Blacker than Black by Rhi Etzweiler

when. The ceiling isn’t a clear summer day anymore, but the pitch of deep night, scattered with stars that wink back at me. Like Garthelle’s eyes, when he’s laughing at a joke whose punch line only he can truly appreciate.
    I let my eyes slide closed because I can’t begin to comprehend how he could have had the ceiling repainted so quickly. It confuses me, makes my pulse pound in my ears. I remind myself to take another deep breath, and block everything out. Memories are fine with me. I’d rather live in the past anyways.
    It comes in flashes, suddenly. Our mother, smiling. Humming a lullaby I can’t remember the words to. Staring blindly at the holo-news, rocking in a weaving, faintly circular motion that’s at once hypnotic and disturbing.
    Watching her. Knowing that father wouldn’t be coming back. He wouldn’t save us. Wouldn’t protect us. He’d walked away. Gone. Easier to detach and begin again, apparently.
    Jhez and I were curled on the couch together. Side by side that time, not like this. The disparity is jarring. It separates me from the crushing emotion of the memories I keep locked away in a deep, far corner for good reason.
    Yet I’m far from at peace with my present existence. Satisfaction is fleeting—brief glimpses and stuttered moments. The glow of a coupe in the boulevard luminescence.  The full moon, high in the sky between the skyscrapers, sliding in and out of stringy autumn clouds.
    Everything has changed. But nothing has. If the uprising had never occurred, if vampires still walked society in secret, where would that have left me and Jhez? So different from everyone around us even then—just as we are now. We still hide what we are. Not of one, not of the other. So we’ve learned to keep our heads down, blend in. Survival, and all that jazz. People see what they expect to see. Thankfully, so do vamps. No vamp-blood would willingly live on the street, after all. Wouldn’t call it easy, but it was the path of least resistance. One small decision after another. One small concession leads to the next.
    And all the sudden you don’t recognize where you are anymore.
    I don’t think Garthelle even realizes why we’re different. I guess you could borrow the term dhampyre to apply to us. Our mother wasn’t one of them. She was human, and died like one easily enough. Our father is another story.
    Our father, whose likeness whispers to me from the stranger across the room. She throws a glance our way, here and there. I ignore her. Pretend not to notice.
    We don’t really know who or what our father was, aside from a vamp. Vincent Noir, face plastered on the media holos almost constantly during the disclosure. The annals of history . . . well. That’s all controlled by them now. And only their ilk has access to it. Humanity is considered a step down the evolutionary ladder. Not worth the effort to educate us, or anything of that nature. We’re so short-lived, for starters. Why would they bother wasting their resources, right?
    The vamps begin drifting from the room, the activity moving elsewhere. By that point, Jhez is sporting a slight sheen of sweat on her forehead. Sometimes having twenty random nibbles ripped from your chi can cost you more than one quick john feeding on the street.
    “I hope this is ending.” Her voice isn’t any steadier than her hand as she trails her fingers over my shoulder to give it a squeeze. I obligingly grab the back of the couch and leverage myself out of her lap to sit up. My vision immediately begins to tunnel into darkness and I lean forward to hang my head down between my knees.
    If only it was as simple as a case of lightheadedness, but I know it’s not. There was one other time when my energy got this low. Desperation had driven me to entertain one too many johns, back to back. It’s the closest I ever want to come to pure insanity. Stupid, stupid, stupid. For as long as Jhez and I have worked the boulevard, I should know better. Should have