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daystar-by-jacqui-natla · 2 months ago

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12. BOREDOM

I DIDN'T THINK THAT BEING A VAMPIRE would come with long days and nights and a completely new concept of time. Before, when I was human, time was something I could grasp—a linear thing, marked by sunrise and sunset, appointments and obligations. But now, the days bled into nights, and the nights into days, an endless cycle that meant nothing and everything at once.

The minutes stretched out, and sometimes, the hours vanished in an instant. It was strange, really, how time no longer held the same weight. I could sit in silence for hours, lost in thought, or run through the woods for days, feeling the wind whip against my face, without ever growing tired. The world around me continued its relentless pace, but for me, everything had slowed down—or maybe I had simply outrun it.

But as the days passed, that endlessness turned into something else. Something more oppressive. Boredom.

The four vampires were out of the mansion for their daily jobs. Gabriel was a lawyer at the Thomson Snell & Passmore law firm while Helena worked as a doctor at the NHS. Simon worked at the Regent High School as an English teacher and Alana worked as a pharmacist at Harrods Pharmacy.

The problem wasn't the lack of things to do; it was the sheer vastness of it all. Everything felt stretched, like a canvas pulled too tight. Time became this strange, slippery thing that evaded meaning. I tried to distract myself—reading, sparring with Ingram, even hunting in the nearby woods—but nothing seemed to fill the emptiness that gnawed at me.

I never imagined that immortality would come with such a sense of stagnation.

I stood by the window now, watching the rain fall in a steady, unbroken sheet. The clouds above churned in a slow, heavy roll, as if mirroring the monotony that had settled in my chest. The field was an endless void of nothingness and the raindrops were a long trail of stillness.

How different it all seemed. When I was human, I was part of that chaos— school, deadlines, small distractions. I used to think I was busy, too busy for anything more. Now, I had nothing but time, and it dragged on, heavier than I ever thought possible.

I heard Ingram's familiar footsteps. His presence didn't pull me from my reverie like it used to. Lately, even his company felt muted, like everything else.

"You're standing there again," he remarked softly, his voice carrying a warmth that didn't quite reach me.

I didn't turn around. "I like the rain."

"You never used to," he said, walking up beside me. I caught the flicker of a smile on his lips from the reflection in the window. "You used to complain about it constantly."

I sighed. "Things change."

Ingram studied me for a moment, then leaned against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. "You're restless."

"No kidding."

"It's the transition," he said, as if this explained everything. "It takes time to adjust. To... recalibrate. You're not used to the stillness."

"The stillness?" I echoed, turning to face him fully. "This isn't stillness, Ingram. This is numbness. It's like everything is fading out, losing color. I thought becoming a vampire meant intensity—sharpness, heightened senses, more life. But instead, it's like I'm slipping further away from everything that used to matter."

His gaze softened. "It's not always like this. I promise you that."

I sighed as my gaze drifted to Leah, who was lying on the couch.

Leah Clearwater, once so full of fire and fight, lay sprawled on the couch, her limbs draped carelessly, eyes fixed on some invisible point above her. If anyone embodied restlessness, it was her, and yet now, she seemed to have succumbed to the same quiet desolation that I felt creeping through me. Her transformation had been even more jarring than mine, I knew. For someone who had always lived on the edge of control, her sudden stillness was unnerving.

I moved from the window, leaving the rain behind, and sat down in the armchair across from Leah. The silence between us stretched, but it wasn't the easy kind. It was thick, weighted with unspoken thoughts.

She blinked slowly, as if pulling herself from some deep reverie, and her sharp gaze found mine. "You feel it too, don't you?" she asked, her voice low and almost dangerous. It was the first thing she'd said to me in days that wasn't laced with irritation or veiled anger.

"Feel what?" I asked, even though I already knew.

"The nothingness. The endless... drag of it all." Her words were clipped, biting, as if just admitting it was a betrayal of who she had been. Leah had never been one to wallow in anything. She faced things head-on, with brutal honesty and a resilience that bordered on ferocity.

I nodded, leaning back in my chair. "I thought it was just me."

A bitter laugh escaped her. "No. It's not just you. This... eternity," she spat the word like it was a curse, "it's not what I expected. Not that I had much choice in the matter."

We shared a look, a brief, raw understanding passing between us. Leah had always been defined by her choices—by the things taken from her, the sacrifices she'd been forced to make. And now, immortality was just another chain.

"All I did was eat, sleep and stare into space," Leah commented grouchily. "What an awful existence."

"Oi," Ingram replied, clearly offended. "I don't bashed on your lifestyle."

Leah scoffed, shifting her weight on the couch as if trying to shake off the suffocating stillness. "This isn't a lifestyle, Ingram. This is a holding pattern. An endless, pointless existence where nothing changes."

