//------------------------------// // Chapter 2 // Story: Itchy & Scratchy // by totallynotabrony //------------------------------// It would be fair to say that Octavia was an introvert.  Her two favorite musics were cello, or quiet.  Her idea of a large group was a quartet.  She’d had a boyfriend once, but he’d run off with the marching band and she’d never seen him again. When it came to university holidays, she was first out the door to leave.  And so it was one Christmas.  She was back home with her parents. Octavia’s father, Silver Suture, was a doctor.  Her mother, Practice Pizzicato, played the violin.  Octavia took a bit of her appearance from each of them.  Family was more than skin deep, though.  With her parents, Octavia was, in all manners of the word, home.  They loved her, and she them. Until they were eaten by vampires, anyway.  Christmas Eve had been going so well, too. As an only child, the duty of chores always fell to Octavia.  As an inversion of the norm, her parents occasionally had to tell her to get out of her room and stop practicing her instrument.  Octavia was helping set the table for dinner when a knock came on the door.  In the hall, she heard her father answer. “I wonder who that could be, carolers?” speculated her mother.  They both paused to listen, though the conversation was difficult to discern.  It was clearly not singing, though. The voices seemed to escalate.  Octavia clearly heard someone exclaim “You did what to the peonies!?” She heard her father’s voice, low and placating, long practiced from bedside conversations.  It didn’t seem to be helping, however. A worried look slid across her mother’s face.  She wiped her hands and started towards the door.  Just then, however, Octavia’s father entered the room - through the wall. Octavia’s mouth opened to scream in surprise, but that hardly seemed necessary and wouldn’t help the situation.  At any rate, her breath caught in her throat as three men came in - through the door this time. “I mean, not what I would have done, but it works,” said one, surveying the damage, hands on his hips. “He insulted your garden.  I know you put a lot of work into that,” said another, flexing his hands and looking down at where Octavia’s father moaned and moved feebly. “Plus, just look at this feast,” said the third. Octavia’s eyes snapped to the table.  It wasn’t even completely set.  The food was all still in the kitchen. “I mean, I guess they have seen our faces,” said the second one. The first gestured to Octavia’s father.  “Well, I believe you’ve called dibs.” “I don’t know,” said the second, his eyes shifting to Octavia.  “Now that we’re here, I wouldn’t mind having the - the daughter, I take it?” “Don’t be crude,” said the first.  “You didn’t have to say that in front of her.  She could have died without knowing what was going to happen to her corpse.” Octavia’s eyes had been pinballing back and forth, just barely keeping track of the conversation and still not quite grasping the magnitude of the situation.  Her mother apparently did, though, grabbing up a knife from the table. She didn’t even manage to lift it, though, before one of them broke her arm in a shower of bone shards and spray of blood.  Octavia hadn’t even seen him move; one moment he was standing still and the next he had ripped off her mother’s forearm.  She screamed and fell back, blood spraying from severed arteries. Impossibly, things started to happen even faster.  Octavia turned to run, aiming for the door to the kitchen.  She’d taken one step before a face appeared out of the corner of her eye.  The next instant, she was off her feet, flying sideways into the china cabinet and bouncing off it. She ended up on the floor, nose resting on the varnished boards.  She had time to blink once before the cabinet crashed down across her back, broken glass, plates, and splintered wood showering down. Someone grabbed her under the chin and yanked her up like a piece of tape off a roll.  Her neck might as well be broken with as little control as she had over her body.  Maybe it was.  She felt the impact of her back on the wall, though it didn’t really hurt by comparison to everything else that already did. Octavia’s feet dangled off the floor, her head twisted back by the vice grip under her chin.  She sensed rather than saw someone lean close.  And then her throat was torn out. It was strange what she experienced through the pain and horror.  She could clearly see the ceiling.  Perhaps because it was the only thing she was physically able to look at, it seemed strangely lucid and detailed.  There was also what she heard. “Look, he fell on a chair leg.  Nice big hole right here.” “Oh, I guess I don’t need the daughter, then.” Whoever had ahold of Octavia let go and she fell in more of a pile than a heap.  She was facedown, and couldn’t summon any strength to move beyond letting gravity take its course. She managed to blink.  The floor was going out of focus, despite it being right there.  A soft white noise seemed to be closing in on her ears.  Blood began to pool on the floor at the corner of her vision. She blinked again.  She felt alone. Her eyes closed for a while longer than a blink.  Octavia wasn’t sure exactly how long.  From her perspective, not much seemed to have changed. “Es-tu vivante?” said a voice. It took Octavia a moment to process that.  French?  Oh God, I’ve gone to Hell. Nevertheless, her moan was response enough.  A hand took her shoulder and she was rolled over. A pale woman wearing a frown and too much makeup was crouched over her.  Seeing Octavia’s eyes come into focus, the woman cast her gaze down over the rest of Octavia’s body and pursed her lips as if annoyed.  