Disclaimer: True Blood is Alan Ball's. Could you really mistake it for mine?

Timeline: post s2 finale

Note: I've been wanting to write Jessica for a long time. But I love her too much, so it took awhile. Though I've never done this before, I was definitely inspired by a pretty extraordinary fan video by thesundancekid. If it's a choice between reading this and watching the video, go with the video, trust me. Replace the symbols and follow the url. The password to stream is 'family.'

http://community(dot)livejournal(dot)com/dancingvader/9662(dot)html?view(equals)143806(pound)t143806

Learning Curve

It's a sort of fancy watch. Nice dark band made of leather. It's not digital but the other kind. Hands goin' round. And two faces. Vertical like. One below the other.

It's easy enough to say someone's not human these days. Practice a little and you can say it with a straight face even. "My son's goin' with this girl. Nice girl. Not human, mind you. But nice. Brought up right." Hoyt's mama might have said that, had she been anyone else. "Pretty when she smiles." And then that lady might smile herself. Proud as can be. "Prettiest when she's around my boy."

But sayin' it was one thing.

Their eyes slide right on past. Even the ones that hate us. Hate me.

I pick up the watch and stare at the faces awhile. I can see the whole of the thing at once. Hear the second hands ticking away. Tick-tick. Accountin' for two different time zones. Not quite together. Loud as a heart beat. I can feel the twitchings of the parts inside. Gears pushing past each other. Stronger than a heartbeat.

It takes me a second to realize the watch still has a wrist in it.

I tried so hard to do it right. I tried so hard to figure out how it used to fit inside me. Just a few weeks ago it all worked. But now everything's too far or too close. Too big or too small. I can't hold still long enough to see it right.

I spent a whole day practicin'. Makin' sure I knew how to notice when my fangs slid out. When it showed.

No one will teach me what to do. How to be. Stay in the house, he said. Bed time's at 4am, he said. Recycle. But I'm not his child. Not really. Bein' a vampire ain't wakin' up new. It's wakin' up wrong.

I turn the wrist experimentally, trying to examine the clasp. The skin slips under my hands. Slick still, the hands. So is the skin. I tighten my grip and feel the muted tremors of bone crushing under soft layers of flesh. Toward the shoulder, the tremors die off. I turn my head to follow then. And there it is. Suddenly close.

The body.

A few minutes ago it was food. A few minutes before that, it was a man.

Everything I feel is backwards. I don't know how to be.

Superstition says vampires have no reflections. We show up in mirrors, all right. Girl with red hair and blood on her lips. Pretty when he's there. Pretty when she smiles.

But mirrors don't work for reflections. Eyes do alright. Human eyes that don't really see reflect just fine. They're the only way I know. I'm hungry. For both things. A kiss. Then blood, hot and good, hits the back of my throat. But it's wrong, the eyes tell me. Otherwise….

I don't know how to be.

I look at the man and try to keep him close enough to see. See that he was a man. See the meaning of it. A man. Had a family maybe. Driving a truck to do right by them. Support them. Food and clothes and all the things that make families. How many was it now? How many men? How many families?

Tick-tick.

But up close, I can't see the whole of it. No family here to speak of. Just a body. That was food.

Then it falls back, far away. Heals over. Like virginity. And I can't see the harm in it. I'd been hungry.

It's a hard thing, when you're a child, to understand what death is. That you're never gonna see Grandpa again. Not ever. You don't know how to hurt right when everyone talks so sad for the dead and you're the one left behind.

Harder still when death doesn't take right. When you die and still wake up.

Maybe it should have been him I went for. Hoyt. Him. A man. Food. A body. Maybe I would have learned to hurt right then. Maybe it wouldn't slip too far to see. Heal up.

Outside the truck, I strap the watch on my wrist, fumbling the clasp. Had I opened it before, or simply torn the wrist?I check my face in the side mirror but it doesn't tell me if I should care.

Tick-tick.

Two time zone heartbeat. It's here and far away. And I want to be somewhere else. Everywhere is wrong. Because I am.

The truck stop is busy at night. I'll get a ride. Even though there's blood on my face.

She's a pretty girl. But not human.