Heartless As The Grave Chapter 1

      As a plucky, rambunctious six year old, I still felt the world held infinite possibilities.  I was happy then.  I think Mom was happy enough, too, with it being just the two of us most of the time. She wasn’t much of a joiner, so we generally kept to ourselves and didn’t socialize much outside a friendly wave to a neighbor at the mailbox or some small talk over the produce at the grocery store with a nice lady who worked there.  We didn’t see my father much, but that was to be expected when your father was a vampire slayer.  Slayers were, technically, supposed to stay away from their loved ones to protect them, but Father could never stay away for too long.  No matter what, he always managed to see us a few times a year; especially for my birthday.
     That was why I especially looked forward to my birthday.  It wasn’t only the chocolate layer cake handmade with love by my mom.  It wasn’t just the game of searching high and low for my special present hidden somewhere in the house, where Mom would whisper “colder” or “warmer” depending on how long it took before I grew exasperated at coming up empty handed.  No, it was the three of us being together.  That seventh birthday, however, he was running late.  Because my birthday was so close after Christmas, he would stay with us for a couple weeks and rest before returning to the road. If he had been on time, maybe we could have avoided the awful thing that happened that winter.
     Christmas was my favorite time of year, because the entire house smelled of cinnamon and ginger from all the cookies, sage and turkey from our holiday meal, and faintly of roses from the perfume Mom dabbed on her wrists in the morning.  Mother was also heavily sentimental about old things.  Every year, she adorned our Christmas tree with strings of red and white lights in the shape of poinsettias.  Her own mother had strung them up during the holidays when Mom was little.  
    Unfortunately, there comes a point when old things don’t work quite the way they’re supposed to, though we didn’t know it at the time.  Everything had always worked out somehow, so why would we suspect that it wouldn’t always be that way?  There was always something else to keep us busy.  Pretty much since the day after Christmas Mother was preoccupied with keeping me from snooping about the house looking for my birthday present early.  Her dark blonde hair streaked with grey bounced around her face as she laughed and chased me down the hall away from her bedroom.  “You have to wait two days yet, Lizzie,” she chided, tickling my stomach.
    I squealed, trying to wrench myself from the tickle monster.  “But I want to find it now!”  
    Mother held me tight and kissed the top of my head.  “You just opened a bunch of presents for Christmas!”
    “That was different, Mommy!”
    Yes, I was happy then.  After that winter night, however, it seemed as if I would never be happy again.  It happened after my bath and story time, when the house had grown quiet.  My insides were bursting with excitement for my birthday and anticipation of Dad coming home at last, but I settled into bed anyway because I knew tomorrow would be one day closer to us being together again.  Mom pulled the quilted cover to my chin, kissed my forehead, and wished me sweet dreams.
    Darkness ruled outdoors and clumps of snowflakes patterned the windows of my room when a high-pitched ringing coming from the living room jolted me from sleep.  The smoke alarm!  I rubbed sleep out of my eyes as my bedroom door burst open and my mother ran in.  “We’ve gotta go, Sweetie!   A short in the old plug must’ve set the curtains on fire.”  
     Wrapping my arms around her neck, I whimpered, “I’m scared!”  
     “It’ll be alright.  Don’t you worry!”  Mom ran to the windows, but they were stiff and wouldn’t budge.  A little girl’s room didn’t exactly contain anything with which to break through, so we had no choice but to venture into the blaze.  Dropping to the floor, we crawled to my bedroom door.  Thin tendrils of smoke slowly squeezed in from under the door.  Mother gingerly tested the doorknob with the tips of her fingers, slowly turned the knob, and pulled the door in.  A thick layer of smoke hung above our heads, obscuring the view.  The darkness of the night made the orange glow ahead even more frightening.
   “Stay close, Lizzie,” Mom coughed, remaining on all fours.
    The air grew hotter, more oppressive by the minute as we inched down the hall towards the living room and the devilish glow of the fire.  I had to stop to wipe the sweat from my forehead.  Our house was slowly being consumed.  It was getting harder to breathe in the ever-expanding smoke, but Mother remained calm.  
