#forever isnt long enough | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tomwambsmilk · 1 year

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This is such a long post that nobody asked for but I've been seeing Discourse again...

I feel like something that’s missing in most of the discussions I’ve seen on Tumblr about how streaming companies like Netflix have changed TV production for the worse is the profit motive. Or at least, it’s misunderstood. For example, I see a lot of people complaining about how Netflix only considers a show worthwhile if a bunch of people binge it as soon as it comes in, which is true - but I don’t know that everyone understands why, and it's lead to a skewed perception of what's actually going on, and why various studios and platforms make the decisions that they do.

The thing about Netflix is that it’s a public company that's currently unprofitable - so, every single thing it does is oriented toward "growth" (gaining new subscribers). Every show they decide to invest in, they do so because they think it’ll make people who don’t have Netflix want to get Netflix. And if they launch a show, and a whole bunch of new people join the platform, AND their viewer data shows that this show received disproportionate viewership in the same month all those people joined the platform - then it was a good investment. The further out you go from the release, the less correlation there is between the viewership of a show and new subscribers, so the less those viewer numbers matter to them.

Additionally, people talking about the show is more valuable to them than people actually watching it, because people talking about the show gives them free word-of-mouth marketing. Once your friend has bought a Netflix subscription, Netflix doesn't care what they watch, or at what pace. So obviously, if you can make everyone feel like they need to watch the entire show RIGHT NOW because everyone is talking about it and they can't avoid spoilers, that's a much stronger marketing strategy than letting people watch at their own pace.

And that’s why seasons are so short - a longer season costs more money and won’t bring in any extra subscribers, so it's a bad investment. It’s also why Netflix shows tend to be cancelled after only a couple of seasons - if a show hasn’t brought in many new subscribers after the first two seasons, it’s not likely to do so in the future, and so it becomes a poor investment, regardless of how many people already on the platform love it. And even beloved shows like Stranger Things eventually reach a point where everyone who loves it is already on the platform, and even though it's still massively popular it's no longer profitable on the same scale.

All of this is to contrast with network TV, where the revenue comes from advertisers. The more eyeballs are on a show, the more money a network can charge for ad space during that show. So the more beloved a TV show is, the more episodes you want in a season; even if the quality of some of those episodes is poor because the creative team is overworked and underpaid (ie exploited), people will still tune in and you’ll still make money. And that’s also how you end up with shows of 10-15 seasons, even if the show starts to suck around season 8 or 10; as long as enough devoted fans are still watching the show, they can still charge mega ad dollars and make a lot of money. A long-running show with name recognition will make more money, even when it sucks, than an excellent brand-new show with no name recognition. It also means that shows that are self-contained “plot of the week” type shows do a LOT better than stories with season-long arcs, because those shows are more likely to attract casual viewers in addition to regular ones, and people are less likely to abandon the whole show if they miss an episode or two. Plus, if you don't need to worry about the order a season airs in, you can make a lot more money off of rerun adspace outside of the regular season.

And finally, growth looks different for a network. On Netflix, a single person can only provide a single unit of growth, because you're only going to purchase one subscription, so there's very little incentive for Netflix to cater to existing subscribers so long as the platform is 'good enough' for them to avoid cancelling. On the other hand, network growth is calculated based on viewership. So, let's say I watch "The Office" on NBC every week, and nothing else. And then one day, a friend tells me how much they love this other NBC show, "30 Rock", that's halfway through its second season, so I start watching that. That's growth for NBC! They can now charge a little bit more for ad space on 30 Rock than they could before - and it's happened without a whole new person needing to be introduced to their network. So there's a strong incentive to pay attention to what existing viewers want, rather than just focusing on what brings in new viewers. After all, not watching one specific show is a much easier decision than cancelling an entire platform subscription. (The downside of this is that network TV creators are far more beholden to the demands of the audience than a show on a platform like Netflix or HBO, and that can lead to sacrificing some creative integrity).

Overall my point is that the entire structure and shape of TV shows has ALWAYS been motivated by profit. That doesn’t mean the complaints about Netflix are invalid - they are VERY valid and I agree with most of them - but I think it’s important to diagnose the problem correctly: the people with the money to make a tv show are also usually the people who would like to make as much money as possible off your tv show, and will manipulate it accordingly. What’s the solution? I’m not sure, but pretending that these studios are making decisions based on “bad data” or “not understanding what people want” or just pure caprice is simply naive. Its not that they don't know what you want - they just don't care.