She abruptly let go of Octavia, letting her head thud against the floor, and stood up. The woman, whoever she was, pulled out a cell phone and walked out of the room.  Octavia slowly rolled over, getting her hands on the floor and managing to get up to all fours. That seemed to be going okay, so she slowly stood, hand on the wall for balance.  Her body hurt.  Her skin felt stiff in places, as if something had dried there.  Her clothes were ruined with stains and rips.  Her mouth seemed curiously swollen. The mirror in the hall didn’t work.  That seemed odd, but Octavia was more focused on matters at hand.  Namely, who was this stranger that was currently standing in the foyer and having an argument with her mobile in heavily accented English? “I ‘ave not been ‘out and about!’  I was just in ze neighborhood!  Yes, I know what zis means!  Stop talking like I do not undzerstand!  Yes, it was a new family.  No, I don’t-” She turned, hearing Octavia’s steps in the debris that littered the floor.  “What iz your name?” “Octavia Melody.” The woman went back to the phone.  “No, I don’t know zis Octavia Melody.”  She paused, and then spat, “‘My problem!?’  This iz not finders keepers!” She grumbled and violently clicked the phone off, turning on Octavia.  “Well, zat is zat.” “What is?” Octavia couldn’t help but ask. “You are a vampire and somehow also my responsibility.”  The woman rolled her eyes theatrically. “Beg your pardon?”  Octavia blinked.  “I’m afraid I don’t…”  She shook her head.  “Wait, who are you?  Why are you in my house?” she demanded. “My name is Fleur,” said the woman.  “I was in ze neighborhood.” “That does not excuse just walking in!  I have half a mind to call-” Fleur slapped her. Octavia reeled, her hand going to her cheek. Fleur pointed at her.  “You, vampire.”  She pointed to herself.  “Me, annoyed.” Octavia shook her head. “Vampire?” “Zet’s rip ze bandage off quickly, yes?”  Fleur took Octavia’s hand and pulled her back into the kitchen despite Octavia’s reluctance.  Grabbing one of Octavia’s mother’s prized stainless steel cooking pots, Fleur thrust it into Octavia’s hands. The curved, polished surface distorted Octavia’s reflection, making her appear wider than she was.  It was still more than adequate to show the blood caked all the way down her neck and chest.  She shuddered to think how it would appear if she’d worn something with a lower neckline. What took Octavia’s attention away from that, however, was the realization that her eyes had changed color.  They were purpleish.  As an eye color it was a bit unnatural but she supposed it wasn’t bad.  Well, perhaps if the exact shade didn’t draw comparisons to the color of a bruise. But then Octavia realized she’d been neglecting the surefire check for what the stranger had been telling her.  She lifted her lip, and there they were.  Fabulously clean, wickedly sharp, and completely, utterly wrong. She hid them behind her lip, but then her tongue found them and when she made a face in revulsion her lip lifted again and the cycle repeated.  It wouldn’t have been so bad if they weren’t so sparkling white as if newly grown, which, she supposed, they were.  Free tooth-whitening aside, Octavia decided that she needed to take a moment, reset, and properly think this out. “I need tea,” she said in a tiny voice. She dropped the stainless steel pot on the stained floor and robotically moved towards the electric kettle.  Fleur stopped her.  “You can’t.  Your stomach iz not for tea anymore.” “Bugger off,” Octavia slapped her hand away.  “I’m going to have some tea.” She did.  It didn’t go well. Octavia had never thrown up tea in her life.  Honestly, that unsettled her more than anything else.  Though, not having liquid hurt her as it came out her nose was a plus.  She wasn’t sure if her pain tolerance had gone up or if she just didn’t need to breathe anymore. “Come on,” said Fleur, gingerly touching Octavia where she wasn’t stained with blood or tea or vomited tea.  “I know a place you can go.” “But what about this?” Octavia demanded, gesturing to the kitchen and two bodies.  “This has to be reported.” “To who?” Fleur asked.  “Ze police?  They wouldn’t believe you.  And if they did, what do you think would happen?” A variety of scenarios ran through Octavia’s head, most of them ending with her being dissected somewhere by government scientists curious about the discovery of vampires.  “But how is there supposed to be justice, then?” “You could always...track zem down and kill zem,” suggested Fleur. Octavia thought about it.  If she couldn’t report her parents’ murders, then it seemed logical that there would be no reports filed if she killed another vampire.  With recent developments, it wasn’t as if she had anything more important to be doing.  “You know, you might have a point there.” She turned and looked over the kitchen, belatedly and dismayedly realizing she shouldn’t have.  “But what I am to do about all this?” “Well, I would burn it and collect ze insurance payout,” suggested Fleur. Octavia knew that she should care more about everything that had just happened.  She should be more emotionally distraught about the death of her parents and the subsequent knowledge that justice was up to her personally. But Octavia, it must be said, was not a people person.  And, as she contemplated her path ahead, she realized she wasn’t a vampires vampire, either.  Whoever was responsible for this would die by her own hand.  Octavia wouldn’t enjoy it, but she would take the satisfaction of a job well done.  As she should. And then perhaps she could figure out what she was going to do with the rest of her life, however long that might turn out to be.  One thing at a time, just as Octavia had always done. She turned and picked up a bottle of scotch from the demolished liquor cabinet.  