Page 4 of Bitten Vampire
I stare at the growing mess and rub the back of my sweaty neck. Seeing my things on the ground is almost overwhelming, especially the things that landed in the flowerbeds and are now streaked with dirt.
I’ll have to wash everything. I love clothes, but now that I’m on a strict budget, each piece must be chosen with care. My carefully curated capsule wardrobe—where everything mixes and matches—is a source of pride, along with my makeup.
My makeup… Bile fills my mouth. I close my eyes. Most of it won’t survive the drop from the window. A few palettes are already broken, and I don’t dare look closer. I refuse to cry, not with onlookers enjoying the show.
A few neighbours peek out from their windows, while the bolder ones linger in their doorways, coffee mugs clutched in their hands, clearly entertained at my expense.
I know how people see me—blonde, blue eyes, petite, unassuming. They decide who I am before I open my mouth: stupid. Soft. Weak. Middle-aged.
It doesn’t bother me. Let them think what they want. The version of me they have in their heads isn’t real. Only my own perception of myself matters.
“That’s what you get when you cheat!” a woman callsout before slamming her door. The sound echoes down the street.
My cheeks burn. “I didn’t cheat,” I mutter. Louder, I yell, “He’s my landlord!” As if I would have a relationship with Derek. “He’s not even a friend.”
I flinch as something smacks me in the forehead.Ouch.The rubber chicken dog toy squawks comically as it hits the grass. Baylor eyes it and lets out a soft “awoo” before returning to his work of tearing at the wet, silky fabric under his paws.
This is all his fault. Bloody dog.
I sigh, hunch my shoulders and—with one eye on Baylor and the other on the window above—begin gathering my things, yanking them out of the shrubs. The stems catch on my sleeves and scratch my hands. I sweep my scattered possessions into a pile, hoping Derek will eventually toss down my bags.
Baylor’s a good dog, really. It’s not his fault, it’s mine. He’s been through a lot. He has separation anxiety, and I don’t blame him—his humans passed away a couple of weeks ago, and I’m a poor substitute.
I don’t know what the heck I’m doing.
What I do know is that a three-year-old Husky isn’t ideal for a first-time pet owner.
First, he chewed the wires in the back of my car and damaged the lights. I thought I was being thoughtful when I lowered the seats so he would have more room to curl his fluffy bum and grumpy attitude into the boot. I had no idea he’d make a meal out of it.
I couldn’t afford the repair, but I had no choice since I need a vehicle for work. So, today I got it fixed,bought a waterproof cover to protect the back seat, and invested in two dog guards: one to block the front, and one to protect the boot and its tasty lights.
I assumed locking him in my room while I ran to the dealership would be safe.
Turns out, it wasn’t.
I wasn’t gone long, maybe forty-five minutes. But when I returned, there was a hole in my bedsit’s door, and Baylor’s head was sticking through it, tail wagging, a huge doggy grin on his face.
He was thrilled to see me.
Derek was there to fix a leaky tap and saw the damage at the same time I did.
I rub my sore biceps, where finger-shaped bruises circle my arm. The tender flesh pulses under my touch. He dragged me downstairs and threw us both out. I scowl up at the window. No, Derek is not my friend.
My hairdryer lands next, its plastic shattering on the path. “Oh no.” I dash towards Baylor, deciding he’s safer in the car.
There’s no dog lead in sight. I improvise with a knee sock, loop it around his collar and let him drag me to the vehicle. He leaps into the back and wriggles, smoke-grey tail thumping against me as he inspects the new ‘anti-Husky décor.’
The spring weather still holds a chill, but I crack the windows for him before running back to salvage my belongings. At least I don’t have to haul them downstairs.
A threadbare bag scrapes the red brick on its way down. Finally. I scoop up armfuls of clothes and shove them inside.
What’s sad is that this doesn’t even make the top ten worst things that have happened these past four months. Just thinking about everything churns my stomach. If I dwell on it too long, I’ll be sick.
Four months ago, with my pride in tatters, I moved out and rented a dingy, mouldy room. Jay didn’t call, but his mum sent me an email at 2 a.m. terminating me ‘effective immediately.’
Deep down, I wanted Jay to miss me. To fight for me. As days turned into weeks, his family waged war on my reputation, but Jay remained suspiciously silent.
Seven weeks later, I was scrolling through my mobile when my thumb froze. Jay’s face flashed on the screen, smiling, his arm around another woman.