#sorry this is a long rant about something no one asked #I just saw a couple of posts that bothered me bc they were missing the point #everything you hate about Netflix is bc of the profit motive. and that’s why it won’t change #those execs aren’t stupid they’re just greedy #and netflix's business model has been artistically hot garbage from the beginning #also the reason premium cable (like HBO and Showtime) tend to produce the best quality TV #is that they need to produce TV good enough to bring in new subscribers. but which is consistently good enough from week to week to keep #those subscribers from cancelling #but thats also why those networks tend to put out shows with shorter seasons #and even popular shows rarely run longer then 7 or 8 seasons at MOST #because at a certain point it stops driving new subscriptions #(and btw thats why HBO isnt pressuring Jesse Armstrong to make succession last forever. they're gonna hit diminishing returns soon)#and #thats why platforms like D+ which have smaller quantity release their shows week-to-week #they're trying to replicate that business model bc they don't have Netflix's selection

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blooming-violets · 2 years

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Forever Isn’t Long Enough || Part Three

[tasm!peter!vampire au x fem!oc]

Summary: [Part of the @liz-allyn dark/angst prompt “In the Box”]

TWs: mentions of blood/blood drinking/blood licking/biting because vampires obvi, death by fire, mention of suicide/depression, abuse of sleeping pills, physical and emotional child abuse, domestic abuse seen from the perspective of a child

A/N: Here’s the second bit to Part Two that I cut in half.

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four

Charlie rolled the bottle of pills absentmindedly in her hand. The dreams were back. Not the one where red eyed Peter comes to visit her but the memories of the brown eyed boy and his lover. She couldn’t pretend any longer. They were memories. She wasn’t sure if they were hers or someone else’s but there was no denying it. Dreams don’t continue in a perfect, detailed timeline. She was reliving someone else’s life every time she closed her eyes. At first the pills help keep them at bay. Now, not even the drugs could fight them off. They were too strong. Someone, or something, was desperate for her to know their story. She’d be a fool not to listen.

Charlie read through her old journal entries where she’d write down everything she remembered after waking up, piecing together the story in the snippets of memory she was given. A tragic love story about a woman named Charlotte and a man named Peter. Two lovers, forced to see each other in secret, but bound by their love. Charlotte came from a poor, simple family on the outskirts of the colony. Peter came from wealth. He was meant to marry someone closer to his higher status. There was a young woman who lived next door who his parents were pushing him to woo. They couldn’t understand why he refused. She was a perfectly respectable Puritan girl. They would make a fine pairing. Yet, Peter resisted. He kept his true love a secret. Bringing her small tokens of his affections each night. Something little that he could find along the way, things she could keep out of sight. Indiscreet tokens of his love. His desires for this young woman grew too large. The secret hand holding and longing glances weren’t enough. He desired to kiss her, to hold her in his arms, to make her his. They both knew what they were doing that night in the barn was wrong. It was against everything they were ever taught. Peter knew more than Charlotte but neither of them were blameless. They risked it all. Night after night. Once that dam was broken they were unable to stop. Two people, young and careless, unable to resist the temptation of lovemaking.

Charlotte was the first to notice the change. She’d been plagued with dreams of crying babies and awoke one night to the realization that she was pregnant. She counted the days since her last bleed, realizing that she had been so caught up in Peter that she failed to notice two months go by since her last. She wanted to be happy. She wanted to celebrate the creation of life but it was impossible. Peter’s timeline to convince his father to let them wed was now cut short. Their time was running out. She did her best to hide the bump for as long as possible. Her dresses were thick and layered. It wasn’t hard at first. No one took notice. Her Pa hardly glanced in her direction. She could bide their time until Peter got the approval he sought.

That was until the day she fell ill with a terrible flu. Her Pa was forced to call on the doctor. It was during his exam that he noticed. Word spreads fast in a tiny town. Finding an unwed woman pregnant was all anyone could talk about. Rumors spread about who could have done it. She heard whispers that they were planning on giving her a public whipping and throwing her in jail, giving her father a hefty fine for his daughter’s indecencies. When she heard the knock at the front door one morning, she had hoped it was Peter coming to her rescue. Instead it was his father and a group of men. They accused her of being a witch. They dragged her off to the jails. She was stripped naked, every part of her body thoroughly examined. She’d never felt so violated in her life. No man, besides Peter, had ever touched her. They treated her like meat, an animal to be thrown around, no longer worthy of her dignity. They poked and prodded, invading every little crevice of her, and taking detailed notes of any mark on her skin. They claimed the small birthmark on her left shoulder, the one Peter loved to kiss, was a mark of a witch.

