Chapter Text
Something has been writhing under Shelby's skin for weeks now.
It started when Scott made a comment about a sexual assault case on the news. Scott watched the reporter describe some details about the case and its court proceedings, and after a few moments of contemplation, he said, "Honestly, he probably just misunderstood what she was saying. They were dating, anyway, right?"
Well, actually, it started before that, when Shelby and Scott had been out shopping and they'd seen a homeless person asking for help by the side of the road. He averted his eyes and walked away, hissing to Shelby to tell her not to make eye contact with "trash like that".
Or, really, it started a few months before that when Scott had told Drift not to wear a new outfit out because it made her look like a prostitute and it would be her fault if something bad happened to her. Or the year before when he made an offhanded comment about how it was a good thing Shelby and Drift were so nice because otherwise he'd have a really hard time being stuck living with them.
But really, when Shelby thinks about it, these sensations in her flesh started that day by the lake when Scott said that it was okay that she and Drift had been turned against their wills because it all turned out alright in the end.
She ignored it, for a time. For a very long time. Because Scott was kind to her and Drift, and he was family, and family sticks together. Because the things you say don't have to indicate whether or not you're a good person. Because people can change, and Scott chose to change after what happened.
Shelby isn't sure she can ignore it anymore. She can't stop noticing every little thing, every comment, every action, and she can't stop it from adding up anymore. It's in the past, she reminds herself. It's all in the past.
She can't look Scott in the eye, let alone herself. She can't shower unless it's nighttime with the lights off. She doesn't look too close at windows or the pond in the park or the mirror in the bathroom. She can't sleep unless she has so many blankets she can't feel her own body anymore. She's been in her room for days, like she is right now, thinking and thinking and thinking about what it is she has to do.
Of course, Scott hasn't asked what's going on with her. The Scott in her head is falling apart.
Shelby lies in bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Her chest feels tight, but at least she isn't crying like she was for several hours yesterday. Perhaps her world is undergoing relatavistic collapse, but she's not dead yet, so she can't give up.
She rolls over and stares out the window up at the night sky. The stars look back at her, as does the moon, the same moon that watched her as she chose Scott over people who could have loved her. Mercifully, the sky is not red here in New York City. She almost wishes it were, and that she were back in Oakhurst, because then she could try again to do something good for once in her useless life.
It's true that vampires technically don't need to sleep, but it's never come difficult to her even after her turning; until now, that is. She kicks her feet a little, rolls back and forth, and pushes her face into the pillow, but nothing can slow her racing mind enough to allow her to fall asleep.
Because, she thinks, what if it were me getting raped on the news? What if it were me begging for even a dollar to feed myself? What if I hadn't been happy about getting turned?
Like Apo.
Shelby flips onto her back so she is staring straight up at the ceiling. Apo never wanted this. Apo has felt like this before. Apo probably knows what to do.
She hadn't tried to talk to Apo after leaving Oakhurst. Given how much Scott hated her, and how much Apo seemed to hate Shelby, she didn't think it was worth it to put in the effort. But what's wrong with trying to catch up with an old friend?
She lets her eyes close. It's a concrete goal to work towards; finding Apo and working with her from there to decide what to do. Apo can fix this. Apo can fix this. Shelby can fix this.
The light of the moon peeking through the window illuminates the stagnant dust on the floor of Shelby's room as she finally falls asleep.
In the morning Shelby is woken by the sound of someone making breakfast. Not Scott, surely. He can't be bothered. Which means Drift is up.
Shelby inhales deeply, but the air in her room is stuffy. It's always bothered her, but her window is painted shut, and Scott said the apartment owner wouldn't be happy if she tried messing with it. She kicks her sheets off and gets out of bed as quietly as she can, creeping over to her shared wall with the blue haired man and pressing her ear against it. It's just thin enough that after a few moments she can hear the sound of his snoring.
Perfect.
Not bothering to get dressed properly, she lifts the door on its hinges to keep it from creaking and pads into the kitchen. Drift is standing at the stove, reading from a cookbook and attempting to flip over a pancake with a spatula.
"Morning," Shelby croaks. She clears her throat and tries again. "Hi, Drift."
Drift turns her head, and her face brightens upon seeing Shelby. She's not sure what it is, but something about it causes a pit to form in Shelby's stomach, and she resolves right there that she's not going to bring up her plan to talk to Apo. It's not Drift's problem to be burdened with.
"Did you sleep badly or something?" Drift asks. "You look… rough."
Shelby wouldn't know. She hasn't tried looking at her reflection in weeks. "Uh… Yeah, I've been a little sick. That's why I haven't come out of my room much too."
"Would pancakes make you feel better?"
"If you made them, of course." Shelby can't help but smile.
Drift motions for her to sit down. "I think I'm finally starting to get the hang of the blood-to-food ratio. It's a lot harder than it seems! I wonder if vampire chef is a job."
"Why not just… be a regular chef?"
"I wouldn't be able to taste test anything! Isn't that, like, the most important part?"
"No?" Shelby laughs. "I mean, I guess you'd want to be able to taste it."
Drift sits down across the table from her and slides a plate of reddish pancakes over to her, laughing as well. "That's what I'm saying! There's no point if I can't even tell how my own food tastes. What if everyone's just lying about how good it is?"
Shelby takes a bite of her breakfast. She's grown to quite like the taste of blood, so it's already good, but the sweetness of the batter comes through as well. "Well, I think it's delicious, and I would never lie to you."
Very funny, Shelby!
"Aww, thank you."
A comfortable silence falls over them — comfortable for Drift, at least. Shelby's stomach is roiling and as much as she wants to accept her girlfriend's kindness and finish her food she cannot make herself pick up her fork again. She picks at the splintered wood on the edge of the table absentmindedly for a few minutes before opening her mouth.
"Drift… do you think I'm a monster?"
"Of course not!" Drift replies immediately. "What makes you think that?"
She doesn't look up to meet her eyes, instead gazing at her pale, dead hands. "I dunno."
Drift reaches forward and clasps Shelby's hands in her own. There's no physical warmth between them, but it still makes Shelby feel a little less alone and a little less like a corpse. "Trying to protect yourself doesn't make you a bad person. I know… I mean, Avid meant a lot to you. You were scared and acted irrationally."
She thinks I'm upset about Pyro.
Maybe I should be. Maybe I'm a monster for that too.
"Yeah. Yeah, you're… right."
"Hey, let's go out later. Shopping or something, okay?" Drift grins. "Just us two. Like a date!"
Shelby wants to. She really does. She couldn't bear it if she made Drift upset too.
Her stomach hurts so much.
"I… I'm gonna go back to bed. I feel kind of nauseous." She manages a weak smile. "But tomorrow, for sure."
The sad part is that Drift believes her.