to the side and her hands resting in her lap. Her face is impassive, but even without any expression her Japanese heritage lends it an impressive look. She looks stunning, as if she were posing for a photoshoot. I can’t tell whether she is grieving or not, because it’s not the first time I’ve seen this look on her face. This is her usual look, her equilibrium state. But given that my father got cremated yesterday, I decide to be sympathetic.
“It’s going to be okay, mother,” I say. “I’ll be here for as long as you need me.” I get up to join her on her metal sofa when she finally speaks, looking straight at me.
“Don’t get up, I’m fine. I told you the day before, there’s no need for you to stay. I mean it, and I would like to be alone,” she says in her heavily Japanese-accented English. She gets up, her Jimmy Choos clacking on the black marble floor, picks up a cigar from a box on the mantel, lights it and returns to her place. She takes a casual puff, then says, “Lola, I’d like you to leave when you’re done grieving.”
She makes it sound like she is doing me a favor by letting me stay. In a moment of grief, I’d mistaken my mother for a person — my mistake. I find it funny how she pronounces my name. She always says it like ‘Law-lah.’ Other than that, her English is perfect, a combination of a beautiful accent and elite haughtiness. Her chocolate-brown eyes are filled with the disdain that she really feels for everyone. She truly believes she is superior, and she never tries to hide her dislike for me.
Her dislike for me is a result of things beyond our control. We come from a long line of witches, and since the witchy genes (or whatever it is that allows us to do magic) skip one generation, I ended up a witch and she didn’t. That is something she holds against me, even though the non-witchy generation gets the ability to predict the future. It was partly how she’d become so successful, but she would never admit it. Being an actor, a former top model, a philanthropist, one of New York’s elite and a trophy wife to my business tycoon father had thrust us all into the limelight. She publicly maintained that she wanted to keep her personal life personal and her only child out of the spotlight, but in truth, she just didn’t want any attention focused on me. Her personal life is, and has always been, very public otherwise.
While I got the witchy gene, I didn’t get her size-zero genes. We look more like sisters than mother and daughter, and she is the beautiful one. Growing up in her shadow had been difficult, and she made it harder by always excluding me from things. Even when we had parties at our place, she made sure that I stayed in my room. It was awful having the people I had massive crushes on, singers and divas who topped the charts, actors and actresses who played superheroes, across the hall from me when the closest I could get to them was looking at the pictures that made it to the tabloids the next day.
My parents didn’t really raise me or play any part in my life growing up, aside from paying for the live-in nanny and my college. My mother made a point of donating her designer dresses and shoes, reminding me constantly, “You should lose weight if you want these. It would be a disgrace to the designer if you wore them the way you are.”
So, naturally, I turned out exactly how you’d expect me to, growing up in a fancy place among rich people who were always in a war to outdo each other. Unlike other kids of the same circle, I had zero confidence or belief in myself, and only began to have the semblance of a life once I moved out and got a job at a hospital.
“Fine,” I say. “There isn’t much for me to grieve, so I’ll leave and let you grieve alone.”
“O-negai shimasu, Lola, there’s no need to be so dramatic,” she says. I expect her to follow that by asking me to stay, to not leave so soon, or something like that, but she doesn’t. “I prefer my solitude. Unlike you, I have a very busy life. I prefer some quiet whenever I can get it.”
“Mother, had you ever been to visit father at the hospital, you’d see how busy hospitals are.” I run upstairs to gather my things.
“Arigatō,” she says, then calls after me. “Take the back entrance, there’s a camera crew gathered at the front one.”
I leave through the front door instead, passing my mother on the stairs as she dramatically broadcasts her grief to the cameras and microphones that are shoved into her face. None of the paparazzi bother about me, having no clue that I am the daughter. I don’t look the part.
