Stranded

Visiting my old home. Every year I do it. I go back out of respect not to the land that I spoke of in and older post (Rarity, August 19), but to her. Ive spent the last few weeks out here, hours from my new home. The land hasn't changed much. It has been subdivided in to 3 separate titles, but when viewing the land from my hill, the fences are barely noticeable. I now stand over the grave...

Most mammals have parents that care for them, raising them, teaching them, in the hope that they may one day look after themselves. Most. Some lack such a lifestyle. I didn't stand a chance from the age of 5. Before then, I had a mother. As opposed to Arthur, she showed she cared. She would always be there after my nightmares, watching me return to sleep. If I was picked on by the kids at school, she would comfort me, wiping the salty tears from my blue eyes. When I stubbed my toe, or shut my hand in the door, I would crawl into her embrace, and she would stroke my long blonde hair and hum to me. Beautiful compositions from an age long gone vibrated from her chest. Bach - Sarabande, my favorite.

Climbing into the car after school, I could here mum pleading with Arthur to put out his newly lit cigarette. As the car left the school, the aroma of cigarette smoke floated into the back seat. I began humming the Sarabande to myself, attempting to block out my surroundings. Then came the crescendo of crunching metal, accompanied by the ominous screeching of tyres. A chorus of screams erupted, inside the car, and out. Soft moans from the drivers seat created a drone. The harsh melody of chaos was new to me. As the slamming of the car halted, the distinct smell of petrol joined the cigarette smoke. Another smell hung in the air, sour, unfamiliar. My neck ached from whiplash, and as I moved my left arm, a throbbing pain responded. I struggled to complain with winded lungs. I clutched it to my chest, undid my seat belt, and crawled into the front of the car. I collapsed in the arms of my mother. This time, she didn't stroke me, or hum to me. Her arms were cold, her face ashen, though she could have been sleeping... With horror, I realised the unknown smell was that of death. Before I had time to react, large arms wrapped around my body, and tore me from her. I screamed for her, reached out towards her, but I was unable to break away from the strong grasp. Arthur clambered out next, hesitantly, pausing over mums body. His foot splashed in the puddle of petrol that was under the car. Seemingly accidental, his cigarette fell from his hand and ignited the petrol.
I began screaming, crying, fighting the grip that held me from my mother, and the inferno that instantly began to consume the car. The heat from the fire began to sear my flesh, as i reached out for her. Metres felt like miles... Why did she have to burn?

She had to. Arthur was always too rational. He put the body of his wife before his lifestyle. Our lifestyle. They will never know what she was, as it is meant to be. To this day, deceased vampires have been presented with a premature cremation. It is one of the reasons we travel in groups; someone must burn the body. Arthurs comforting words: "If you ever even think about telling anyone who we are, I'll rip out your throat."

Since that daything have changed. With my mood, my hair has darkened to a dirty brown. My eyes have hardened, the innocent blue now murky green. I have not called him by his parental title in over a decade for his treason. I call him by his first name. He has developed a strong hate for humans, blaming them for his wifes need to burn, to prevent another witch hunt. I began to hold Rosalie the way her mother held me, until recent events.

Now every year, on the 15th of November, I visit the hill at my old home. Ashes of her charred body buried at the foot of the cubic stone atop the hill. I engrave a mark every year to count how long I have been stranded. 12 years, and counting.