It flashed into fire on the burner of the stove and she splashed it around the room. “Are you okay?” Fleur asked. Octavia stared at her.  “No.” “Well, I did not think you would be-” “Then why did you ask?” Fleur made a sound of annoyance.  “You seemed so...distant?  I was just checking that you did not in fact turn into a ghoul.” “A what?” Fleur waved her hand.  “Do not worry about zit, that is advanced vampire things.  Now come along.” The two of them went down the front steps as the fire blazed up inside.  The difference in temperature outside was noticeable, though Octavia wasn’t sure if she was physically numb as well as emotionally, or if the frosty weather just didn’t affect her anymore.  She paused to look back at the house for a moment and then followed Fleur to her car. The drive was quiet.  Octavia realized she couldn’t see either of them in the rearview mirror, and quickly averted her eyes.  Fleur tried to occasionally engage in conversation, but got only one- or no-word responses from Octavia and eventually stopped trying. “You may sleep on ze couch,” said Fleur when they reached her apartment.  “I will take you to meet someone who may help you tomorrow.” Octavia stood in the front room examining the shiny trinkets that decorated the place.  At first glance she couldn’t tell how many of them were real and collected or simply bought from the pound shop down at the corner.  The light was off, so it was hard to tell.  Though, the fact that she could see at all in the dark seemed more important. She heard glasses clinking in the kitchen and realized she was thirsty.  However, upon entering the room, Octavia stopped short.  Fleur was taking blood out of the refrigerator. Fleur handed what appeared to be a standard medical-grade bag of blood to Octavia.  “Sorry, I only have ze type O.” Octavia studied it.  “This is expired.” Fleur looked hurt.  “It iz not that expired it.  It tastes fine.” “Does it?” Fleur gestured to a couple of crystal glasses and opened her own blood bag, pouring it in. Octavia was torn as she looked at the bag.  On the one hand, drinking directly from the bag seemed barbarian.  On the other, she could easily envision getting blood on her upper lip if she drank it from the glass.  She opted for the bag, which had a convenient tube.  That also helped her keep it down and out of her line of sight. If she was a vampire now, which strong evidence supported, then there was likely not much choice in drinking or not.  At least she still had a say in how it was served. Fleur lifted her glass, awkwardly realizing that Octavia was not using hers.  She still did her best toast, glass-to-bag.  “To your new life.” Octavia could have said many things.  Instead, she just drank.  Cold blood tasted, well, salty and thick.  It could have been leftover black pudding, if Octavia was the kind of savage that ate leftovers without warming them up first. To her surprise, she looked across and saw Fleur’s eyes changing color.  They became dark purple, like Octavia had seen on her own face earlier, and gradually grew redder, like some kind of gruesome fuel gauge filling up. The thought struck Octavia that the same thing was probably happening to her. She looked around for a reflective surface but didn’t see one.  Why did stainless steel apparently work but glass or mirrors didn’t?  Surely it wasn’t the iron, like in blood.  Though that didn’t make any less sense than anything else that had happened this evening. Fleur finished drinking.  “I’ll have to get you some of ze AB negative to try.  C’est magnifique!” “Is it, or do you just like it because it’s the rarest?” said Octavia. Fleur put her hand on her hip.  “Why are you so strange?  Most people turn into emotional wreckages when they learn they are vampires.  You just insult me.” “Perhaps you can understand,” said Octavia, “I watched my parents murdered minutes ago, burned down my own childhood home, and now some Frog thinks I’m being insulting.” The remark was undeserved, and definitely unladylike, but for those stated reasons, Octavia was having a little trouble keeping a lid on her emotions tonight.  Getting turned into a vampire could affect the stiffness of one’s upper lip. After “dinner” Octavia did feel better, which disgusted her.  At least she still had brooding.  Fleur let her use the shower, though probably only because she wouldn’t let Octavia sleep on the couch without cleaning up first. As the water washed the dried blood away, Octavia stared at the wall, unseeing.  She reviewed each facet of the evening in agonizing detail, torturing herself, but fueling the emotion she needed to stay her course. Whoever they were, they were going to die.  Octavia had no training, and honestly now stood a better-than-ever chance of herself dying in a ditch somewhere, but even the prospect of going back to her music studies now sounded sour.  She’d already made up her mind. It wouldn’t bring her parents back.  It wouldn’t bring her house back, or her cello, or any of her other belongings.  Octavia took a deep breath, catching slightly in her chest.  Alone.  Hadn’t she always wanted to be left alone?  She’d never appreciated what she had.  Her parents, her routine old life, it was all gone.  Forever. She looked down, still seeing blood dripping away even after several minutes of being in the shower.  Her fingers traced it upwards, realizing it was leaking out of the corners of her eyes. “Mother of-” “That is so fucked up,” said Vinyl, when Octavia told her the story much later, after they had been introduced.  “The only reason you’re here now, the only reason they didn’t take the time to drain you completely, was that they decided to stop and fuck your-” She shook her head.  “Worst Christmas ever.” Octavia glared at her.