When I get back to my apartment I immediately turn on the TV and switch to E! News in the hope of catching my mother’s press conference. I want to hear her speech to see if she’d mentioned me or anything about me. The only thing I catch is the sound of cameras clicking as her handsome agent places his arm behind her and guides her back into the brownstone house. She stops for a moment and looks at the camera, and it feels like she is glaring at me through the screen, although it is hard to see her eyes because she has black, diamond-studded Versace shades on. I go on my computer and find a clip of her speech on YouTube, complete with my supposedly dramatic exit. It doesn’t look as dramatic on the screen. She doesn’t mention me, doesn’t say anything about her ‘family’, just talks about herself, how she is coping, what she plans to do, etc.
It pains me to see that she literally doesn’t give a fuck about me, her only child, and that is the final straw for me. I decide to cut all ties with her, not that she’d notice. It is ludicrous, really, being the only daughter of two billionaires and having to work my ass off to get by. My parents had stopped supporting me financially as soon as I had turned 18 — or, at least, my mother had. My father had literally played no role in my life. All the money and businesses my father had left were in my mother’s name.
I want some sort of closure, but I know I won't get any, so there is no point in trying. For the first time in years, I ache to return to work on a Sunday. The hospital is completely different to my home, but I feel much more at home there. The walls are painted in subtle colors, and people only talk when they need something from you. They might not always be kind, but I have no expectations of them, and so I am never really disappointed by them. Back at home I had always expected affection or love, but the closest my parents had got to that was handing me my pocket money.
At times like this, I miss my grandmother. She’s the polar opposite of my mother, and she always made me feel better. I suddenly remember something that she often said to me, “Tonbi ga taka wo umu.” It was a Japanese quote that translated to ‘A kite breeding a hawk’. I remember asking her what that meant, and how she’d put her hand on my cheek and say, “It means that you are a splendid child born from common parents.” But I haven’t heard from my grandmother in years. We never really knew where she was at any particular time; she would just appear and disappear as she pleased.
Chapter Two - Valnoir
Sunday
After two hours of trying to sleep, I give up and get out of bed. The sun is burning outside, I can tell, although nothing comes in through the window. It isn’t really a window anyway. From the outside it looks like a window, but from the inside it has bricks stuffed in underneath a coat of plaster. On the surface is a thin plasma screen that broadcasts the view from the outside. So I guess it is a window, in a way. There is even a skylight like that in the foyer, although you would be hard pressed to notice it unless you looked up and spotted the oddity. It, too, has the same level of brightness as the rest of the windows in the mansion, dimmer than real sunlight. That’s how it is inside the Fort.
The Fort is where we live. It’s an 18th-century mansion, and has all the problems that come from that. That is, while everything inside is quaint and dainty, it also has the musty, stale stench. But people like us can’t afford to move too easily, and they don’t build houses this large anymore. Unless they start selling school buildings, we are stuck here. Who are we, you ask! Well, we a
re vampires, but before you jump to any conclusions, let me make something very clear: we don’t sparkle in the sunlight, and we have nothing against the Cullens. We enjoy good fiction — or, not so good, in this case — just as much as you do. You want to know why? Because we are people, too, just like you. Except that, of course, just like a diabetic needs insulin or certain individuals have special dietary requirements, we need blood to survive, and we are photosensitive; exposure to the sun dries us up, and prolonged exposure to it will turn us to ashes, or dust.
Given our special needs, everyone at the Fort has jobs. We also have a president, head, master of the house. His name is Viktor and he is my father. Back in the 18th century, during the Great Plague, my father bit us all and turned us into vampires: me; my 25-year-old brother, Magnus; my 4-year-old sister, Charlotte; my 29-year old step-sister, Victoria; my mother, Lady Harriet; and my ex-step-mother, Lady Mary. I was 24 at the time. The Fort has over 500 rooms on about ten stories. Three of them are above ground, and the rest are underground. More continue to be dug as other vampires join us.
