The Vampire's Maid: Escaped [discontinued at current time]

Part 2: Escaped

Tori's Story

The car was horribly quiet after Lizzy slammed the door on me. The dying engine still let out a fading hum, and the seats smelt of leather and blood. Jeez, I thought, thanks for leaving me here guys. There was something distinctly creepy about the village, and my eyes kept straying to a tiny tombstone in the garden of the cottage Lizzy had just entered. I knew I wasn't hallucinating. I could feel the cool metal of my necklace on my chest; smell traces of Opium perfume on my wrists; taste vodka at the back of my tongue. This was reality, sitting here in this car and trying to work out my jumbled thoughts.  I wanted to throw up. How had I stumbled – or perhaps staggered would be a more appropriate verb– into this horror movie? 

"When you know you've had too much to drink," my sister used to say, "try and replay everything in your head. When you get to a part you can't remember? That's the point you had one too many. And probably publically disgraced yourself."

So that's what I did.

At 9 O'clock last night, Michael had knocked on my door.

"I'm here to escort you to the party, Mademoiselle."

Those were his exact words. Michael had always had a penchant for speaking in a mock French accent. He claimed he did it because the "ladies" loved it, but I reckoned it was because it annoyed the hell out of me, and he knew it.

 The funny thing was, I hadn't even planned on going to the party. It was just one of a number of 18ths that littered my final year of college, and the girls who went were all so pathetic, and the boys all so average looking. Oh, if only I'd stayed at home and gorged myself on leftover Christmas chocolates and had a Pretty Little Liars marathon.  But instead I remembered pulling on the tight dress, curling my hair, applying eyelashes and heading out with Michael.

  "Maybe you're giving out the wrong impression with that outfit, Tor," He'd said, eyeing it narrowly.

 "Maybe I'm giving out the right one. Lord, you're turning into your psycho mum, Michael."

  It's funny how much of our conversation had faded from my memory. Sitting in the back seat of the car, in Little Drewington, I could only remember pointless snippets. I couldn't even picture what Michael had been wearing. Was it that blue t-shirt that matched his eyes? Or that hideous white one that clung too tightly to his arm muscles?

 "Who's going to the party? Anyone who will make the list?" I asked him.

 "Your list of victims, you mean?"

 "If by that you mean the mental catalogue of guys I deem hot enough to talk to, then yes."

 He grinned. "You're talking to me. By that definition I must be on the list."

 "Don't worry," I told him. "You're the exception."

 And then we were at the party, and everything was a haze of vodka shots and guys. There was that muscly one at the bar who kept buying me drinks. Then the Ron Weasley look alike who would never make the list. Then that tall-dark-handsome one who pulled me into a corner. Then, for some reason, Michael was yelling at me. Michael who never lost his temper, never even swore. I screwed up my face trying to think of why we'd been arguing. I felt even sicker thinking about the argument, and how the last thing I'd ever said to my best friend had been an insult. Shit, Tori, don't think like this. Don't cry. Just try and replay everything in your head.

 The four little zeroes had just crossed my phone screen; it had been midnight when it happened. Michael had just stormed away from me, towards the exit, when the music screeched to a halt and, without even seeing them come in, a cult of pale, ghastly looking adults appeared in the centre of the room. At first I thought they'd all chosen a foundation three shades too light and gone a bit overboard with the eyeliner, but then one of them said, in a voice that still echoed chillingly around my mind, "Line up!"