Maeve 🌹
The rest of the period passed in a blur of meaningless motion. I sat on the bench, a ghost at the feast, watching the living play their loud, pointless games. The final bell was a mercy.
I changed back into my clothes in the same corner of the locker room, moving with a slow, deliberate numbness. The chatter of the other girls was just static, their plans for the evening and complaints about homework sounding like a language from a different planet. I was no longer a part of their world, if I ever truly had been. My world had been cracked open, and something ancient and dark had slipped inside.
The walk to the parking lot was a familiar kind of purgatory. I kept my head down, my sketchbook clutched to my chest like a prayer book. The drizzle had started again, a fine, grey mist that settled on my hair and jacket, blurring the edges of the world. It was my favorite kind of weather, but today it just made everything feel washed out and sad.
Then I saw them.
They were standing by a gleaming silver Volvo, a car that looked more like a spaceship than something meant for the potholed roads of Forks. The Cullens. They were all there, a perfect, impossible family unit. Rosalie and Emmett were leaning against the car, looking like a Vogue cover shoot. Alice was talking animatedly to Jasper, who watched her with an expression of intense, pained adoration. And Edward… Edward was staring at the wet asphalt, his face a mask of pure, undiluted misery.
My eyes, however, searched for only one person.
Duvessa stood slightly apart from the others, her hands in the pockets of a long, black coat. She wasn't talking or laughing. She was simply observing, her stillness a stark contrast to the restless energy of the human students rushing to their cars around her. The mist seemed to cling to her, outlining her dark hair and pale skin, making her look like a figure from a gothic romance, a beautiful specter haunting the mundane world.
As if she felt my gaze, she lifted her head. Her black eyes found mine across the expanse of cars and students.
The world stopped.
The noise of the parking lot faded to a dull roar. The drizzle on my skin went unnoticed. It was just us, two fixed points in a swirling universe of grey. Her expression was unreadable, a perfect, placid mask. But her eyes… her eyes were anything but. They held me in place, a physical force that rooted my feet to the cracked pavement. It was a look of ownership. A look that said, *There you are.*
A slow, deliberate smile touched her lips. It wasn't a friendly smile. It was sharp and possessive, a secret shared between the two of us across the crowded lot. It was a promise. It said, *This is only the beginning.*
Edward saw the exchange. His head snapped up, his golden eyes wide with horror as he looked from her to me and back again. He said something to her, his voice too low for me to hear, the words urgent and pleading.
Duvessa didn't even glance at him. Her eyes remained locked on mine. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head, dismissing her cousin's anguish without a thought. Then, with a final, lingering look that felt like a brand on my soul, she turned. But she didn't head for the silver Volvo. She walked toward the car parked next to it, a black Jaguar so sleek and dark it seemed to drink the grey light from the sky. It was a predator crouched on the asphalt.
The others got into the Volvo, the doors closing with a soft, expensive thump. Edward shot one last, desperate look in my direction before sliding into the passenger seat.
Duvessa, however, moved to the driver's side of the Jaguar. She opened the door with a fluid grace and slipped inside, her form disappearing into the car's black interior. The engine ignited not with a growl, but with a low, guttural snarl that vibrated through the soles of my shoes. It was the sound of a caged beast waking up.
Both cars pulled out of their spaces with impossible speed and grace, the silver Volvo and the black Jaguar moving in perfect, deadly sync. They disappeared down the road in a blur of motion, leaving only the scent of rain and a strange, electric tension in the air.
I was left standing in the mist, my heart hammering against my ribs. The spot where their cars had been was just an empty patch of wet asphalt. The world, which had been so sharp and vivid a moment ago, snapped back to its dull, grey reality.
I finally managed to unstick my feet and walk towards my own vehicle. It wasn't a relic; it was my sanctuary. A shiny, forest green Jeep, usually a point of pride, a splash of life against the perpetual grey of Forks. But now, under the weight of that final stare, it felt too bright, too normal, too… mundane. It felt like a costume I was wearing.
