#I'm now looking back at my previous one and resisting the urge to redraw it

[sabugabr]

A quest is a sacred thing. And to be charged with one is to be in conversation with the gods themselves.

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicMas Day 12: Human Alice/Vampire Jess AU

The counterpart to Jess's story is Alice's story because I haven't written anything for the girls' this month that I'm particularly happy with <3

But god, I love a good human/vampire fic <3

TW: Domestic Violence; Homophobia.

Before lunch time, Cynthia had already integrated herself into the popular clique of the sophomore class; I passed her chatting away at a million miles per hour, tossing her hair and genuinely being her very best self - though I was still absolutely furious she’d borrowed my necklace.

The junior class were polite to me, but no one really attached themselves to me like Cynthia. That was probably my fault, truly - I should have played it safe and worn jeans and a sweater and smiled nicely and then gone full Alice-Brandon on them. But Anne-Marie had irritated me this morning, and this skirt always made me smile.

I had made it myself in sophomore year - three-tiers of black mesh with a wired hem, making it stiff and stand out from my body. For modesty, I’d worn a black pencil skirt and tights underneath it, and then combined it with a vintage puffed-sleeve sweater in grey that was fitted at the waist and gave me the illusion of having a decent bust-line. I’d added sequins to the shoulders and neckline, and added black arm-warmers so that I didn’t freeze to death. And my boots - rubber ankle-high ones, with a block heel and square toe - was the crown jewel in the outfit; definitely one to post to my social media, but stood out like a beacon in Forks High.

I slipped into the cafeteria to snag something to eat, and took a seat at the end of one table, content to sketch out new ideas whilst I ate - before we’d left Biloxi, I’d scavenged two ancient prom dresses, a hideous but high quality red wool coat, and a pair of black satin bell-bottoms that I already had big plans to recut. I’d spied a thrift store on our drive through Forks the previous day that looked like it had potential but I was saving that for Saturday morning - even the worst thrift shops were bountiful sources of wool, and there was always eBay.

I looked up from my sketchbook as a chair across from me dragged across the lino.

The next table was now occupied with the most uncanny looking people I had ever seen - they had to all be related. I stared at them blankly for a moment - a redheaded boy, a dark-haired boy, and two of the most striking blonde girls I had ever laid my eyes on. One was astoundingly lovely, as if someone had sculpted her to represent feminine beauty (to a white, Euro-centric standard). It was hard to imagine how she hadn’t been headhunted as a model, even in dismal little Forks. And she was wearing a designer sweater I’d been eyeballing online for the last week, despite its total impracticality for Forks weather, and its outrageous price tag.

And the other girl…

She was beautiful too, just in a different way. Her blonde hair was darker, and twisted into a messy knot at the back of her head, some of it falling into her face. Her eyes were a dark yet odd shade of gold, and she looked totally humourless; I could see an angry scar on the left side of her neck; just a knot of rough, torn skin. She was tall and slender, and somehow made some well-worn jeans, combat boots, and a loose sweatshirt look like it was tailored specifically for her.

And she was glaring at me, with a nearly murderous expression.

I turned back to my sketchbook, trying to resist the urge to redraw my models to match these girls - or at least, the angry one. Whilst the former girl looked untouchable and cold, the latter looked like she was crackling with life, that she was restraining herself somehow. And I liked that, when people’s energy and zest for life was barely contained in them. It was important to have that passion, that curiosity, that sheer joie de vivre.

By the time lunch was over, I had carefully shaded in a new top to go with the satin pants - black, with a deep V of intricate jet beading that would take the place of a necklace and puffy chiffon sleeves with velvet cuffs.

I slipped through the hallways quickly, towards my Biology class. I hated Biology with a fiery passion; it was messy and boring and your grade depended entirely on whether your lab partner would do the work and participate. There was no room for creativity in Biology, and if I had been able to take any other class, I would have.

“The older Miss Brandon, I presume,” the Biology teacher seemed to be a nice man, who smiled at me as I walked in, and handed me a textbook. “I had the pleasure of meeting your younger sister this morning. If you could take a seat next to Miss Hale, we can get started.”

I look up and immediately spotted the only unoccupied seat in the room - next to the girl from the cafeteria. She looked distastefully at me as I moved across the room. Hopping up on the stool, I turned and smiled brightly at her.

