Be

You were so young,

And I guess I'm old,

Open your eyes,

and I'll keep mine closed.

 

I prefer standing,

You take your seat,

I'll be wide awake,

You'll be asleep.

-All American Rejects

 

    Syron grasped the edge of the sink, his sweaty palms slipping off the the stainless steel. He gasped, shakily inhaling, but it only resolved into a coughing fit. He sunk to his knees, his thermal pajamas sticking to his skin. Syron ran a hand through his brown hair, darkened with sweat.

    "What is this?" he asked himself, choking through his words. But Syron already knew what it was. He already knew what was causing him to feel so ill. But he refused to admit it. It was just a myth. It was just a story. A legend. It couldn't be real.

    Syron pulled himself back up, so that he was leaning over the sink. He coughed once more, and watch as blood spattered the steel. His stomach rolled, and Syron turned away, swallowing his excessive saliva. He would not be sick. He would not be sick.

    "What's up with you, eh, Roseblood?" a voice cooed. Syron flinched and turned toward the open bathroom door.

    "Lucas." Syron managed. And with that one word, another wave of nausea hit, and Syron leaned over the toliet, vomiting.

    Lucas smirked, and ran a hand through his long golden locks, pulled back in a ponytail. His eyes were black, dark as pitch. "That's my name." he cocked his head. "You're a day schooler. Shouldn't you be asleep?"

    Syron wiped his mouth. "I-I got sick."

    "Obviously." Lucas Marci grinned. "Why didn't you go to your bathroom?" he sneered.

    "I thought...I-I thought..." Syron bit his lip.

    "The Academy is not known for thought. It is known for action. Unforgiving action."

    The Academy. Syron hated it. He hated it with a passion

    Roseblood Academy was one of the oldest schools in England. Syron's parents ran the school, until their untimely deaths. It was sold to Lucas' Marci's parents. Thankfully, they had not changed the name. If they had, Syron wouldn't be able to stand living here. The Academy was a boarding school. It had two sets of students. Students who attended class during the day, and those who attended class during the night. For some reason, there was some odd differences between the night class, and the day class. They never got along. Syron attended the day class. Lucas attended the night. Syron was supposed to be in bed. But after feeling ill for days, it suddenly overcame him during the night. He had ran out of his room, and dodged through the hallway. He passed his own bathroom, in fear that something was happening to him. Something that had only been talked about in rumors.

    The change...

    He had ran to the night class' hallway, where people in dark uniforms stared at him. Syron had escaped into the public restroom outside a classroom of laughing students. And then, Lucas had found him.

    "You know what's happening." Lucas mused. "Do not deny it."

    "It's a rumor. Nothing....nothing more." Syron coughed.

    "Course it is. And what's this rumor?"

    Syron said nothing. He knew what the rumor was, yet he refused to believe it. He couldn't believe it. If he did, then he would have to believe what was happening to him.

    Sometimes, students from the day class got transfered into the night. They would be fine, and then the illness would set in. After a few days, the teachers would claim they had been transfered to the night class, for whatever reason. And Syron, nor any of the other students, would see their fellow again. There was only one rumor, to what had happened to the missing student.

    Vampirism.

    Syron had refused to believe this. He had refused to believe the combined rumors, that Roseblood Academy was once a vampire mansion. That it held the greatest minds of Britain, and that each one was turned into such a monster. That the night class contained the vampire species. He tried to think back, inhaling steadily. It wasn't true. It couldn't be.

    "No one ever remembers being bitten," Lucas murmured. "Until years after. That's when they remember the pain. The feeling of two fangs, breaking skin as easily as slicing butter." Lucas' voiced wandered off, as he was immersed in memory.

    Syron blanched. "If...if this is what's happening...what is this illness?" he coughed, and shuddered.

    "Your body is being rearranged." Lucas muttered formally. "You are growing canines. You're body is being made for blood, not food." he spat out the last word like a curse.

    Syron laughed hoarsely. Suddenly, he cried out, pressing his fist against his eyes.

    Lucas observed his fingernails as he leaned against the doorway. "And now, your pretty olive green orbs are turning black. This means you are thirsty. It means you need blood."

    Syron moaned. "Are-are you t-thirsty?" he managed.

    "Oh yes," Lucas smiled. "But I can hold in my thirst. You learn to do so, after a good hundred years."

    Syron wrenched his hands away from now, his onyx eyes. He stumbled backward, against the bathroom wall. Grimicing, he turned toward Lucas.

    "Which day walker will be your first meal?"

    "None." Syron replied gruffly. "I'm not...I'm not a monster."

    Lucas smiled. "Then prove it." and he stepped away from the door.

    Syron bolted out into the hallway, ignoring the black and red stares from the night students. His vision pulsed ruby. He sped across the hall, and down the staircase. He needed to get out. To get away. The white snow Syron saw through the windows, it grew scarlet.

    All Syron saw, was blood.

    He wrenched open the great wooden doors, and made to run outside, but was still as he saw he was not alone.

    A little girl stood outside, on the Academy steps.

    She could not be older than five. Maybe six. Hazel curls hung around her porcelain face. Bright blue eyes stared up at him. Her face was red from the cold.

    Blood.

    Syron opened his mouth, his canines extending.

    The little girl did nothing. She walked right past him, into the Academy. Syron blinked and turned around, his eyes following her. No one had followed him down the stairs. Lucas was probably informing his brethern of their new addition.

    The little girl turned around to face Syron, in the middle of the grand foyer.

    Syron swallowed twice. He could see her veins. He imagined her blood on the floor, her little body white and empty.

    "Who are you?" he shouted at the girl.

    She winced. "I am Di...and that's all I remember."

    "You...don't remember?" Syron's throat burned. He was on fire. Everything burned.

    "I am Di." she repeated. "Are you...okay, Mr...?"

    "Syron." he gasped. He slid to his knees, grasping his head.

    "You're wearing pajamas." Di proclaimed. "And you are hurt."

    Syron looked up at her. She was wearing a pink winter coat, and a yellow dress underneath it. Little blue snowboots stuck out from under it.

    "I...was asleep." he hissed. "And I got...sick."

    Red. Blood. So thirsty.

    "Why did you wake up?"

    Pain. Burn. Hurt.

    "Mr. Syron?"

    Agony. Screaming. Blood.

    Blood.

    The little girl screamed as Syron's fangs pierced her neck. And he feasted.

    The girl, Di, slipped from his grasp. He looked up, and saw Lucas sitting on the bottom stair. His eyes were still black. Syron figured his were a bright scarlet.

    "Welcome to the night class, Roseblood." he smirked. "I will inform my parents of your...need for different education."

    Syron blinked, and slipped into darkness.