As I fumbled with the keys, my hand trembling, I knew with a certainty that shook me to my core that the girl who drove this Jeep to school this morning was gone. She'd been seen by something ancient, and in being seen, she had been irrevocably changed.
I didn't want to change back.
The drive home was an exercise in autopilot. My hands knew the turns, my foot knew the pressure for the brake and gas, but my mind was miles away, trapped in a crowded parking lot, held captive by a pair of black eyes. The familiar green canopy of the forest lining the road seemed darker, the shadows between the trees deeper and more secretive.
I pulled into the driveway of the two-story house that had been my entire world for seventeen years. Nestled amongst a forest of towering, skeletal trees and dark evergreens, the house stood as a warm beacon against the December afternoon light. Its dark siding and stone chimneys gave it a timeless, sturdy feel, a stark contrast to the delicate, welcoming light spilling from the windows onto the wraparound porch. A cold, relentless Forks drizzle had slicked the stone pathway, making it glisten as it meandered through the dormant bushes to the front steps. A chill hung in the air, sharp and damp.
No other cars were there. Arthur must be working on a case. Being a cold-hearted lawyer tends to keep your afternoon hours filled. His office was his first home, it seemed.
The key turned in the lock with a familiar, soft click. I stepped inside, kicking off my wet boots on the mat. "I'm home," I called out, the words a hollow habit. The only answer was the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.
This was normal. The empty house.
Usually, I craved it. The silence was a balm after the grating noise of school. It was my sanctuary, the one place I could shed the skin of the quiet, weird girl and just be. Here, I could spread my sketchbooks across the living room floor, blast my strange, melancholic music, and exist without an audience. The quiet was my friend.
Today, it was a different beast entirely.
The silence wasn't peaceful. It was heavy, charged, listening. Every creak of the old house's floorboards sounded like a footstep. The ticking of the clock wasn't a comforting rhythm; it was a countdown. To what, I didn't know.
I dropped my bag by the stairs and walked into the kitchen, my movements stiff and automatic. I opened the fridge, stared at its contents—milk, eggs, a sad-looking Tupperware of leftover spaghetti—and felt nothing. Hunger was a distant concept. I closed the door, my own reflection a pale, wide-eyed ghost in the stainless steel.
I went upstairs to my room, the one place that was truly mine. The walls were a deep, stormy grey, covered in my own charcoal drawings—fantastical beasts, shadowed forests, faces with too many eyes. My sanctuary within a sanctuary. But even here, the feeling of being watched lingered. It was as if her gaze from the parking lot had followed me home, seeping through the walls.
I sat on my bed and pulled out the sketchbook, my thumb tracing the worn cover. I flipped it open to this morning's drawing. The wolf. It looked pathetic, a cartoon. Its snarl was theatrical, its eyes just pencil marks on a page. It was a monster I had invented, a safe monster I could control.
My hand, feeling a will of its own, picked up a stick of charcoal. I turned to a fresh page. I should have drawn the wolf again, tried to fix it. I should have drawn one of the twisted, gnarled trees I loved.
Instead, I tried to draw her.
It was an impossible task. My fingers felt clumsy, the charcoal a blunt, useless instrument. I started with the eyes. How do you draw a void? How do you capture the way they consumed the light, the feeling of falling into them? The black smudges on my page were flat, lifeless.
I tried to sketch the line of her jaw, that sharp, elegant angle. I tried to capture the cruel, perfect curve of her lips as she smiled that secret, possessive smile. But the drawing was a mockery. It was just a face, a collection of features. It held none of the danger, none of the gravitational pull, none of the ancient, terrifying beauty. It didn't capture the feeling of the air growing cold around her, or the way she moved like smoke.
Frustrated, I pressed the charcoal down hard, a dark, angry line slashing across the page, ruining the drawing. I slammed the sketchbook shut, my breath coming in ragged bursts.
