And this is my latest story. I have been thinking about it for a while. And today while I was waiting for the bust to come take me home I got the beginning in my head and the rest worked itself out.
Dear Diary, or Journal, or even better, Stupid writing book that I don't want,
My name is Aryan and I'm fifteen years old. I care more about action and fighting then I do a writing and literature, so why am I writing in this journal? Well that's easy, Smith. Who's Smith? Well that's easy; he's the director of the Academy. What's the Academy? Well some people say it's a secret government agency that not even the government knows about. I think that's stupid. How can it be a government agency if the government doesn't know about it? No, I say it's an agency all in itself. Relies on no one, but everyone relies on it, without even knowing so. So who am I? I'm Aryan. And if I don't like writing why am I letting Smith make me? Simple, I don't have a choice. It's 'stress leave' whatever that is? Smith thinks I've stressed myself out and am going to lose my mind if I don't do something. So he gave me a journal, pen, and the instructions to write.
So lets see, about me: I'm Aryan, oops covered that, I'm fifteen, wait I covered that as well, I have spent all my life in the Academy, until I was twelve anyway, then I started field work, with Cassie. Cassie would be Cassandra, my best friend since, well, since forever. She's dead now, hence the 'stress leave'.
It's no use telling Smith I don't want to write in a stupid journal. He Say's, like he always says, 'Accept in Aryan'. He always says that. Unless he's talking to Cassie, then it's 'Accept in Cassandra'. Accept it. He's catch fraise or something. Yes I'm going to accept it. Accept what? That my best friend is dead, accept that I killed a man; or actually two men and a women, but that's beside the point, they were already dead when I killed them; accept that my parents just abandoned me on what they thought was an orphanage step, accept that I'll never live a normal life, accept that I've been to the hospital who knows how many times, accept that I've broken both my arms, my leg, me nose, cracked my skull, and got who knows how many stitches all since I was twelve? No, I can't just accept in. I'll acknowledge it, even admit it, but I won't accept it.
It's not like the hospital is a pick nick either. I have strange blood. So strange most doctors don't even know it exists, until me or someone else with that blood type come in. It's V negative. The V stands for Vampire. Yes I believe in Vampires, so don't you dare laugh. You should believe in them too. They could attack you at any moment. I should know. That's what the Academy does, it trains people, or actually children, to go out and hunt vampires. It seams all the hunters have V negative blood. Why is beyond me. Vampires have V positive blood, and the hunters get V negative. Ironic isn't it? But having negative vampire blood does have it's advantages, first we can run faster then other blooded humans, we have more natural strength then humans do, and we have a sense of being able to tell who's vampire and who's human. It comes in handy. The down side, it's smells wonderful to the vampires, and it's the blood type they crave the most. Again ironic.
Not that I actually try and kill the vampires, neither did Cassie, she was my partner. We had this policy, we'd watch the vampires, and if they looked like they were going to attack someone we'd get in the way, usually ending in a fight with the vampire, who are naturally stronger then us, but if we work out were good competition for them, but that's why I've been in the hospital so much. Usually we could sustain them with something else, other then their intended victim's blood. That is fine with us. We only kill if we see a vampire bite someone right in front of us. Then it's a full on kill it attack. But that's only happened five times, three times I killed, two times Cassie killed. Don't look at me like I'm a strange foreign creature. Most students of the Academy would rather kill a vampire as soon as look on it.
So normally I would have a normal good grip on my life. Wake up, eat, brush my hair, brush my teeth, wash my face, eat, make sure my backpack is full of everything I need and out the door by seven thirty with Cassie. Usually it's undercover as foster students in a school. And on weekends, or days when we play 'hooky' we go out and look for the vampires. They're so easy to spot, their exceptionally pale, graceful, and extremely polite. It's part of their bluff to fit in. Then depending on their hunger level their eyes change colour, black when their starving, a dark navy blue when their starting to get hungry, a pale green when their not hungry but not full, and very light brown when their full. Their eyes will also flicker red when they smell blood and their hungry. But only when they smell blood they want. Then after that eventful day, it's back home, do the homework assigned by the school that we are pretending to attend, eat dinner, review the day, brush hair, brush teeth, wash face, change to PJ's, brush hair again, make sure all my equipment is still in my backpack, fix my backpack if it's starting to rip, and off to bed.
My backpack is my life, practically anyway. I've had in since I was seven. Since then I've had to patch up who knows how many holes, replace the zipper three or four times, lost one shoulder strap, and hid all my vampire equipment in their. So it is my life.
Anyway, back onto how a day goes. After Cassie died, was killed actually, my life lost all control. Somehow the elderly man we were protecting has select memory, vision, hearing, and mind. He say's I killed Cassie in cold blood, killed the vampire who killed her in cold blood, and was about to kill him in cold blood. He seams to have forgotten the other vampire, but like I said select memory vision hearing and mind. So the police people have haled me into their station, put me into a room, in which I have slumped in a chair, my backpack propped up on my lap, this stupid journal propped up on it, and my pen scratching away on it. I won't let them touch my bag, and they don't have a right to. Technically I'm not under arrest; they don't have the evidence to do that. Oh, some guy just came in. Well I'll get back to you later then, my stupid book.
Aryan shoved her journal into her bag, zipped in closed, and looked up, dark brown hair fell in front of light brown eyes, caged in pale skin, giving her a haunting look. The officer who walked in was maybe about six foot, mid-thirties, army cut blond hair, and green eyes. He sat down across from Aryan, who stared without blinking at him. He seamed unruffled by it. Something that didn't happen off to people Aryan stared at.
"Good day Miss..." he said leaving it open for her answer.
"Aryan," she replied stiffly.
"OK then Miss Aryan, I'm Officer Shelling," he started pushing two pictures to her.
"Aryan," she corrected.
"Excuse me?" Shelling said looking at her startled, finally some emotion.
"My names Aryan, not Miss Aryan," she explained.
"Oh, sorry," he said and put the two pictures right in front of her. She looked at them briefly, and her face feel, becoming cold and hard.
"What about these?" she asked.
"Do you know them?" Shelling asked. The pictures, one was of a girl about fifteen with curly blond hair. The other was of a man, maybe twenty-five, pale, with sleek black hair. Their eyes were closed in the pictures.
"Maybe I do, maybe I don't," Aryan said, "I ain't telling you nothing until Smith gets here." She looked at her bag refusing to look at the pictures again.
"So what, you just want to sit here, until this guy shows up?" Shelling asked.
"Basically," Aryan said.
"And when will that be?" he demanded, Aryan shrugged, she could tell he was getting angry, "Well I need to know." Again she shrugged. He slammed his hands on the table and forced himself to stand, when the door opened and he froze.
Voila, likey? No likey? Please review.