Wedding Day Vampire

“I ’m fine, Mum. Seriously.” I pinch the bridge of my nose as I stare at the canvas filled with sharp yellow while holding the phone to my ear. “Then let me see your face, hon,” Mum says softly, almost pleadingly. She’s always pleading with me, my mum, imploring, asking, probing, and disturbing my routine. I exhale a long breath. I sound like a damn twat to the mother who only ever treated me with care, love, and understanding. And maybe I’m on edge because I don’t want her to hate me. I hate me enough for both of us.

“You know I don’t like FaceTime,” I grumble, then try in a more cheerful tone, “I have a school project to finish. I’ll talk to you later.” “Bran.” She stops, probably trying to choose her words carefully. She never has to choose her words with the family's golden boy, Lan. Apparently, I screw up everything, Mum’s caring side included. “If you’re under stress or anything, you know you can talk to me, right? Or you can speak to your dad if you prefer. We’re here for you, whatever it is. You know that, right?” My chest expands with constricting breath and I expel it out of my lungs, but it gets stuck in my throat. Pressure builds behind my skull and I want to bang it against the nearest fucking wall. But I don’t. Because I’m in fucking control. Always. “I know, Mum,” I whisper back. “Listen. I know it’s too soon to talk about this, but I think Grace might be open to take you next year.” I frown. Grace, Mum’s agent, is not only world-renowned but also a legend in the UK’s art council and even holds the position of a Lady in the House of Lords. Despite her reputation, she has only signed three world-famous artists, Mum being one of them. “Why would she want to sign me?” I ask carefully. “Because you’re a marvelous talent. I’m so happy you’re finally getting your chance. I know how it must’ve felt to see your brother get all the opportunities this whole time, but you’re as talented as he is, Bran.” You have to say that because you’re our mum and can’t be caught showing favoritism. “Okay,” I say simply. “I love you so, so much, Bran. My life wouldn’t have been the same without you.” Her words flood my mouth with nausea, but I swallow and smile. As if she can see me. “I love you, too, Mum.” I hang up before she says anything else that will turn my stomach and send me rolling down the nearest cliff. My hand tightens around the phone until I think it’ll break into irreparable pieces. A part of me is disappointed that it doesn’t and remains intact. Like my head. My gaze slides from the phone to the canvas. I started to have a vision, made a few strokes, then had to physically force my hand down. It was doing things my brain doesn’t approve of and never will. I should be working on a landscape painting, but I couldn’t bring myself to touch that. Instead, I was thinking of eyes. I don’t fucking do eyes. Eyes send my head up a fucking wall. I stopped painting people and animals for that reason. I succeeded for years, but now, here I am again. My thoughts were running rampant, which is why I was thankful when I got Mum’s call. But then not so much when I couldn’t stop myself from staring at the canvas even when I was talking to her. Things got worse when she could tell I wasn’t myself—not that I ever am—and she started probing and worrying. I hate it when I’m a constant cause of concern for her. It’s the worst. My gaze falls back on my phone and my heart thuds when a new text pops in. But it sinks down so hard afterward when I see Clara’s name. Fuck. CLARA