    Red hot flames crept towards the hall where we hid, licking the walls black as it came.  All we had to do was round the corner, dart through the kitchen, and out of the french doors beyond the breakfast nook.  Paint on the ceiling and walls bubbled from the intense heat.  The house began to groan and crack, threatening to collapse around us.  The orange embers floating in the air were almost pretty as I watched them drift delicately across the room.  Mother turned and scooped me into her arms as one of the exposed beams suddenly came crashing down in a deluge of flame and ash, nearly robbing us of our escape route.  Frightened for our lives, I squeezed my mother as hard as I could.  
The fire was fast on our heels as Mom skirted the fallen beam and made her way through the kitchen.  Suddenly, she lowered me to the floor and pushed me towards the way out.    
    “Run, Lizzie,” she urged.
    “What about you?” I asked, pulling at her sweaty wrist.
    “I just need to grab our photo album from the closet.”
     Most of the house was engulfed in flames by now, but Mother still wanted to save our photo album.  She assured me she would be right behind me, and I could now hear the piercing sirens of fire trucks rushing down the street, so I did as I was told and ran.  The frigid night air felt wonderful against my sweating, dirty skin.  My bare feet didn’t even feel the cold of the snow as I ran across the yard to the approaching police officers and told them how my mother was still inside.  I turned to go back in after her, but was held back by the strong grip of a paramedic.
    “Are you okay?” he asked, holding my face in his hands and looking me over.
    “No! My Mom’s still in there!”  I yanked myself free and made it halfway across the yard before a balls of fire, smoke, and rubble exploded out the doors and windows, knocking me backwards into the snow.    

     The pain was like a knife to my stomach, a tightness in my chest that refused to release its iron grip.  A cavernous void now existed in my heart where she used to be.  My whole world came crashing down in one horrific moment.  Nothing would ever be the same again.  The entire world no longer held any joy, now that she was no longer there.  Everything was suddenly grey. No color.  No light.  Only an endless sea of longing for the thing I would never have again seemed to occupy my future.

      That is what happens to you when your mother dies.  

      Ripped from my life in the blink of an eye, I felt cheated.  How dare this happen to me?  Why did everyone else get to have their mom but me?  Never again would I feel her warm, comforting embrace.  Her voice would no longer ring out, bringing light and laughter into my life.  It wasn't fair!  To make matters worse, there was no one to blame.  I needed someone to blame.  I yearned for an outlet to my rage; because there was none, I had to bottle it up and allow it to fester like an untreated wound.

      “Eliza, are you listening?”
      “Hmm?” I replied, not hearing the voice of the six foot tall man hovering over my makeshift desk and glowering down at me.
     “Eliza Anne Graves, I’m trying to explain to you why we no longer use stakes against vampires.  You’ve already missed the entire lecture on vampire and werewolf lore in recent and past media.  This may not seem important right now, but in order for you to be a successful Slayer, you’ve got to pay attention!  Why do you always have to be such a pain in the ass?  Even as a little girl, your life’s purpose seemed to be to get under my skin.”  A disgruntled noise almost like a snort spurted from his tense lips.  
       He planted his hands on the front edge of my desk and stared me down, eye-to eye.  Any normal day and I would've been seriously intimidated because of his sheer size and icy stare, but I had other things on my mind.  A thought of my mother and how desperately I missed her always lurked at the back of my mind, testing my resolve. Most times I could ignore it, or remember the happy times.  However, there were certain days of the year when merely thinking of her caused my stomach to rise and my eyes to water.
       Bringing a hand up, I fingered the blackened cross on the chain about my neck.  My voice nearly breaking with unshed tears I managed to whisper, “Do you know what day it is?”
       Uncle Spike’s face momentarily scrunched again, confused by my sudden, off-subject question.  Then he glanced at his watch to check, and his previous frustration with me melted away as the realization hit him.  “Oh, yeah.”
