Chapter One

Introduces Gene and Mark, and the first dream.

Chapter One

Friday June 8^th, 2012

First things first; I like descriptive words. Just listing them off is how I explain things. Like me; I’m cynical and pessimistic. Also, a vagabond. See how this works? I’m also beautiful: brown hair and blue eyes. Yet ugly as hell: Large nose and just a little too skinny. I’m a fan of being hypocritical and contradicting, too. And lying- I love lying.

I want to be good at something; to be competitive. Land a jump, hit a home run, pin someone, or play a song. I admire those with that kind of commitment, those that have a purpose- something to live for. I’m good at nothing but daydreaming, but not the kind that could be placed in a book and sold for the interest of others. Not the kind of thinking that would inspire others to go out and do something, either. My thoughts don’t work together to form one solid mass, instead they seem to float like a bundle of dandelion seeds. Pick them up, move them in any way, and they’re gone.

***

I like those red marks girls get on their legs when they cross them. The face of a person in deep concentration; the feeling of wind blowing curly brown hair off a forehead that’s been out in weather that’s just far too hot. Being able to go through someone else’s cupboards and knowing where everything is, because you practically live there. Singing as loud as you can, knowing you’re horrible and pretending no one can hear you. And, oh, to be a child again and actually believe what you pretend.

***

Gene stretches her arms over her head, her fingers touching the headboard and her back arching off the bed. The laptop on her stomach slips down and catches on her thighs, then falls back down onto her stomach with her slow drop back onto the bed. She rubs at her eyes, groaning, and my fingers feel sweaty against the clean wood of the pencil in my hand. Her brown hair is cut short, lying on my pillow, and her cleanly manicured nails move from her eyes to the soft strands, rubbing them furiously. She’s making a mess of the neatly combed mass, but she doesn’t seem to care.

“This is awful,” she grumbles, turning her face on the pillow to glare at me as I stare at her from my spot on the floor among piles of books and papers. “Why do you still not have an air conditioner? We should have done this at my house, I feel like I’m dying,” She continues, pushing herself up and leaning her elbows on her lap, then throwing her face into her open palms. I sigh, rubbing my fingers through my own brown hair, but say nothing. There’s nothing you can say to a girl like Gene when she’s in this kind of mood.

Gene has been one of my best friends since elementary school. We’re in our senior year of high school now, so we’ve been through thick and thin; well, as thick as high school can get. Despite what some may believe, high school drama isn’t really as bad as it gets.

I watch her as she neatly places the laptop next to her on the bed, then slips down onto a pile of papers on the floor across from me. She crosses her legs in front of her and curls her hands around her feet, leaning forward. Her face is close to mine, her blue eyes blocking out everything except for the soft splash of freckles across her nose. “Let’s take a break, shall we?” She says, taking on an awful European accent. I shrug. “Fine with me,” I reply, forcing myself to my feet and feeling every bone and muscle in my body react in anger.

She does the same, giving me a push with her shoulder as she walks by me on her way out the door.

She’s impossible, absolutely irritating, and yet I love her to death.

***

I love perfection. I admire it. Like a new tub of butter, a piece of music played right, books matched up by color. No matter how much one strives for perfection, it’s always found in other things. You’re never perfect, unless it’s someone else looking at you. Because perfection drives us all, an overwhelming want to be.

My perfect example of this example of perfection is Gene. The way her brown hair shines in the light, falling down around her ears and stopping just halfway along the back of her neck. The chubbiness of her cheeks and the hardness of her blue eyes when she’s angry, and how easily they can dissolve into pure joy and giggling simplicity. The way her hands and arms move in such a blur when she’s agitated or excited, and the way you can try to follow them but it’s so, so hard. I’d follow every contour of her body if I could, but there’s something so wonderful in admiring her from a distance. I look at her in the sort of way you’d look at a picture. It’s beautiful, wonderful to behold, and you want to touch it, but you know you can’t. And you know you’ll never have the bravery to touch it.

***

After finishing the work for our final project, Gene makes her way to the door, waving good bye to my parents, and punching my shoulder. She ruffles my hair with a playful wiggle of her fingers through the curls, as if petting a dog, then smiles. I follow every movement she makes as she puts her shoes on, slipping into a pair of worn Converse, then putting her fingers on the doorknob. “See you tomorrow, Mark!” She says with a grin, walking down the driveway and sliding into her car.