Ingram rolled his eyes but said nothing, his arms tightening over his chest. He wasn't one for emotional outbursts, but I could sense his frustration, even if he tried to mask it with indifference.

Leah turned her gaze to me. "You know why Ethan's taking so long in the kitchen?"

"What's he doing this time?" I asked.

"He's making pizza for me," she replied.

"That sounds... pleasant, I think," Ingram said, sounding unsure about this.

"Pleasant?" Leah echoed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Pleasant is for humans. For people who still find joy in the little things. Pizza for me... it's just something to do."

I felt a familiar pang of sympathy tug at me, though I said nothing. I knew why Ethan was making the pizza. It wasn't just about keeping busy—it was about Leah. Even now, after everything, he couldn't quite shake that pull, that connection. Her imprint on him ran deep, in ways that both of them struggled to understand. And so, he tried. Little things like pizza, jokes that didn't land, moments that felt half-formed.

Ingram, oblivious to the weight behind her words, just shrugged. "Well, if pizza's all you've got, you might as well enjoy it."

Leah's lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. "If only it were that simple."

She leaned back, her gaze drifting up toward the ceiling. For a moment, the room fell into the familiar silence—an unspoken agreement between the three of us that we were all feeling the same, even if none of us were ready to admit it fully.

Then, footsteps echoed from the kitchen. Ethan stepped through the doorway, balancing a tray with a single, perfectly crafted pizza. He paused for a moment, his eyes scanning the room, catching the tension that hung between us.

"Pizza's ready," he said, his voice light but his eyes too careful, too aware of the undercurrent in the room.

Leah glanced at the pizza, then back at Ethan, her expression unreadable. "Thanks," she muttered, pulling herself upright on the couch. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as if she was forcing herself to engage with something—anything.

Ethan crossed the room and set the tray down on the coffee table in front of her. He hesitated, then sat on the edge of the couch next to her, his knee brushing against hers. She didn't flinch, but she didn't lean into him either. The bond between them was complicated, strained by the unnatural dynamics of what they'd become.

He looked over at me, offering a small smile, as if to reassure me that everything was fine. But I could see the cracks, the way his gaze lingered on Leah just a second too long, as though he was searching for something that had been lost between them.

"So," Ethan said, trying to fill the space with words, "I figured since it's a rainy day, and you're always complaining about the food here, I'd make something familiar. Something human."

Leah stared at the pizza as though it were some foreign object, and for a moment, I wondered if she'd even take a bite. Finally, she reached out, grabbing a slice and taking a mechanical bite, chewing slowly. She didn't say anything, just stared blankly ahead, but I could see the effort it took. The weight of trying to pretend, to find meaning in something as small as a slice of pizza.

"Well?" Ethan asked, his voice almost hopeful.

Leah shrugged, swallowing. "It tastes fine."

That was all she said, but the tension between them told a deeper story. Ethan leaned back, disappointment flickering across his features, though he quickly masked it.

I sighed quietly, my own thoughts tangling in the silence. I wanted to help, to offer something that would lift the weight from Leah's shoulders, or at least remind her of what we still had. But the truth was, I didn't know what that was anymore. We were all lost in this endless stretch of time, searching for some piece of ourselves that we hadn't even realized was missing.

Ethan stood abruptly, his hands running through his hair in frustration. "You know, Leah, I'm trying here. I get that things are hard, but you could at least—"

"At least what?" Leah interrupted, her voice sharp as she set the pizza down. "Be grateful? Act like this—like any of this—means something to me? I didn't ask for you to imprint on me, Ethan. I didn't ask for any of this."

Her words hit like a punch, and Ethan recoiled, his eyes flashing with a mix of hurt and anger. "I didn't ask for it either," he snapped, his voice rising. "But I'm trying to make it work. For us."

"There is no 'us,'" Leah shot back, standing now, her voice like a blade cutting through the air. "You keep trying to force this bond, but it doesn't change what we are. What I am. I'm not your perfect mate, Ethan. I'm not some prize to be won."

The room fell into a suffocating silence, the tension almost unbearable. Ingram, who had been watching with a kind of detached curiosity, shifted uncomfortably but said nothing.

Ethan stood frozen, his fists clenched at his sides. "I'm not asking you to be perfect, Leah. I'm just asking you to try. To let me in."

Leah's expression softened for a brief moment, but then her walls slammed back into place. "I can't give you what you want," she said quietly. "I can't even figure out what I want anymore."

Ethan stared at her, his expression raw and vulnerable. For a moment, I thought he might say something—something that would break the cycle of hurt between them—but he just turned and stormed out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

Leah collapsed back onto the couch, her face in her hands, her shoulders trembling with frustration. I wanted to reach out, to say something, but I knew nothing I could offer would soothe the storm inside her.