The perks of being my father’s son are limited to the exclusive use of the upper two stories for my family. Other than that we all are treated the same, get the same jobs that are passed out randomly and have to do important tasks and menial ones. But because we have over 300 people living in the Fort, there’s no rush to complete the tasks. We all get our assignments on Sunday evenings, and have to complete them before the next week.
I can’t tell you much about my brother, Magnus. He lived up to his name for about a century or two, being magnificent and all, but then he had his room reassigned underground. I haven’t seen him in about ten years, but rumor has it that he practically lives at the Harem — that’s where the ladies are. Guys of his age are the ones who frequent the Harem the most, because they’re in their prime and from a time when they couldn’t fuck around as easily, so the novelty of the whole thing hasn’t worn off yet. I doubt it ever will. Lady Mary and my mother used to bicker at every chance they got, the former calling my mother a harlot. I’m not sure if she deliberately distorted her name or just taunted my mother for sleeping with her husband while he was married. That marriage was doomed, though. Not having a son used to be a really big deal back then, and Lady Mary had failed to produce another offspring. Then there’s Victoria, known popularly as Victoria the Virgin or Virgin Mary. She’s still stuck in her time and hasn’t been able to find a gentleman yet. The only modern thing she does is watch Downton Abbey on repeat. Yeah, that show is from her time, although Lady Mary in the show did have premarital sex with someone who wasn’t exactly a gentleman, but Victoria hasn’t learned yet. She’s my half-sister so I won’t say much, and it doesn’t really matter anymore, but she’s jaw-dropping-gob-smackingly gorgeous and comes complete with the 18th century get up. That leaves Charlotte, my younger sister, who got trapped in her youth in a time when children played in the gardens. She ventured into the garden about two decades ago and never returned. It was a breezy summer day and her ashes went with the breeze, although we did recover her clothes.
I’m not callous, although it may seem that way, but after being alive for years, you get bored of people and don’t really care much if they live or die. The feelings you have for them certainly do die. No one was really bothered by Charlotte’s death except my mother, who sank into a deep depression and has kept to her room since then. We often find her hanging by a rope tied to the ceiling fan, looking embarrassed as hell upon being discovered. My father says she doesn’t really want to die, because if she did, she could just go outside during the day. Anyway, I’m getting off topic. Most feelings have died after all these years, as my father tells me every time I ask for a favor and play the ‘I’m your son’ card. “I have loved you enough for 20 lifetimes, so I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t have any more to give to you.” And I do understand, truly. I won’t shed a tear when he dies, that’s for sure. The only thing that has survived is lust, although even we have some lunatics who believe in love and all that.
We don’t really know much about our origins, to be honest. There were vampires before us, way, way before us. But we have customs and traditions, things that we have to do, although the reasons for all those things are obscured by years and years of history. You can learn all that stuff from the Ancients, but there are no Ancients at the Fort.
I can already hear doors opening, as people get ready for the meeting where the tasks will be assigned. With an air of efficiency and purpose, I abandon my bed and head to the Foyer. There’s a steady stream filing out of the staircase that leads to the underground floors. The lights are all on, and people start to get in order once my father appears in the gallery of the second floor. He doesn’t bother with speeches, just says a few words of welcome, states the issues, proposes resolutions, urges people to share their opinions and take matters to the Council. This week he announces that we are running short on blood, and our blood consumption has reached a high level. In his words, “Our stocks are neither depleting nor repleting, and that is cause for concern, for times change without warning, and before we know it our survival could be threatened. I urge you to keep that in mind and volunteer for tasks that will help the cause. The Wicce has also fallen ill and it is rather unfortunate that we don’t have others of her kind among us; the doctor is of the opinion that she will soon succumb to old age, and we don’t have anyone she can pass on her knowledge to. It would indeed be a great loss if we didn’t find a replacement in time. Anyone who does find us a replacement for her shall be handsomely rewarded.”