I couldn't capture her. I couldn't contain her on a page like my other monsters. She wasn't a fantasy I could control.
She was real.
The charcoal dust on my fingers felt gritty and wrong. My room, once a haven, now felt like a cage lined with my own failures. I couldn't draw her. I couldn't stay here.
Pushing myself off the bed, I grabbed the book from my nightstand. Its spine was soft and cracked, the cover worn smooth from countless readings. It was an old friend, a familiar ghost. I needed the air, even if it was damp and heavy with the smell of wet earth.
Our backyard was a deep patch of green that sloped down towards a small, murky pond shrouded by ferns and ancient cedar trees. At the edge of the water sat a white gazebo, something my mother had asked Arthur to have build. Its paint was peeling, and moss grew in the cracks, but it was my favorite place on earth. It was a little pocket of forgotten time.
The drizzle had paused, and a weak, watery sun was attempting to pierce the thick blanket of clouds. It cast long, hazy beams of golden light through the trees, illuminating the swirling mist that rose from the damp ground. It was a fragile, fleeting beauty.
I settled onto the cool, wooden bench inside the gazebo, the familiar scent of decaying leaves and damp wood enveloping me. I opened the book, not needing to find my place. I knew the words by heart. *Carmilla*.
I dove into the story, letting the gothic prose wash over me. I was no longer Maeve Sable in a damp gazebo in Forks. I was Laura, lonely in her isolated Styrian castle, her world a quiet, predictable thing until the carriage crash, until the arrival of the beautiful, languid stranger.
Every word describing Carmilla felt like a description of Duvessa. Her movements were "graceful and languid." Her voice was "low and sweet." She was a creature of the night, full of strange contradictions—a "childish glee" one moment and a "sudden and startling" intensity the next. She was possessive, demanding, her affection a smothering, intoxicating thing that left Laura weak and breathless.
*"I have been in love with no one, and never shall," she whispered, "unless it should be with you."*
My breath hitched. I read the line again, my thumb stroking the page. It was the same feeling I'd had in the lab—that terrifying, thrilling sense of being singled out, of being chosen by something magnificent and dangerous. Laura was afraid of Carmilla, but she was also utterly captivated. She craved her presence even as it drained the life from her. I understood that. I understood it in my bones.
I read on, my heart sinking as I approached the inevitable end. The men arrived—the General, the Baron, the doctor—with their books and their swords, their righteous, masculine certainty. They saw a monster, a plague to be eradicated. They couldn't see the strange, desperate love story unfolding in the shadows.
They found her tomb. They drove a stake through her heart, severed her head, and burned her body to ashes. And Laura was "saved."
I closed the book, the familiar, bitter disappointment rising in my throat. It happened every time. I wanted to rip the last few chapters out, to rewrite it myself. They didn't save her. They destroyed the most vibrant, intoxicating thing that had ever happened to her.
I leaned my head back against the gazebo's lattice frame, staring out at the darkening pond. Why couldn't they have had a happy ending? Why couldn't Laura have run away with her beautiful, monstrous girl? Why did the monster always have to be slain? Why was a love that was different, a love that was dark and possessive and lived in the shadows, automatically condemned?
My disappointment wasn't just for the characters on the page. It was a deep, personal ache for a world that had no room for such things. A world that would see Duvessa's sharp smile and cold skin and only see a monster to be destroyed.
But I had seen it, and I hadn't wanted to run. I'd wanted to get closer.
The last of the golden light faded, and the backyard was plunged into the deep blue of twilight. The story was meant as a warning. A cautionary tale about the monster in beautiful skin.
But sitting there, in the quiet dark, I realized I hadn't read it as a warning at all. I had read it as a tragedy. A romance that was never given a chance. And a dangerous, hopeful question began to bloom in the back of my mind: could my story have a different ending?