Ingram, always the observer, let out a low whistle. "Well, that was... intense."

"Shut up, Ingram," Leah muttered, not lifting her head.

I stayed quiet, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on all of us. The rain outside continued its steady rhythm, indifferent to the turmoil within. And as the minutes stretched into hours, the silence became all-consuming again.

My golden eyes began to stare at the pizza, smelling the bread, cheese, tomato sauce and pepperonis. Looking at it, it looked like a masterpiece in its simplicity—crispy crust, melted cheese bubbling with pockets of golden perfection, the vibrant red of the sauce peeking through.

I swallowed hard, feeling a strange pull in my chest. I hadn't eaten since my transformation; the thought of food had always seemed foreign, unnecessary. But now, something stirred. Curiosity? Nostalgia? Maybe it was just the relentless boredom clawing at me, whispering that I had to do something different, anything to break the monotony.

Without thinking, I reached forward, grabbing a slice. It was still warm, the scent overwhelming my senses as I brought it closer. Leah glanced at me, raising an eyebrow but saying nothing. Ingram, perched against the wall, watched with mild amusement.

"You're really going to eat that?" he asked, his tone laced with doubt.

I hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "I just... want to see what it's like."

Ethan snorted softly. "Good luck."

Ignoring him, I took a tentative bite. I could make out the bits of the pizza in my mouth—the cheese, the sauce, the pepperoni. For a second, it was everything I remembered food being—comforting, satisfying, real.

But then my stomach churned violently, a wave of nausea crashing over me. I gagged, the taste turning sour, bitter, wrong. My body rejected it immediately. I doubled over, coughing as I spit the half-chewed pizza onto the floor.

Ethan burst out laughing, unable to contain himself. "Told you," he said between gasps for breath.

Leah shook her head, a grim smile tugging at her lips. "Yeah, being a vampire doesn't come with perks like enjoying pizza."

I wiped my mouth, my throat burning as I straightened up. "What the hell?! It tastes like dirt!"

Leah let out a low chuckle, one that lacked humor but held understanding. "Yeah, that's the fun part. You think you can still enjoy the things you used to, but your body has other plans."

"More like a punishment," I muttered, still trying to rid my mouth of the bitter aftertaste. I wiped my hands on my pants, disgusted. "I don't get it. Everything looks and smells the same, but when I eat it... it's like poison."

Ingram grinned from his corner. "Your human cravings die hard. The instincts remain, even when your body has no use for them anymore." He gestured towards the uneaten pizza. "We don't need food, not like that. But sometimes... we want it. It's part of the torture."

"Torture is one word for it," I groaned, sitting back down, my body still recovering from the violent rejection.

Ethan, who had been quiet, leaned forward, elbows resting on hid knees. He studied the pizza like it held the answer to some cosmic question. "I remember the first time I tried to eat after I was turned," he said softly. "I was craving a burger, thought it would ground me, give me something familiar to hold onto." He shook his head. "It was like chewing ash. It's strange. You think being turned means you get more—more strength, more clarity, more life. But in a lot of ways, it's less. Less joy, less connection."

The room fell into a contemplative silence as Ethan's words hung in the air. It was something we were all feeling but hadn't quite voiced. The numbness, the loss of sensation. The world kept moving, but we were adrift, floating through it like ghosts tethered to nothing.

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the remnants of the pizza with a mixture of frustration and resignation. Ethan's attempt at normalcy had backfired, and Leah's discontent seemed to have only deepened. I felt a restless energy bubbling beneath my calm facade, an urgency to find some kind of purpose amidst the monotony.

"I need to do something," I said abruptly, breaking the silence. "I can't just keep drifting like this."

Leah looked up from the couch, her gaze wary but curious. "Like what?"

"I don't know yet," I admitted. "But I've been thinking... there's more to being a vampire than just existing. I mean, there's something that doesn't make sense."

Ingram's eyes narrowed, his curiosity piqued. "And what exactly are you thinking?"

"I was thinking about Renesmee," I began slowly. "About Nahuel and his siblings. Joham and his mission to creating his hybrid army."

"Violet, you want to get closure on what happened between your mother and Melissa, I get that," Leah softly accused.

"No, it's not just that," I interrupted. "I was thinking more about the Volturi's reaction to Renesmee. There has stories about babies born from two different species and of course a person born of both mortality and divinity—“

"What are you trying to say?" Ethan asked.

"Let her finish," Ingram growled briefly at him.

"I meant why was the Volturi surprised when Renesmee was born? They were very knowledgeable about our kind, yet her existence seemed to shake them."

Leah frowned. "And you're wondering why they were surprised?"

"Yes," I said.