Charlie paused her rereading of the tales at the mention of the birthmark. She tugged down the collar of her shirt to reveal her left shoulder. A small birthmark peeked back at her. She slammed her journal closed. She was not Charlotte. Yes, that was technically her name, but she was not this person. That was impossible. She didn’t believe in reincarnation and witches and vampires…

Peter was a vampire.

She couldn’t deny what she saw. With the fog cleared from her brain, she remembered everything. He no longer had the hold over her to keep her confused and questioning. She saw it with her own eyes. There were forces happening in the world that she didn’t understand or could comprehend. Somehow she released Peter when she pulled the stake from his heart. She had set all of this into motion. He saw her and believed she was the woman from his past. The red eyed Peter that she knew, the vampire, he was the same one from memories being given to her each night. He was once the brown eyed, gentle, sweet boy who held his lover close and promised her the world. He was once the boy who was so broken at the thought of having to lose her that he’d willingly give up his life to become a monster to save her. He was once the man who waited 330 painful years just for the chance to see her again. Her.

“Me,” she whispered to herself.

She had to know how the story ended. There was still one more piece to the puzzle that she needed to find.

She ran to her desk and pushed open her laptop. She should have googled this months ago. Hell, even their local museums probably told this story. She grew up going on field trips to plays that reenacted the witch trials. She had grown up hearing their stories. Even their damn high school mascot was a witch. These were stories she should have already known. She could make fun of Nora for fucking up historical dates all she wanted, Charlie was just as oblivious.

She typed in the name Parker and Salem Witch Trials.

She should have remembered. It should have been obvious.

The Salem Slaughter of 1692

After the burning of an unknown woman at the stake, a mysterious slaughter took place amongst the townspeople. Over half of the attendees at the burning were brutally murdered. The most prominent of the victims being the entire Parker family. Richard and Mary Parker, and three of their five boys, Isac (17), Elias (15), and Jacob (14) were found dead at the scene. They’re bodies were burned at the feet of the unnamed woman. Their youngest two children, their son Josiah (10), and their daughter Abigail (8), were found murdered inside their family home. Their eldest son, Peter (21), was not found amongst the victims. It was unclear if he was never identified or if he managed to escape the brutality. Either way, his name does not appear on any further records from that colony. Other victims included three court judges, the executioner, and four other men (their names were never identified as the bodies were so badly charred, it could be true that Peter Parker was one of them). Records from this particular time period are rare, at best. After the slaughter, a large fire broke out. Historians assume that many important records were lost in this fire. What caused the slaughter was never discovered though it seemed the Parker Family was the main target. No other children or women were harmed in the killings apart from those in the family. It leads us to believe that whoever was able to accomplish such a heinous act had a particular grudge against the Parker’s. Many like to speculate. Some think it was a scorned lover brought to madness by seeing his lover burn. Others think it was a disgruntled parent seeking revenge for their daughter falsely accused. But, the true believers, follow the path that it was the unnamed woman herself. A true witch setting flame to those around her in one last attempt to make them pay for her untimely demise.

Charlie stopped reading and closed her laptop. She felt sick. She flipped back through her journal pages of her old dreams. By all accounts here, Charlotte was meant to be hung at the gallows. That didn’t make sense. Why would they burn her at the stake last minute? They hadn’t done that to any other witches of Salem. It was obvious to her that Charlotte was the unnamed woman in the article and Charlie had a decent idea of who caused the slaughter of 1692. She was pretty sure she just solved one of her town's biggest mysteries. Not that anyone would believe the truth.

Charlie dumped four sleeping pills into her hand, double the recommended dose, but she wanted to fall asleep quickly and stay that way long enough to get her answers. She wanted the ending. She needed to know exactly what happened.

With a quick call to her annoyed boss, she called in sick to work this evening.

She would get to the bottom of this and find that last piece of the puzzle.

This was ending now.

“Peter!” Charlotte sobbed. “Stay with me…”

The man carrying her had dropped her to feet once they left the jail and was now pulling her along by the rope attached to her hands. She shuffled towards the outskirts of town surrounded by men on all sides. Her legs were shaky beneath her, barely keeping her upright.

Richard fell in step beside her, “I’ve got a surprise for you, girl.”

She responded with a quiet whimper. All she thought of was Peter, locked away in that cell, sick and unable to fulfill his last promise to her.

“You won’t be hanged for your crimes, oh no, I convinced the court on alternative methods. A hanging was too sweet, too simple, for the crimes you’ve committed against my family. I want to watch you suffer a slow and painful death.”

Charlotte’s eyes widened in horror as they crested the top of the hill. Instead of the usual sight of the gallows, a large wooden stake stood in its place. Surrounding the stake were bushels of twigs and hay. A proper witch burning.

Her eyes welled with fresh tears. She wished she could wrap her arms around her sweet, unborn child and protect him from the horrors he was about to experience. His life, taken before he even drew his first breath. Her and Peter’s child. Lost to the cruelness of time.

A crowd had formed to watch. A night of entertainment for the people. She could hear laughs and sneers as she was dragged by. She recognized some of the faces in the crowd. Her father was absent from the faces. She wasn’t sure if it was because he couldn’t stand to watch his daughter burn or if couldn’t be bothered to miss out on a full night of sleep. Peter’s mother, standing around a few of his brother’s, had her head hung low. Charlotte could tell she didn’t enjoy this kind of entertainment but was probably forced to watch in support of her husband. The youngest of her children would probably already be in bed at this hour. What a shame for poor Abigail Parker. She’d had to miss out on the smell of burning flesh and listening to the screams of the woman she falsely accused. She must be devastated. Charlotte wished she was here to experience, first hand, the damage that was caused from her actions.

Her arms were released from the binds and forced behind her to wrap around the stake. She felt her wrists tighten, shooting pain up her arms, as someone bound her to the wood. Her ankles followed. Charlotte gave a hard tug, trying to fight the ropes, but knowing it was useless. They were stronger than her. This was her destiny. Her end would be filled with pain. Not from the fire that would peel away her skin, not from the smoke that would fill her lungs and choke out her oxygen, not from death itself. The pain came from knowing that her last look at the world was at the people who wanted her dead. The people who hated her. The people who were glad to watch her burn. Instead of her beloved Peter. His promise to stay with her until the end falling flat.

Someone was reading out her list of crimes. Telling the crowd exactly why she was being put to death. She didn’t care. It was all lies. She held her head high, clench her jaw tight, refusing to allow any cries to leave her lips, and would go with what little dignity she had left. She would not give these people what they wanted. She would not give them a show. She would go silently and stoic, no matter what. Charlotte closed her eyes. If she couldn’t see Peter with them open then she would see him with them closed.

She remembered every line of his face. The way his eyes would crinkle when he laughed, the sound filling her with joy. She imagined herself free from these ropes. She pictured him standing in front of her. She saw herself lift her hand to his cheek. So soft. So warm. His eyes were bright as they stared down at her. A smile tugging at his lips. He didn’t need to tell her that he loved her with words. His love poured out of every pore in his body whenever he caught a glimpse of her.

“I love you, Peter Parker.” She whispered to herself. A last goodbye as the roar of the flames burst to life.

The weight of the feather, tucked behind her ear, grew heavy against her skull as a wave of calm washed over her. She had almost forgotten it was there at all. Peter’s gift to her. A gift filled with a crazed story, the ramblings of a broken hearted man, trying his best to give her one, last ounce of hope. She smiled at the thought. Even if his story wasn’t believable, she felt safe with it tucked beside her, a piece of him to hold onto. He would risk everything for her protection.

Charlotte could feel the flames licking at her feet but she felt no heat. It felt more like a soft cat rubbing its side along her ankle than it did of fire. That was unexpected. She didn’t dare open her eyes to confirm that what she was feeling was, indeed, the flames. She wanted to keep the image of Peter as close to her as she could. Opening them would take him away from her. She was afraid that if she opened them, and lost sight of him, that the panic would set in and she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from screaming. That would be giving the people what they wanted.

The flames were getting louder in her ears. It was undeniable that she was quickly being engulfed. She didn’t need to see to understand that. They crackled against the twigs, sizzling and popping, and thundered up the stake. She knew they were around her. She kept waiting for the excruciating suffering to follow but, the longer it took to happen, the more she wondered if it was ever coming at all.

A pained scream ripped out over the sound of the fire. For a second, she thought maybe it was her. Maybe her mind had dissociated from her body and that was why she couldn’t feel the searing heat on her skin. But as the sound continued to get closer, she realized she knew that voice. Charlotte had never once heard him scream that like before. The sound pierced straight into her soul.

Her eyes snapped open.

Peter was running towards her. She could just make him out through the red, blinding flames. Torment was etched onto this face. The screams he was making sounded desperate, broken. Her heart swelled with ache at the sound. Her eyes filled with bittersweet tears. He had kept his promise. Somehow, he had kept it. He had fought his way out and back to her side. She should have never doubted him.

“No!” He shrieked. “Get her down! Stop this!”

He made a straight line right for her. She could smell burning flesh and singed hair in her nostrils. With her eyes now open, she got a whole new sense of bad she was burning. She only tore her eyes away from him for a moment to look down at her body. The flames had engulfed her. Her skin bubbled and blistered. She could see it melting down her arms and exposing the raw nerves underneath. Her eyes watered, knowing it was from the severity of the heat but unable to actually feel it. Thick, black smoke filled her throat. It clogged her pipes and blocked the air from reaching her lungs. Still, she felt no pain. No fear. She felt nothing but a pleasant, soft calmness. The same feeling Peter would give her when he held her in his arms after they made love. Her eyes sought him out in the crowd again. She’d prefer to look at him than watch her body die. She wished she could tell him that she was okay. That she felt no suffering. That his special feather had worked. She wanted to tell him these things but her tongue seized in her throat. She felt a tightening around her neck like her skin was shrinking around her. It was almost time for her to go.

Peter leaped towards the flames. He wanted to save her but her body was beyond saving now. He could see that. He fell to his knees in front of her. Sobbing. Heavy, gut wrenching sobs.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked. “I’m so sorry. Forgive me. Forgive me, my love.”

She didn’t.

Because there was nothing to forgive.

They had done nothing wrong. She saw with an otherworldly clarity now, as her body succumbed to the flames, she saw all of time laid out bare in front of her. They were not sinners. They were not wrong for loving each other. They had created something beautiful in a world that despised beauty.

“Come back to me.” She could hear Peter begging at her feet though she could no longer see. Her eyes had surrendered to the flame. Like he promised, her last look, before she left, was of him.

“Please, please, come back to me. Don’t leave me alone. Don’t make me wait. Come back. Find me. Find me…”

Find me.

His last words echoed in her ears as she stared at the ceiling bathed in glowing, morning light. Her heart felt heavy and her limbs numb.

Charlie had found him.

She had found him and then she banished him away. This was illogical. It defied everything she thought she knew. She couldn’t be his Charlotte. She couldn’t be.

Heavy tears flooded her eyes as she found herself mourning for a woman she didn’t even know, or knew too well, she wasn’t sure. She mourned for the misery she had heard in Peter’s voice as he was forced to watch his love die before his eyes. She mourned for her own life. Her own, pathetic, boring, useless life. She mourned for the creature that Peter had become. He had waited all those years and for what? For her? What a pathetic let down he must feel. She was not Charlotte. Not the one that he wanted. She couldn’t help him. She couldn’t even help her father. Or Nora. Or herself.

The heavy feeling of despair weighed on her weakened mind.

Downstairs she could hear pots banging against the cabinet and the tv turned up to full volume. Her father was awake. His erratic shouts echoed from under the floorboards. He was having an episode. From what Charlie could make out from his screams, he was fighting with her dead mother. She couldn’t be bothered to get up. The neighbors could complain all they wanted about the sounds. She was done.

A ray of light fighting through the curtains landed perfectly on her bottle of sleeping pills.

The universe was taunting her.

She popped open the cover and took two more, swigging them down with the bottle of water on her bedside table. She’d already slept nearly the entire day yesterday and all night, why not keep going? Her alternative was to deal with the problem happening downstairs. Not today. Today, she will sleep some more.

Maybe tomorrow too.

Maybe forever.

She hadn’t decided yet.

A swirling darkness enveloped her as she spun through the air. Beautiful, little, glowing specs swirled around her. They danced against the ebony backdrop of infinity and brought warm light to whatever they passed.

Stars, she thought.

No. Not stars.

Souls.

She was spinning through a universe of souls. They were all headed in the same direction. But not her. Not Charlotte. She was catapulting away from them. The bluejay feather placed behind her ear was her guide. She could feel it tugging her away from everyone else. It didn’t allow her to go where they were destined. She could not follow after them. She was on her own path. A path few ever traveled.

She was going this way because she had to find someone. She was supposed to find someone again. But who?

Her thoughts came in flowing whisps, unable to stay focused on a single one. She forced herself to think because she knew that piece of information was important.

Think, Charlotte. Who must you find? Who are you running to?

Those chestnut brown eyes found her in the dark. A smile tugged at her lips.

Peter. Of course. Her Peter. How could she ever forget him? She was running to find him. He was waiting for her. He had made her promises. He had kept her safe from the pain. He was giving them a new chance at life. A redo. She just had to find him.

But first she needed a body. The one she left behind was gone.

He wasn’t up here with her. He wasn’t swirling around, lost in the nothings of forever. He was grounded somewhere. She had to get there. Wherever “there” was.

Charlotte focused all her energy on the feather. She trusted that it knew where to go. She let the powers raging inside of it guide her to her destination.

Peter. Peter, Peter, Peter.

The longer she spun, the harder it was to remember. She could feel parts of her life slipping away. Did she have parents? A mother? A father? Did she have any siblings? She couldn’t remember.

Peter, Peter, Peter.

She kept repeating his name. Whispering aloud to herself. Where did she grow up? What was her surname? How did she die? How did she get here? Her memories were fading quickly.

Peter, Peter, Peter.

Do not forget her Peter.

His name sounded unfamiliar on her lips. Where was she going? Wherever it was, she was almost there. She could feel it. What was her name? She couldn’t recall. Was her name Peter? No…no…that wasn’t right.

She wasn’t Peter. The memories of who she was had slipped between her fingers but she knew that name was important.

The word “soulmate” fell from her lips.

She smiled. Yes. Peter. Her soulmate.

She tried to hold onto him. He was all she had left of her past life. She could feel him ebbing away from her the closer she got to her new home.

Peter…Peter….Peter….Pe…

Light. Bright light.

The sounds of a baby crying. Blurry vision. A woman smiled down at us.

…Us. Me. Her. We are the same. I am Charlotte. She is me. We are one.

Charlie rolled over in her sleep. The noise downstairs is getting louder and more chaotic. She grabbed her pillow and threw it over her head, urging herself to slip back into the subconscious.

“Charlotte,” the woman spoke. “Her name is Charlotte. My little Charlie.”

Snippets of own life flashed before her eyes. Memories she thought she had long since forgotten.

Lullabies her mother would sing as she held her close against her breast. A dribble of milk rolling down her chin as she was swaddled tightly in a soft blanket. Glowing green stars stuck to her ceiling.

A second birthday party. Balloons popping. The loud noise scares her. Laughter follows her as she cries and hides under a table. The warmth of her mother pulling her back out and telling off the guests. Protecting her. Keeping her safe. Soothing her worries with a secret treat. The taste of frosting on her tongue. Taken from the back of the cake so no one would notice.

Running too fast down a steep hill. Her tiny legs not able to keep up with the pull of gravity. Losing her balance as she summersaults forward. The feeling of her skin scraping when she finally comes to a halt. The pain in her knee. The tears in her eyes. The warm embrace as she’s scooped off the ground and carried back inside. Screaming when her mother tried to wash the dirt from the cut. A green bandaid. Her favorite color. The green makes everything all better.

Flattening herself to hide under her bed. The fighting downstairs having woken her up from her dreams. Clinging to her teddy. The musty smell of his synthetic fur. She refuses to let anyone wash him. There is glass breaking. More yelling. Her mother’s shriek. A body hitting the floor. Her hands go over her ears then. Her eyes squeeze tightly close to block out her reality. She pictures her imaginary friend. The one who keeps her safe. Her friend Peter. He calms her terrified soul. Soothes her worries. Makes her eyes heavy so she can fall asleep hidden under the safety of her bed.

Her first day of kindergarten. Waving goodbye to her mother from the window of her classroom. No tears. Only smiles. Unaware that would be the last time she ever sees her. She looks so beautiful standing out there, waving excitedly next to her car. She’s so proud of her daughter. A big girl going to a big girl school. She already knows what she’s going to do when she pulls away. She knows she has her bags packed. She hid them in the trunk last night. She smiles and waves. Hiding her tears.

“When’s mommy coming home?” It’s the question her father hates but she can stop asking. She’s asked about ten times in the last hour. She can see he’s getting mad. She can see he’s losing his temper but she keeps asking. “Just tell me when. I need to know. Please. When is mommy coming home?” A slap across the face that sends her flying to the ground. He’s so much bigger than her. He got his point across. She won’t ask again.

Third grade. The school counselor has called her into her office. It’s the second time this week. Last time it was to talk about why she thought it was appropriate to bite Thomas Sheehey on the neck at recess. Today it was to discuss a drawing she made during art class. A picture was placed on the desk in front of her. Done with crayons. Her favorite. She had drawn her friend with the glowing eyes and sharp teeth. He was surrounded by bodies. She used a lot of red crayon and pressed down really hard to make sure that she got all of the blood. In the corner of the page was Charlie, herself, fast asleep on the ground. She was going to give it to him next time he came to visit. The counselor wanted to know why she drew this. She wanted to know if she ever saw something like this in real life. She wanted to know who her friend was. But Charlie never told. She’d never actually seen the bloodied bodies Peter would drink but she knew that he did. That was how he got his food. He had told her so himself. That’s why she bit Thomas Sheehey to see what it would taste like but her teeth weren’t sharp enough. She tried to tell the counselor that Peter wasn’t real. He lived in her imagination. She wanted to tell her that he kept her safe when her daddy got too angry but she knew she wasn’t supposed to talk about that. Daddy wouldn’t like it.

Ten years old. Her best friend Nora and her were having a sleepover. At Nora’s house. No one was ever allowed to come to hers. It wasn’t safe for them. Nora’s house was safe though. Her mother was nice. She made them popcorn and let them watch movies. They fell asleep in the living room. Charlie remembered this memory unlike the others. She knew what was about to happen. She would awake from her sleep with a sharp pain in her heart. An empty feeling would overtake her. She’d start screaming, holding onto her chest. Nora and her parents would wake up. They’d rush her to the hospital. They thought she was having a heart attack. Charlie wouldn’t be able to stop crying. The pain in her chest was too much. Her limbs would start to feel cold. Her body would start to feel stiff. The doctor’s would call it a panic attack but that never felt right. After that night she would always be left with a feeling of loneliness. She was always a lonely child but this was different. Hollow. Like something important was missing.

Charlie felt a searing pain in her shoulder. It confused her because the ten year old dream version of her was currently experiencing the pain in her heart. Her body and her mind weren’t in sync.

Her eyes snapped open, fighting against the effects of the sleeping pills still hungrily clawing at her mind. Her room was dark again. She was successful in sleeping through another day.

“Wha-” She mumbled. Her mind was groggy. Her blurry eyes struggled to focus on anything. She could feel the weight of someone straddling her waist.

“You bitch.”

Her father.

He was on top of her.

“Dad?” She muttered in confusion. The pain in her shoulder was spreading down her arm. “What are you doing?”

“You bitch,” he spat at her. “You think you could leave me for another man? You think you could run away and I wouldn’t find you?”

Charlie blinked down at her shoulder. The sleeve of her hoodie was starting to soak with blood. Panic rose in her chest. Her eyes caught the glint of a large kitchen knife clutched in his hand. Her blood rolled down the stainless steel and pooled at the tip before dripping on her stomach.

“Dad, stop!” She shouted. “I’m not mom! I’m not your wife! It’s me. It’s Charlie! You daughter.”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” he repeated. Foaming, white spit collected at the side of his mouth. His eyes were crazed. She knew that look. He couldn’t see her. Whatever angry visions played before his eyes clouded him from reality. He was lost to his failing mind. “You left me! I knew you were a whore. I knew you were fucking around and I didn’t say shit. I let you have your fun as long as you promised to be home in time to feed the baby. I didn’t give a shit what you did as long as you promised to take her off my hands. And what did you decide to do? Fucking leave me with her! You ran away! You left me! I took care of you! And you gave me nothing! Well, guess what, bitch, your time has come. I’m going to make you pay for what you did.”

He raised the knife over his head and tried to plunge it down into her chest. Charlie caught his wrists with her hands, using whatever force she could muster to hold him back.

“Stop it!” She screamed. “I’m not mom! I didn’t leave you! You’re not thinking straight!”

Her arms wobbled. She could feel they were starting to give out. Her shoulder felt like it was splitting off from her torso. Her father might be old but he wasn’t weak. With her downing sleeping pills for nearly two days straight, and fresh stab wound, her strength was severely lacking. Tears slipped down the side of her face as she desperately tried to push the knife away.

“Dad, please. Listen to me. It’s Charlie. Your daughter,” she begged. “You’re having an episode. You should have taken your damn meds.”

“I’ve killed you once and I’ll kill you again,” he spat down at her.