       Ten years seemed like such a long time, yet not at all.  I barely could remember that day, yet the mind numbing fear and sheer heat of the flames would always stay fresh in my mind.  My mother died saving my life.  Even though I had been too young to do anything, a nagging sense of guilt that I should've saved her still plagued me and squeezed my stomach so tight I feared I might become sick.
      “Eliza?  Are you alright?”  Spike called to me, from what seemed like a far away place.
      Nodding, I brushed a stray tear from my cheek.  Each anniversary of her death was the same.  Time was supposed to heal all wounds, wasn't it?  At what point would time begin to heal the wounds that still felt as raw as the day our emblazoned home caved in on her?
       “That pain you're feeling let's you know you are alive, the beat in your chest tells you that you have a purpose.  Believe me; in time, all wounds lessen and heal."
       I shifted my gaze down, not wanting him to see that I was on the verge of losing control and sobbing all over my desk.  He didn't like me to show such weakness.  As Slayers, we were above such things.    
"Lizzie," he continued, taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Your parents loved you very much, you know.  They were wonderful people.”  The faint lines on his forehead and at the corners of his mouth deepened as he watched me with concern.  
      I pulled back from his grasp and wiped my eye with the back of my hand.  With a forced  chuckle I said, “Don’t call me ‘Lizzie,’ only Mom ever called me that.  Papa could still be out there.  I haven’t seen him since I was thirteen, but I still can’t give up hope.”  Slouching back in my chair, I hoped that I hadn’t lost my father, too.  At least I had Uncle Spike.  Even though, technically, we weren’t related, my father requested that I call my guardian, “Uncle.”  My father claimed they had grown up together, and were as close, or closer, than any two blood brothers could have been.  He had always been like a surrogate father and the role model I needed, but I desired more than that.  I yearned for the mother I was never going to have again.
      With a reproachful sigh, he sounded as though he was about to start lecturing me again.  “No, don’t give up hope.  But you must remember, as Slayers, we can’t let our emotions rule us.  Emotions are powerful things, Eliza.  While they may be important for humans, they are a luxury that we can’t afford.    In order to be successful, we must remain heartless at all times.  There’s also an old saying ‘heartless as the grave’ that applies quite well to our situation.”
      My lip curled in confusion.  “What is that supposed to mean?  I thought the saying went ‘quiet as the grave’ or something like that.”
     Spike shrugged, scratching the side of his neck.  “Somewhere along the line, somebody must’ve got it wrong.”  His eyes bored into mine, attempting to sear his point into my brain. “The grave is just a hole in the ground.  It doesn’t care about anything; it is what it is.  The bodies that are laid to rest in them are mere shells, so they don’t care about anything, either.  Their souls have moved on to The Beyond.  When we shout to the grave because we are angry our loved ones are gone, what happens?  Nothing.  The grave has no feelings and can’t comfort you.  As Slayers, it is best if we are like that; immune.”
      “I still don’t get it,” I murmured, with a pronounced roll of my eyes.  If I was to remember any of Uncle Spike’s teachings, it seemed suppressing our emotions was the most important one.  For the most part, I felt as though I had been doing a good job with it, but when it came to my parents, I couldn’t.  I knew first hand the love my parents had for each other.  The knowledge that there were such great feelings in the world stirred a yearning in me to experience them for myself.  However, my guardian made it sound as though, for me, such sentiment wasn’t allowed.  “But, Uncle Spike, what about love?  Is even love forbidden to us?  What about my parents?”
       With another sigh, Uncle Spike pulled up a chair and sat down next to me.  Taking my hands in his, he held my gaze with a mournful expression.  “Love is the most potent of all.  Love makes people do crazy things, think irrationally.  If you are as lucky as your parents to find love, then by all means, hold onto it for dear life.  However, the world is a harsh, cruel place and we must be careful to protect those we care for.”
    “Uncle Spike, is that why Dad hasn’t come back?”  
