Melisande Again

Melisande Again

Brown fences and green trees whisked by in blurs along the country road. Melisande’s hair twisted in all directions, though the night was relatively still. Cold beads of sweat rolled down her temples, dampening her pale features. She was on the run. Once the world’s most accomplished paranormal detective, she was now the thing she had for years followed: a cold, terrifying vampire.
The constant rhythm of her heavy black boots slowed gradually until it became a series of heavy thuds. All traces of whatever adrenaline – or vampiric strength – had clearly worn off. Cautiously, she glanced behind her shoulder. The glittering lights of the town of Railing were flickering off as the sun rose behind them. Ever so faintly, the cries of sirens rose into the red sunset along with a thin trail of gray smoke. Was it true that she had caused that? Had she truly come to the valid conclusion, that she indeed was the vampire that had terrorized Railing? Her pupils dilated at the thought. The realization that she had killed; killed something innocent made her head spin. However, deep inside herself, in some blackened, frozen part of her heart, she drew a twisted form of satisfaction out of it.
“No!” she screamed aloud. Among the grassy hills, her voice echoed. Her dark eyes widened, and she threw herself onto the ground, sobbing. Her body shuddered as she drew in deep breaths and said to herself, “Never… never again. I- I can’t control it… I can’t. But… how do you kill a vampire?” she said, as her heavy lids fell over her eyes. Melisande woke suddenly, jolting upright. Her irises darted to and fro, absorbing her surroundings. She sighed in relief. She was still on the side of the road; still human. The low rumble of a truck brought Melisande back to reality. She got to her feet, brushing the dust from her clothes and running her thin fingers through the tangled black mat that was her hair. She absently raised her arm and stuck up her thumb.
The truck - a rather unappealing shade of green – sputtered to a stop, raising a thick cloud of dust. The driver leaned his head out the window.
“Get in.” He grunted. Without hesitation, Melisande walked to the passengers’ side of the truck and pulled on the handle.
“It’s locked.” She said. Click. She tried it again; it opened. She climbed in and shut the door, and the truck resumed its sluggish pace. Melisande stared ahead, her eyes unmoving save the occasional bat of a lid. A rather familiar, repugnant smell loomed in the air of the cab, resulting in Melisande peering over her shoulder to see what was in the bed. Nothing, and it looked like it had just been cleaned as well.
“Did you just deliver something?” She asked as casually as was possible for her. Her eyes were still pointed straight, plastered to the horizon.
“No.” He replied sharply. It was obvious that the man felt that Melisande was an extreme inconvenience to whatever plans he had in store for the day. In a bold side glance, Melisande looked over the driver. Tendons stood out on his hands from grasping the steering wheel so tightly out of frustration. White scars stood out sharply against his darkly tanned skin, which appeared slightly darker from the thick coat of hair covering his arms. The man’s face was also scarred with small random scrapes and speckles as his arms, though it was distorted into furrowed eyebrows, scrunched nose, and glaring eyes. She was so engrossed in studying the farmer that she hadn’t noticed that the low rumble of the truck’s engine had stopped. She peered out the window.