Charlie’s eyes widened at the realization of what he was saying. The pieces fell together like rain around her. Her mother had abandoned her when she was young. She ran away. She left them alone. She left her alone with a father who hated her. A betrayal. A heartbreak. A year later she had gone to her mother’s grave. Her father had brought her. There was no funeral. One day her mother was there. Then she ran away. Then she was buried in the ground. Her father had shown her the grave. Her mother’s name, carved in neat, simple letters, into the tree she was under. The dirt was still fresh from being dug. Charlie had found a worm squirming around in the soft pile. She was too young to understand. Her mother was already out of her life at that point. There was no difference between death and being away. At seven years old, they both meant the same thing to her. “She deserved it,” her father had said. “She got what was coming to her.” Charlie poked at the worm. He turned to walk back through the forest towards the car. That was her cue to follow. Another lost memory, now recovered, to add to her growing pile.

“Dad,” Charlie whispered. “What did you do?”

“I found you. I told you I would find you. You can’t run from me,” Her father grunted and threw more of his weight against the knife.

Her strength was rapidly failing. Her shoulder was screaming in pain. The knife inched closer to her chest. She was running out of time. Running out of fight. For a brief moment she considered letting go. The blade would plunge into her heart and she would be free.

Then she thought of Charlotte. A young woman who had her life forcefully and unfairly taken from her. She thought of the sacrifice Peter had given just to give her another chance at living. Whether or not she truly believed she was Charlotte didn’t matter. What mattered was that she had been watching this woman’s life for the past six months. She had been watching her struggle to survive. Charlotte felt like an old friend now. It would be a slap in her face if Charlie gave up that easily. She would not throw away her life without a fight.

She knew she couldn’t match the strength of her father but she knew who could.

She closed her eyes and pictured him as vividly in her mind as she could, trying to mentally summon him to her side.

“Peter!” She cried out, letting her croaking voice fill the room. “Peter! I need you! Help me, Peter!”

The breath caught in her throat as cold air rushed up her skin. Her window burst open, the curtains billowing out in the Autumn wind. A menacing growl ripped through her ears. The darkened lightbulb of her bedside lamp shattered. It rained tiny shards of glass over her face as she flinched away.

She heard her father grunt as his bulky weight was wrenched off her. Her arms fell to her side, heavy and exhausted from the fight. Moonlight filtered in through the open windows. The glow cast a shadow over the towering figure holding her father in his grasp.

Her father was lifted off the ground, held aloft by the hand wrapped around his throat. She watched Peter’s grip tighten. His eyes pierced dangerous daggers as he stared down the man who dared to hurt his beloved. Charlie struggled to force herself into a sitting position. She felt woozy and her vision blurred. Her hand pressed against her shoulder. The blood seeped from her thick hoodie into her palm. When she brought her hand up to her face, she saw it was painted in red.

Peter’s attention snapped in her direction. His nostrils flared at the smell of her blood. His fangs bared and a low hiss slithered out his throat. She watched his eyes roll into the back of his head. With a sharp growl, he tossed her father to the ground. Before she even had time to react, he had pounced on top of him, ripping open his neck. Blood spurted from the wound. It splattered over her old rug. An awful gurgling sound bubbled out from her father. His limbs flailed and gave weak, little jerking movements. Peter’s back hunched over his prey and his mouth latched on, drinking from her dying father.

The sight she was witnessing and sounds she was hearing made her gag in disgust. Charlie tried to get up. She tried to run away, to stumble blindly out of the room, but her mind was tumbling in spirals. She staggered against the door frame, desperately trying to hold herself up. The sleeping pills, the blood loss, the horror of watching her father be torn apart, or a combination of the three was making her start to slip. Her fingers tingled with a strange numbness, she felt lightheaded, her skin was hot and sweaty as the nausea hit her.

“Peter,” she whispered, a fuzzy darkness creeping into her vision.

Someone caught her right before she hit the ground.

Her eyes rolled in her head, trying to focus on the face in front of her.

Peter’s blood soaked face smiled sadly down at her. He cradled her protectively in his arms.

“I’ve got you, Charlie. You’re safe.” His voice purred in her ear. “I’m taking you home. Please. Let me bring you home. Say yes.”

She opened her mouth to speak but no words came out, instead she responded with a silent nod of acceptance.

She would very much like to go home.

[PART FOUR]

A/N: If you enjoyed the story up to this point, please feel free to reblog or leave a comment. They are very much appreciated. This wasn’t so much a full, standalone chapter as it is the end half of Part Two. So I hope it didn’t flow too terribly. Part two would have just been way too long had I kept them combined. If you want to be tagged for the final chapter, let me know. I’m hoping to make it the bloody, smutty, vampire-y delightfulness of your dreams.

Tag List: @redbircl

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