As I slip into bed that night, I press my face into the pillow. Her overwhelming scent engulfs me, and I sigh. My mind wanders, the way it does, and the list in my head grows longer. Beautiful, pretty, fair, lovely, charming, comely, handsome, elegant, attractive, cute, gorgeous, ravishing, glorious, stunning, brilliant, divine, splendid, dazzling, and magnificent; but completely untouchable.

***

There are leaves everywhere. Every size, color, and shape a leaf can be. They block out everything; a world of yellows and greens and oranges and reds. I feel them beneath me, as if I’m lying on them. The roughness of their skin itches my arms, the veins seem to bleed into me until I feel like there’s too much blood in my body and I’m going to burst. Then a voice, so close to my ear I can almost feel the breath of each word linger on my skin and in my hair. “Mark. Mark, wake up. Wake up, Mark. Please, wake up. They’re coming. Wake up.” My eyes blink open slowly and I’m seeing more leaves. They block out the sun, but light still streams down through in small beams that filter out as they reach me, far on the ground below.
It’s silent. I listen, then the same voice. “Mark, come on!” I tilt my head to the right, and see a face so close to mine the eyes are nothing but blurs of blue and black, the nose a blob and the lips a light shade of pink. “What’s the matter?” I ask. The words come out strange, garbled, as if my tongue can’t wrap around the noises required to make them. I try again. “What’s the matter?”
”You know exactly what’s the matter, now get up!” The face moves back, a warm hand grips mine, and I’m pulled to my feet. It’s a girl, worry clenched in every line of her face. I recognize her; she’s a good friend of mine, but her name slips my mind. I smile, and the rage is unbearable. “Pull yourself together, come on!”

And we’re running, running so fast and hard I can hardly breathe. Pain arcs up from my sides, my heart burns, and I feel sweat collecting on my forehead and running down my back. “What is this, what’s going on?” I cry, but the fury on her face quiets me. She’ll tell me as soon as she can, she says. I go back to breathing hard through my mouth, my tongue a dead object. I need water.

It takes me a moment to realize there are others with us. I recognize all of them, they are my friends. All of them have the most serious looks on their faces, and each of them is running fast. Arms pumping, legs beating. Confusion warps my brain. What in the world is going on?

And suddenly there’s a house in front of us, I’m pulled to a stop by the friend who woke me, and she whispers to everyone it might be a trap. Others whisper back, please, let’s try it, they’re tired. I must say that I agree with them. It doesn’t look like a dangerous house. It’s covered with green ivy, the bricks beneath it worn-looking and old. Uninhabited. What’s the problem?
Someone pushes the door open; I step inside into musty old air that smells like metal and death. What does death smell like, anyway? A cup of water is pushed into my hand, I drink it. What is going on? I drink. Where are we? I drink. Who are we running from? I drink. The door slams open; the handle is flung against the brick, which crumbles to the ground, sending spiraling cracks through the pieces that are still attached to the wall.
A man stands there, a grin on his face. His teeth are sharpened to points, looking almost like vampire teeth, but not quite. Too canine to be vampire. How do I know that? “Mark Marquise.” That’s my name. How does he know my name? I drink. How big is this glass of water? I’ve gulped down so much of it. I look down at a jug the same shape as the man’s head, grinning up at me. “What do you want?” I ask the jug, and the jug answers. “You.”
A hand grabs me by the collar and rips me up a flight of stairs, rips me away so hard I feel like I’m going to leave pieces of me behind. A little trail for this man to follow.

Fighting ensues as I go up the stairs, and I can feel blood splatter across the inside of my head. How does that happen? I stagger, and my friend swears. “Come on, Mark! Hurry up!” Something slides against my feet and I look down. “Mark Marquise, come here, beautiful.” I utter something, it could be a scream, I don’t know. And suddenly the something curls around my ankle and I fall across the stairs, facedown, and my forehead cracks against the wood. Hands grab at my waist, my shoulders, and I’m flipped over. I’m looking at the jug, the man in the doorway, his face too close, his open mouth breathing in the air I breathe out. My hands are pinned above my head, but I don’t fight, I just stare. “Hello, Mark.”

Author's Note

Just let me know what you think! (: