"Please," I moaned as a stray tear slid salty into my mouth. "Just let me in, I'm not trying to trick you or anything."

Standing underneath the artificial light that became synonymous with bouncers outside of clubs so that IDs could be checked, I had stopped crying about an hour or so ago. I didn't feel the pressure of the tears behind my eyes anymore and my nose stopped running but I still looked like I applied garish red eye shadow and the random tear would stream down my face.

I felt numb, though, as numb as one can feel trying to get into a club while completely underage and underdressed. My only concern was trying to convince the woman in front of me that I was only interested in getting my brother – not the booze, not the boys and certainly not the bites – and so far she seemed rather apathetic to my whole being.

"And let's say I do risk the bar's license and the owner's personal livelihood, not to mention my own," She drew out, still grasping tightly to my ID that gave away I was only seventeen, with a well manicured hand. "to let you in; where will the fairness come from?"

The frustration of not being let in was starting to needle into my conscious state. My brother was probably at the bar laughing and drinking and engaging in questionable activity without any idea that I was out here. At this point, he wouldn't know until the wee hours of the still dark morning when I was still in front of this woman and the people groaning in line behind me were long gone.

But the moment she smiled after she finished talking, and I could see the distinct points of her fangs, everything fell on me like a water balloon.

"My mother is dying," My voice was always hoarse – ever since my mother first started dying, it was hoarse – but now, laced with practically tangible desperation, I was not coherent. "She's doesn't have long and she's waiting to see my brother one last time."

No more tears came down my face but it must have looked like they were about to (when I first stepped in front of her, she sneered at the evidence left behind of my crying) because after a moment or two, she practically colored the back of my hand black with a sharpie and then shoved me through the door.

I never spent my time wondering where it was my brother was hanging out and even on the drive there I didn't really try to expect anything, so the overtly dark and some-what sleazy inside neither met nor failed any previous thoughts. I knew vampires were dangerous but so were most dogs when provoked and my brother and I had more fish to fry than his safety when he first started to come to a vampire bar. He was of age, a male and neither of us told Mom.

I stupidly stood by the door I just came from, trying to crane my neck over the patrons that seemed to not have a problem with the black lacquered table tops to spot the brunette. He wasn't excessively tall, which made the process harder, but the bar looked the most promising. I knew he wasn't much of a dancer and he never really was one for sitting below women on poles (a much more hands-on person).

Along the bar, there were numerous brunettes, but only one near the end opposite of me had the same family-inherited slouch. The smoke and general smell of the whole place irritated my eyes further but I refused to be branded by my hands, my clothing and my face all together. I wasn't exactly in my pajamas; however jeans that fit snuggly years ago and a shirt I used for painting my room was hardly club attire. At least I was wearing black; I wasn't completely a sore thumb.

On my way to the end of the bar, side-stepping the random couple that couldn't quite make it to the dance floor and those carrying drinks, a drunk at a table managed to edge me sideways with his bumbling out of a chair.

"Sorry," I mumbled automatically, averting my eyes quickly even though I really was not in the wrong and he could not possibly understand me. I took one step looking at my feet before directly leveling my eyes to the center of the back-most wall and awkwardly meeting the gaze of another.

He looked bored, almost as bored as the woman who let me in, as he sat deeply in the throne of a chair. Even with our eyes eerily connected, there was not visible spark of interest; even with all the activity geared towards his person, he sat like a child sitting through a church sermon. He must have been Scandinavian with his coloring but as always my eyes trailed over to my brother once more; I was on a mission and nothing else mattered.

I reached for my brother's shoulder the moment I could and felt the visible shock. He turned around with a look of slight annoyance before he recognized that it was me. I was surprised he did at all; I must have come early in his night.

"What are you doing here, Daph?" He asked me, only a slight slur littering his normal accent. "How the hell didya even get in?"

His drinking buddy to his left, once absorbed talking with a woman who removed herself to the bathroom, looked me over before laughing slightly and turning back around. Josh's friends never really liked me; I wasn't particularly tom-boyish nor was I legal to look at and so I served no purpose it seemed.

"Mom's dying," I said, not bothering yelling. I knew the moment he turned around he'd realize why I was there and that the questions were only manifestations of his hopes that it was anything else. I couldn't even put emotion into my words, we both had envisioned this night so many times before. "She wants to see you last."

Josh muttered something to his friend before sliding off the stool. I could tell it was his time to start crying and I wanted to get out of there as fast as possible. Both for his sake and for Mom's, it wasn't peaceful waiting for a son while death is all but in your living room. As I turned, I caught the eye of the no-doubt owner who seemed zeroed in on me - this time interested.

I felt my brother at my back and started toward the door.

Josh was filling out the necessary paper work while I sat in the hospital room that held more emotional attachments than our house ever did. My mother was no longer underneath the white sheet; instead she was underneath my feet in the morgue. It had been about an hour since, maybe two, but I still had no idea what time it was.

I hadn't known ever since I got into my car to get Josh.

There wasn't too much to fill out, the doctor gave us an accurate assessment of how long she had to live and therefore we were very proactive with all of our duties. We couldn't afford a proper burial and accepted the city-paid cremation. Morbidly my mother was aware of all the decisions and the only thing she demanded was that Josh be there before she went. She did not want to enter the After-world without seeing his assumed-patriarchal face, the heavy brow already settling in on his face.

I sat in the chair I always occupied over these past few months, my butt molded to the very worn cushion, hunched over. My forearms were on my thighs and I stared blankly at the bed that once held my mother. My once breathing, alive and suffering mother. If I turned my head I could see my brother pacing with the clipboard outside the room, trying to remember the date so that he, a 23 year old, could take full custody of me (as stated in my mother's will).

I sat and stared and wondered if this was exactly how the owner of the club reacted when his mother died. I was exhausted of mourning my mother but that didn't alter the magnitude of actually losing her; I'm sure I looked quite bored.