I told myself that being that infamous among the Slayer and vampire communities, it was unsafe for me to travel with my father, but that wasn't entirely true.  Truthfully, I wasn't even sure my father was still slaying at all.  Losing Mom had indeed changed me, but I wasn't the only one.  After losing her, my father became almost a shell of his former self.  His grief consumed him so utterly that he, honestly, found me to be a painful reminder of her and couldn't take care of me.  Spike often conversed with his friends in the pub to hear the gossip.  He forbade me to enter such an establishment, but I knew they all had spent time with my father in their youth and couldn't help myself from listening at the window for word from him.  As far as they knew, my father had thrown himself into his work and cared about little else.  
       I didn't want to believe that, though.  I was his daughter; I was positive that he still loved me.  When I grew up and could handle myself, I had to find my father.
       “In the classroom, it is Professor Spike,” he countered, avoiding the question altogether.  
       “Some classroom,” I muttered under my breath with a roll of my eyes.  
      “I heard that!  Do you want to run laps again?”
       “No,” I quickly replied and gave an fervent shake of my head.  Laps were his favorite punishment.  Whenever I talked back or did something he didn’t like, he made me run laps around our two-story craftsman house.  What made the laps especially embarrassing were the stares and points from the unknowing neighbors.    
       “’Cause I’ll make you do ‘em.  Fifty at a run, then a hundred at a jog.  You’ll be out there the rest of the afternoon.”
       “No, thank you.  Uncle Spike…” I stared up at him and attempted to put on my best sad face.  
       His face scrunched up reluctantly, meaning he was about to give in—if I could only hold the expression long enough.  Taking a deep breath and clearing his throat, he stood up straight.  “Don’t try and give me that doe-eyed look; you’re getting too old for that, you know.  Just like your father: your eyes start as grey and calm as an average winter day.  Before you know it, WHAM!  They’re as green and menacing as a summer sky before a tornado.  Believe me; I’ve been in Iowa longer than you have and have seen my fair share of green skies.  They’re not the kind that make you feel all warm and cuddly inside, let me tell you.  You were born to kill.”
       Or so he proclaimed, time and time again.  My lips pursed and shoulders slumped in defeat.  It seemed that I was growing up faster than I thought.  The blood of an ancient line of assassins supposedly pulsed through my veins; but as the only woman in a long line of male successors, I felt compelled to be different.  No matter what I had to say, everyone else seemed to have other plans.  Tragedy thrust me into that life of death and devastation.  
        As a true Slayer, one born to the task, I was one of the few who still survived when I was born in the twenty-first century’s first moments.  Because of what I was, Spike hadn’t allowed me to attend a proper school.  The playgrounds were far too open and not nearly guarded enough to keep me safe.  According to him, there were far more subjects for me to learn about than the regular human teenagers; and since they didn’t know about my kind yet, I had to stay far away from them.  But I didn’t want to learn about those things.  I wanted to meet friends and pass notes about the cute boys we liked and how much we disliked our teachers.
       “Now,” he began with a chipper tone as he released my hands and stood up.  “I think that’s enough school for now.  I don’t know about you, but I think we could use some exercise.  Let’s move on to hand-to-hand combat.  Today, we’ll discuss shooting left-handed while wielding your sword at the same time.  Go get the new sword I made you and meet me in the backyard.  Maybe I’ll have you run the hundred yards again, too.  You were just under nine seconds last week, but I think you can whittle it down to eight flat.  And don’t forget, I’m going to take you vampire hunting after your birthday…”
       His voice faded away as he continued out of the room without me and talked to himself about all of the things he wanted me to do before I went on my first hunt.  Some birthday present: vampire hunting.  I felt reluctant about having to come face-to-face with my worst fears, but like it or not I had to do it eventually.  All the commercials for the popular, teen-driven movies of the last fifteen years showed well-dressed, sensitive vampires.  Since Spike believed those movies to be complete drivel, I couldn’t see them to find out for myself.  I certainly couldn’t read the books either, because he didn’t want them to fill my head with nonsense of working relationships between vampires and humans.  
       Jogging to my room to grab my double-edged sword, I wondered if Uncle Spike was wrong about the vampires.  No matter what, I would soon find out for myself what they were really like.