I know what he means, I think. From time to time we take in humans who are transported to the lowest level of the Fort. They are treated very well and mostly come of their own free will or are recruited. We give them the best food we can arrange, nutrition that promotes blood in the body, and our nurses regularly extract the blood and store it for us. There’s a high humans get when a vampire sinks their teeth into them, so some of them are here for that. Others prefer more civilized methods, like having their blood harvested through tubes and stuff.
As for the Wicce, she is just a witch. She has been with us since the beginning and, in spite of all those long life potions, she has aged — they all do, the best they can do is really slow it down. The Wicce has done a lot for us, can heal sun wounds, sits on the Council and is just as important as the Head (my father); what she does at the Council or in her chambers is not known to us, but we know that she plays an important part.
I sign up for blood collection because that is kind of an easy job. You just go to a hospital and rob the blood bank and make sure no one sees you, that’s all. And since I am so bored and in desperate need of a life, I decide to get the job done tonight.
Chapter Three - Lola
Sunday
My mother is holding an event to honor my father at Miro. It is the poshest place in New York: so posh, in fact, that they simply turn you away if they haven’t heard of you. It’s where people from the Forbes 500 hang out with Hollywood’s royalty. I have only seen pictures of that place, pictures of my parents partying there. Naturally, my mother hadn’t thought it was important for me to be there. As with most things, I find out about it on E! News. What’s really depressing about it is that the news channels are broadcasting the arrival of the guests, all the famous people, almost as if it were the Academy Awards.
I turn off the TV and call up the hospital to see if they need help.
“Lincoln Medical Centre, this is Penny Morgan, how may I help?”
“Penny,” I say. “It’s me, Lola.”
“Oh, hi, why aren’t you calling my number? And why are you calling at all?”
“I just wanted to see if you guys needed any help.”
“Lola, you just had a terrible loss. I think you should enjoy your — err, just spend your off time with your family.”
“Penny, I swear I’ll kill myself if I have to stay at home and see any more of my mother on TV. Can you believe she did
n't invite me at the remembrance thing she’s holding at Miro?”
“Oh dear,” Penny says. “Well, you know it’s a hospital and it’s the weekend. We can use all the help we can get, and I could use a break too, so come whenever you want to. I need to hang up now, a lady in labor just showed up.”
“Bye,” I say, after she hangs up.
Penny Morgan is one of the ladies who sits at reception with me. She’s a very nice lady, and often brings muffins for everyone at work. Her husband died last year, but her daughter had a baby soon after, so she’s doing well now. She regularly brings photos of her grandson and shows them to people at work. Naturally, being single, I absolutely love kids. I would like to have a few children of my own someday. Since I haven’t been able to find a man, and I know how tough getting through adoption is, I have been considering IVF. I had thought I would inherit some money when my father died and would be able to afford it then, but that didn’t happen.
I get off the bus and walk across the block to the hospital. The red brick building of Lincoln Medical Centre looks as imposing as ever, and I see the usual scene behind the glass doors, the weekend rush: drunk teenagers, women in labor, concerned parents, and a cop or two roaming about. Penny is sitting behind the desk cheerfully talking to a couple, gesturing to some corridor with her short, flabby hands. She smiles when she sees me and waves me over.
“Goodness, you’re already here,” she cooes excitedly. I can see the bread crumbs on her pink uniform and pray to god that she doesn’t hug me. God is usually busy when it comes to me, though, and Penny opens her arms wide and embraces me.
“Oh, sweetie, I know what you’re going through. When my Wilmer died, believe me, oh…it was horrible.” I know what comes next, the tragic story of how her husband had died of old age, how unexpected it was even after six months in and out of the hospital. The tragic story is followed by a steady stream of tears, and instead of being comforted — not that I need any comforting — I end up comforting her. It looks like she feels sadder than I do, which makes me feel like I should be sadder than I am. But there isn’t much to be sad about, and the pressure to feel sad is getting on my nerves. Whenever I look at Penny I find her looking at me, smiling in that annoying “I feel you” way that is too saccharine for my taste.