“I’m Alice Brandon,” I said.

“Jessamine Hale,” she grunted, turning to look out the window - clearly dismissing me.

—

I pretended not to notice Jessamine playing with the fringe of my skirt.

“Mom was half Korean, and Dad basically married her as part of a business deal,” I said, “My great-grandfather was managing director of a very profitable drink and snack distribution company in Korea and Taiwan, and my father’s company was in trouble. Mom was never informed that she was part of the deal, and thought they were in love. She shouldn’t have been surprised - my grandmother was married off to an American businessman for the same purpose.”

Jessamine frowned. “She found out?”

“After roughly fifteen years of marriage, she found out that Dad was having an affair with Anne-Marie,” I made a face at the mention of my stepmother. “She was… completely broken. She miscarried my little brother. But they stayed married for another couple of years - she was miserable.”

“Where is she now?” Jessamine looked at me, and I was struck by the gold of her eyes.

“Dead,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Dad told her that he didn’t need her any more, that Brandon Imports was independently profitable, and he wanted Anne-Marie. He moved out and she killed herself.”

Jessamine moved closer, her fingers lacing through mine. “I’m sorry,” her voice was soft and calming.

“Thanks,” I said, looking at my feet and letting my hair fall across my face as I composed myself. “It was… almost two years ago.”

“That’s not that long,” she replied.

“No. Feels like an age, living with Dad and Anne-Marie,” I sighed. “If I’d had anywhere else to go…”

“You wouldn’t be here then,” Jessamine said softly. She hadn’t pulled her hand away yet.

“No.” I looked up at her and was once again struck by how pretty she was.

—

I laughed at her, leaning back against the brick wall, and all of a sudden, Jessamine’s lips were against mine.

The girl kissed like she was going to war. Her hand slipped around to cradle my cheek, pulling me closer, her kiss hard and desperate. I gasped in surprise, and was struck still for a moment before I kissed her back, leaning into it.

It was then I heard the wolf-whistling and I pulled back out of embarrassment that we clearly had an audience.

“So hot,” said some guy I recognised from gym, and I spied more than one cellphone and a lot of whispering.

“Fuck off,” Jessamine snapped at the onlookers, and I shrunk back against her when I noticed Cynthia standing with her friends, and Cece didn’t look happy.

I looked back at her, and Jessamine looked furious, but her hand was still on my thigh. “I should probably go,” I stammered. “The bus…”

Jessamine looked at me carefully and then nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I nodded, scooped up my bag and moved across the carpark.

—

Cece stood in my doorway; her hair was down and she was already in her pyjamas.

“So, when are you going to tell them?” she asked, looking around. I missed the days Cece and I were close. Before Anne-Marie managed to wedge herself between us.

“Tell them what?” I asked absently, knotting the thread and stepping away from the dress. I’d made it out of a tweed mini dress with a badly-torn back, and a black dress coat. I couldn’t decide what to do with the sleeves.

“That you… you know,” Cece looked uncomfortable, “Like girls?”

I looked over my shoulder. “I don’t like girls,” I said shortly.

“Really?” Cece gave me a look.

“I like Jessamine,” I said, looking away from her. “And I have no plans of telling Dad or Anne-Marie anything.”

Cynthia rolled her eyes. “You should tell them, because they’ll find out,” she warned. “Everyone from school is talking about it.”

I hated that.

“Go do your homework,” I said.

I’d dated a little in middle school and up until we’d left Biloxi. Boys, exclusively, because neither of my parents were what you’d consider accepting. Mom had been raised a staunch ‘one man-one woman, no sex before marriage, church on Sunday’ Christian, and Dad was so focused on appearances that it was unspoken in our household.

And I was hardly a shining beacon in this household - if Dad thought I was in love with a girl, my life wasn’t worth shit.

—

My father hits me.

Actually, he punches me with a closed fist and pain explodes up the left side of my face as I tumble back onto the kitchen floor, the world spinning. Before I can catch my breath, my father grabs a fistful of my hair and half drags me before he stops and just kicks me, ranting and yelling.

