The Dark Heroine: Dinner with a Vampire. Abigail Gibbs

      ELEVEN

       Violet

      It was the morning of August 7th when Fabian came in. One week and the hope I had of getting out had faded. On the bright side, Charity the whore had left.

      ‘There is something on the news about your family. Do you want to come and see it?’ he asked after explaining I could leave my room again. I followed him, a small spark of hope reigniting as we entered the living room and I saw my photo – a school photo, of all things – plastered across the screen. Above it was the word ‘missing’. The others were gathered around the sofas, watching the screen as the news theme blared and images of various stories flashed up.

      The music finished, and the female news anchor on the left looked up from her laptop. ‘Violet Lee, daughter of the Secretary of State for Defence, Michael Lee, was today officially reported as missing.’ My face popped up once again. ‘Miss Lee was last seen on July 31st at around 1 a.m., in the area around Trafalgar Square. Fears have arisen that she may have witnessed the murder of thirty men, dubbed London’s Bloodbath, and been abducted by the murderers. This claim has not been verified by the Metropolitan Police, who are widening their search to include the Greater London area.’

      The screen switched to footage of several police officers with sniffer dogs, searching the outskirts of London. My hands gripped the back of the sofa as my knees ceased to feel so solid.

      ‘It has been confirmed that a high-heeled shoe found at the scene of the murder belongs to Miss Lee, although police have dismissed the idea of her being a suspect.’ A picture of my shoe in a clear plastic bag appeared behind the male anchor’s head. ‘Questions have been raised as to why Miss Lee’s disappearance was not reported earlier, and today the Secretary of State gave in to public pressure and made a statement.’

      My father appeared, clutching my mother’s hand. They were sitting behind a table, a rabble of journalists snapping pictures and holding dictaphones. A large picture of me as well as the hotline to call with information scrolled along behind them on a blue screen. I choked a little as I saw them, especially as I saw tears roll down my mother’s cheeks. My father’s expression was calm; controlled.

      ‘We are working with the police to try and find our daughter, and we would like to thank them for their support,’ he said, speaking without wavering, into a microphone.

      A journalist stood up, calling over the buzz. ‘Do you think this may be linked to anti-war protestors, who oppose your decision to send more troops to the Middle East?’

      My father shook his head. ‘I refuse to comment on policy. This is not the time or place. We just want our daughter back. We miss her.’ At this point, my mother broke down into sobs; through them, I could hear her begging for me to come home.

      My eyes stung as my own tears formed. I wanted to reach out and touch her. I wanted to comfort her; to tell her I was okay, even though I wasn’t; even though I wouldn’t come out of this human. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I was frozen to the spot, wanting to stop watching, but unable to tear my eyes from the screen. Fabian placed a hand on the small of my back. I pushed him off.

      ‘Since Michael Lee ascended to the position of shadow defence minister and then took up the role with his party’s election three years ago, the family has suffered unparalleled grief. Four years ago, at the age of just seventeen, the Lee’s eldest child, Greg Lee, died after taking a heroin overdose. In October of last year, Lillian Lee was diagnosed with leukaemia and is currently undergoing treatment.’ The reporter finished and I felt the blood drain from my head. Air stopped reaching my lungs as I forgot to breathe.

      ‘We now have a message from Lillian.’

      Lily – my beautiful sister, Lily – came up on the screen. She was lying in a hospital bed, all sorts of wires attached to her wrists. She was paler than the parasites beside me, her arms seeming to have a faint green tinge. Her eyes were sunken and bloodshot and she looked thin and frail, save for her cheeks, which were swollen from the steroids. She was bald, but it didn’t matter. She was my beautiful little sister, cancer or not. She looked so ill, but I knew that was from the treatment.

      A microphone was placed under her mouth, and she began to rasp her words. I could tell it took effort.

      ‘V-Violet. I know you’re out there. T-they’ll let you go and come home.’ She closed her eyes, a peaceful expression taking over her face.

      The screen changed back to the newsroom, and the anchor people, looking awkward, began explaining how to contact the police with information.

      Hours later, I was still numb. Numb and cold. I couldn’t feel anything: no pain and no hope, no happiness and no fear. Just nothing.

      Fabian was holding me and I let my head fall onto his frozen shoulder. His arm snaked around my waist and pulled me into him. I was beyond tears, which I knew he would be glad of: his T-shirt was damp. A thousand and one tissues lay in the bin nearby, and my nose was sore, my eyes red and puffy. My muscles were protesting, hating the contorted positions I had forced them into to escape the pain.

      I could feel Fabian’s breath on my hair and for once I was glad he was here. I felt his lips brush the skin on my forehead, and I tensed up, waiting for sharp canines to pierce my skin. But they did not come. Instead, he kissed my forehead, pulling me as close to him as possible.

      ‘It’ll be okay, I promise. I’ll look after you,’ he whispered, his voice soothing like a lullaby. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw Lyla whirl around, eyes ablaze and her fangs bared. A picture of Lily formed once more in my mind and a felt a lump form in my throat. Too soon, Lyla was