Thirst (7 page)

Brittany shook her head; fume practically pouring out of her ears. She picked up her bag and left the room swiftly. She said nothing on her way out.

Suddenly, Wade felt a strange tingle in the center of his back. It seemed to pulse and vibrate through his bones.

He took a breath, trying to gather himself. The last time he would felt that shiver was when he held his newborn daughter for the first time.

“We can rise and fall like empires, flow in and out like the tide.”

—NEIL PEART, FORCE TEN

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

MID-LIFE CRISIS

Wade felt foolish. Not only was Brittany completely right—he had managed to live up to his new title of “ignorant teacher” by kicking her out of the class, instead of admitting his faults. If it was respect that he wanted, he knew that we would have to start owning up to his problems.

He walked over to his desk and sat down, staring at his own reflection in the window.

The revelation was a huge blow to his ego—But strangely freeing. It was like blinders were lifted from his eyes, and he could finally see himself clearly.

His hockey coach, back when he was twenty-years old, was his idol. Guy Trottier had reached the NHL—a milestone Wade never reached in his career. Guy played four seasons in the NHL, and he even made it to the playoffs with the Montreal Canadians.

Never once did Guy tell Wade or any other player to respect him. Everyone just did, but not for the reason you might think.

Guy was the only son of a poor farming family. He had always dreamed of playing in the NHL, but his parents did not have enough money to enroll Guy in hockey lessons or leagues. But that never stopped Guy—he made his own ice out on the field and he taught himself how to skate and shoot pucks.

When he was old enough, he got a job at the local skating rink, shoveling snow and driving the Zamboni when his boss had the day off. He worked his ass off to make enough money to buy real hockey gear and equipment. He would stay at the rink for eighteen hours every day. He would show up when it opened to watch the local hockey team’s morning practice, he would work fourteen hours, and then he would skate until it was time to close up. When his boss was not around, he did not close up. He just kept on skating.

Then, he hitchhiked three hundred miles to attend a tryout. He missed the cut—by a lot. He was told to go home the day he arrived. Still, he tried again the next year—and the next, and the next and the next.

It was not until he was twenty-eight that he was drafted to an AHL team—the league below the NHL. He was not nearly as talented as the eighteen-year-old kids who spent their lives in quality skating rinks. Still, he worked himself to the bone—staying hours after practice to try to mimic what the kids were able to do. He barely slept, he was always sore, and he was the lowest paid player on the team.

He never complained. He never whined. He never argued with anything any of his coaches or teammates said to him. He just took it all with a smile on his face.

Somehow, he pulled ahead of the competition. With sheer, unbridled willpower, Guy made it to the NHL. He was old, and was quickly aging past his prime. He did not last very long, but he reached his dream.

And he did it without muttering a single complaint.

Guy was the kind of person Wade wanted to be his whole life. People would drop what they were doing and listen to Guy—even if he was just talking about something funny he read in a newspaper, or telling a story about the line at the DMV. Guy earned people’s attention. He had earned their respect.

Wade had other coaches—coaches that were much more accomplished than Guy was. Brad Cook, one of Wade’s coaches, won two Stanley Cups, and played twelve seasons in the NHL. Everyone knew his name.

But even Brad Cook stopped what he was doing when Guy Trottier had something to say.

Wade began to stuff his syllabus and his textbooks into his bag.

Brittany was angry—with herself, with Wade, and with life in general. No one would give her a break—no matter how badly she wanted just one little tiny break.

Unable to stare at herself any longer, she punched the mirror of the university bathroom, smashing it into pieces. The shards of her anger fell into the old porcelain sink, along with the blood from a number of freshly made cuts.

Brittany looked down at her bleeding hand. “Shit,” she muttered.

She grabbed some paper towel, to apply pressure to her new cuts.

Vampires bleed just like any other mammal—they were human once, after all. However, their blood does not satisfy their thirst the way human blood does. There is something about human blood—something that is not in a vampire’s blood, or the blood of any other creature. No one really knows what it is, seeing as if you compared the two, side by side, you wouldn’t be able to find a difference. Even with the best microscopes and chemical tests, there is no apparent difference. Any vampire would tell you that there is something there, in the blood of humans—something more valuable than any diamond.