His side of the family has always had anger issues. I remember my grandfather, a man who prided himself on his genteel manners and chivalry, once smash a decanter of whiskey over my uncle’s head because my grandfather took offence to a joke that my uncle told. I remember so much blood, and silence because no one was brave enough to call out grandfather, and then the ambulance came. And my grandfather got away with it because he was so prominent in society, so well liked. My uncle had recovered but he’d never been the same - so quiet and twitchy about people walking behind him. Grandfather always mused that he’d finally taught his son a lesson that he remembered, as if the entire thing wasn’t a terrible, nightmarish situation.

I can’t make out what my father is saying, as he stomps down hard on my leg and I scream - which just makes my father hurt me worse for making too much noise, blows landing on my face and head.

“Daddy! Stop!” I can hear Cynthia, and I want to ask her if it was worth it. If telling him about Jess and I was worth this.

—

I get myself two blocks away, to Main Street, where the good bus stop is - with the awning. I’m cold and my head is hurting badly; I’m wearing a tank top, some pyjama shorts, an old hoodie, and a pair of socks. No phone, no shoes, no purse.

There was nowhere for me to go. If Dad found me on the porch or in the garage, he’d hurt me worse. Most businesses were closed for the night. I hadn’t made friends at school except for Jessamine.

Jessamine.

I knew, roughly, where the Cullens lived. It was out of town, but I could walk. I had nowhere else to be.

Sighing, I pulled my hood over my hair and started walking along the main road.

—

The Cullens lived about ten miles out of town, off the main road. An easy drive, if you had a car. But as a walk it was a long trip. Especially in socks, after a beating. My knees were skinned and stung, my ankle was tender, and I had worn though my socks after the first hour.

I had started to sing, to keep myself company as I limped along. My head ached; Dad had hit me pretty hard.

—

It was the mailbox that drew me out of my fugue. Black and brass, with ‘1102’ and ‘Cullen’ on the front. I could have cried with relief. Except the driveway was so long, and gravel. I was exhausted and in so pain.

Taking a deep breath, I knocked on the front door, barely able to keep myself standing upright.

The door swung open, and there was a woman there. She looked so gentle, in a lavender sweater and grey pants, her hair swept off her face.

“Is Jessie - Jessamine - here?” I asked in a wobbly voice.

The woman looked at me curiously. “Why don’t you come in, sweetheart?” she offered. “I’m Esme Cullen.”

I nodded, sniffling.

I didn’t realise how cold I was until I stepped inside. The house was warm and light, with art and photographs. I was trying not to cry and shiver and I hurt so much.

“Let me get you a glass of water,” Mrs Cullen said, guiding me into the living room. “Please sit down.”

—

I was floating again.

“Esme?” A man in a green sweater was standing over me; I was slumped on the couch. He was checking my pulse.

“She arrived here looking for Jessamine,” Esme said, looking worried. “I went to get her a glass of water, and when I came back she was unconscious.”

“Let’s get her upstairs,” the man said, scooping me up. “She’ll need some clean, dry clothes.”

I watched as I was swept upstairs to a fancy study, with a corner devoted to medical items, including an old-fashioned wood and leather examination table, which was where I was settled. He quickly removed my hoodie, frowning at the bruises on my neck and shoulder - they were old ones, and barely hurt anymore. He checked over my arms, legs, and torso before he grabbed a first aid kit.

Mrs Cullen returned with some folded clothing and a basin of warm water. And over the next hour, he and Mrs Cullen washed my bloodied, raw feet, and my poor skinned knees. Then there were gels and creams applied - probably antiseptic - and finally, reams of bandages.

“Poor little mite,” Mrs Cullen smoothed my hair back. “She couldn’t have walked from town, could she, Carlisle?”

Carlisle. As in Carlisle Cullen, Dr Cullen. That made sense.

“It’s possible,” he said.

“Why wouldn’t she go to the hospital or to the police?” Mrs Cullen looked distressed.

“She could be scared. She might have been threatened,” Dr Cullen sighed. “And she came here looking for Jessamine?”

“She asked for Jessamine specifically,” Esme said. “She called her ‘Jessie’.”

“So we’re working off the assumption this is the infamous Mary Alice Brandon?” Dr Cullen said with a teasing smile flashing on his face.

“I suspect so,” Mrs Cullen said. “I’ll make up the sofa in my studio for her, so she can get some rest. She will be okay?”