The sound of the door opening immediately silenced us and I saw Gabriel entering. His presence brought an immediate shift in the room's energy. He was still dressed in his lawyer's suit, the crisp lines of his attire contrasting sharply with the disarray that had unfolded in the room. He looked around, taking in the scene with a quick, assessing gaze.

"Everything alright?" he asked, his voice carrying an authoritative calm that belied the tension.

Ethan straightened, quickly masking his earlier frustration with a forced smile. "Just having a... discussion."

Gabriel's eyes flicked to the pizza, the uneaten slices strewn about, then to the scattered expressions of those present. "I see." His tone was more observant than concerned. "What's on your mind, Violet?"

I hesitated for a moment, considering how to frame my thoughts. "I was just thinking about Renesmee and the Volturi's reaction to her. The way they seemed surprised by her existence, despite their extensive knowledge about vampires and hybrids."

Gabriel's eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of intrigue in his expression. "Ah, yes. The Volturi have always been very particular about what threatens their dominion. But even they are not omniscient. They react to threats based on their understanding and their fears."

"Exactly," I said, feeling a spark of excitement. "So, why would Renesmee's existence be such a shock to them? What did they miss or misunderstand about hybrids?"

Gabriel's gaze grew thoughtful. "Perhaps they merely thought that hybrids are myths created by the humans, such as sleeping in coffins, being burnt by the sun and all things."

Gabriel paused, his eyes drifting towards the window as if searching for the right words. "The Volturi, despite their age and experience, have always been driven by one thing—control. Their power hinges on maintaining order, on knowing everything about our kind. But Renesmee... she was an anomaly. She represented something they couldn't predict or control."

I leaned forward, my interest piqued. "But there had to be stories, whispers, something. They had Nahuel as proof of hybrid existence. How could they not have been prepared?"

Gabriel's lips pressed into a thin line as he considered this. "Well, vampire-human hybrids are extremely rare occurrence after all," he continued, his voice low but deliberate. "Even if there were whispers, stories of hybrids, the Volturi might not have taken them seriously. They've ruled for so long by relying on established knowledge. Anything outside their understanding was considered an outlier or a threat to be eliminated. Renesmee challenged that paradigm—she was living proof that their rigid world could be more flexible than they wanted to admit."

Leah shifted uncomfortably on the couch. "So, what you're saying is they were caught off guard because they thought they knew everything."

"Exactly," Gabriel said with a slight nod. "And when something new—something unpredictable—arises, it forces them to react in ways they hadn't planned for. It's not just about control. It's about fear. Fear that there might be more out there they don't understand."

The room fell silent again, each of us digesting Gabriel's words. The idea that even the ancient and powerful Volturi could be afraid of the unknown was both unsettling and oddly comforting. It meant that, in some way, they were vulnerable too.

"So, what does that mean for us?" I asked, breaking the quiet. "If the Volturi don't know everything, if there are still things out there they haven't accounted for... where does that leave us?"

Gabriel's gaze met mine, and for a moment, his expression softened. "It means we have more freedom than we think. More choices. But it also means we need to be careful. The Volturi will always try to maintain their grip on power, and anything that challenges their control—whether it's Renesmee or hybrids like Nahuel—will be met with force."

Ingram finally spoke, his voice measured. "But it also means there's potential for change, doesn't it? If they're not as omnipotent as they want us to believe, maybe their control isn't as unshakable as it seems."

Gabriel gave a small, thoughtful smile. "Perhaps. But revolutions, even quiet ones, come at a cost."

I leaned back in my chair, my mind racing with possibilities. The world suddenly felt a little less suffocating, a little less stagnant. The Volturi might be powerful, but they weren't infallible. And that knowledge sparked something in me, something I hadn't felt in a long time—hope.

Leah, too, seemed to sense the shift in the room, though her expression remained guarded. "So, what now?" she asked, her voice laced with skepticism. "Are we supposed to take on the Volturi? Because let me tell you, I've had enough battles for one lifetime."

Gabriel chuckled softly. "No, Leah. I'm not suggesting we wage war on the Volturi. But knowledge is power. Understanding what they don't know, what they fear—that gives us an advantage. It allows us to carve out our own space in this world without their interference. For now, that's enough."

Leah snorted but didn't argue further. She, like the rest of us, seemed to grasp the weight of what Gabriel was saying.

Ethan, who had been unusually quiet since his spat with Leah, finally spoke up. "So, we keep living. But we do it on our terms. Not theirs."

Gabriel nodded. "Exactly."

I looked around at my companions, feeling a newfound sense of resolve. The endlessness, the monotony, the boredom—it all felt a little more manageable now. We might not have all the answers, but we had something even more important: the knowledge that we weren't powerless.

And that was enough to keep us moving forward, one step at a time, into the unknown.

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