That is not to say that vampires did not drink the blood of animals, or even their own blood—they did. Although it didn’t satisfy their thirst, but it did make the thirst more manageable—like drinking a glass of water to suppress your hunger before a meal.

Brittany’s eyes were starting to turn red, and her fangs were starting to push out from her gums.

She raised her hand to her mouth and began to drink her own lost blood. The anger raging in her body was pulling her thirst out from its dormant state. She closed her eyes as she tried to calm herself down. The taste of her blood was offering a mild, temporary relief.

She looked back up at the wall where a whole mirror once sat. In a small hanging shard, she could see the red dissipating from her eyes.

“Why am I even taking this stupid class?” she asked herself.

She rinsed the rest of the blood off her hand in the sink. Her cuts were already starting to slowly heal—one of the few perks of being a vampire.

“He doesn’t know how lucky he is that I don’t just end his pathetic little life,” Brittany muttered. “At least if he was dead, he wouldn’t be taking his failed sports career out on everyone else.”

She turned and left the bathroom. The thought of killing Wade remained in the back of her mind. She tried to push the thought back, knowing that she was still in the passion of the moment.

She turned around the corner of the forlorn university hallway. Around the corner, Andrew was waiting for her.

“Hey,” Andrew said.

“Hey,” Brittany said, forcing a smile and continuing to walk.

Andrew started to walk next to her. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah—I’m fine.”

“He didn’t flunk you out, did he? He was pretty worked up today.”

“I don’t really know.”

“I’m sure that it’ll work out—once he calms down a bit.”

Brittany opened the university door.

Andrew hurried to keep up with the angry young girl. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but is everything okay between you and Kane?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it, Andrew.”

“Okay—Okay. But if you ever want to get anything off your chest—I’m all ears. I’ve been told that I could be a therapist.”

Brittany kept walking across the campus, with Andrew sticking next to her.

“In high school—everyone always came to me with their relationship issues—not that you and Kane are in a relationship—or were—or—you know what I mean. It’s cool if you are. He seems cool.”

Brittany stopped and sighed. “Andrew—I like you. I want you to know that.”

“You do? Like—What do you mean?” Andrew asked.

“I mean, you seem like a nice person, and that’s refreshing. But I feel like right now isn’t the best time to talk to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m just kind of worked up. When I’m worked up, I sometimes say things that I don’t really mean, and I scare people away.”

“I can take it—really. I handle criticism very well.”

“I don’t mean about you, Andrew.”

“Then what do you mean?” Andrew asked. “Just get it off of your chest—You’ll feel better.” More than anything in world, Andrew wanted to hear some confirmation that Brittany and Kane were no longer an item.

Brittany sighed. “I just wish that fat bastard was dead,” Brittany said, surrendering to the temptation to let out her emotions.

“Mr. Fenner?”

“He’s such a lousy prick. I wish a fucking meteor would just smash through his pathetic skull.”

“That’s—That’s something…”

“I’m tired of being treated like some spoiled little twat. I’m sick of people thinking that the world has been handed to me on a silver platter because of who my parents are—because of the way that I look. I’m just tired of it.”

“The way you look?” Andrew asked.

“They say, ‘Look at that girl, getting her hair done every week, and spending hours on her makeup! It must be nice to have no problems in life like that.’ I’m sick of it—I haven’t gotten my hair done in ten years. I’ve been doing it myself since I was eleven. And so what? I spend a lot of time trying to look good. When I don’t, people walk into me on the God-damned street; I’m so invisible.

“And then the moment I don’t do my hair, or my makeup, everyone thinks that I’ve just given up on life. They look at me as if I have cancer or something. Why won’t someone just tell me—is it better to look like some stripper-diva, or should I walk around looking like some zombie-ghost?”

“Zombie-ghost?” Andrew asked, confused.

“Look at me.”

“I’m confused,” Andrew said.

“About what, Andrew?” Brittany said, frustrated.

“I don’t get what you mean by ‘zombie-ghost’.”

“Let’s just say that I’m less than desirable without all of my makeup and my hair products.”

“What the hell are you talking about? You’re beautiful.”

Brittany looked up at Andrew. “Andrew, c’mon...”

“You’re gorgeous. You don’t need any makeup or any hair whatevers.”

Brittany stared into Andrew’s eyes for a moment. She sighed. “Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Andrew. It’s sweet. But I can live with being below average. I can’t live with pity.”