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WARNING: This short story is poorly crafted, makes little sense, and contains cringe-worthy prose written by a post-Twilight Teen Jessa. Current-Day Jessa cannot be held responsible for any of the resulting eye-gouging or muscle spasms that may occur due to shudders. Thank you for understanding.


Jocelyn stood by her open window, the cool night breeze beckoning her outside. The sheer curtains that clad her dark bedroom twisted on the wind, wrapping softly around each other and brushing her legs.

It had been too long—was always too long—since he had come. A month and four days, she thought quietly to herself, pushing it to the back of her mind. In an effort to think about something else—anything else, really—she focused on the night.

It was oddly serene, a sort of delicate peacefulness that seemed to contradict the feelings tormenting her inside. Tonight she could see the stars clearly for the first time in ages and she hoped, if all else failed, that would be enough. If nothing else, he was looking up at the very same stars.

Tonight. Please tonight, she prayed.

Jocelyn had waited at her bedroom window every night for two years. She never knew which night he would appear. He was like a shadow. Existent, but intangible, uncontainable, and as fleeting as the night itself. So she waited, for one hour every night until midnight, watching carefully for any sign of his arrival.

A gust of wind blew violently and from the open window, causing her long dark hair to spill onto her emotionless face. If Jocelyn had learned anything from her unconventional love, it was that hope was dangerous.

It was so hard, though. Not to hope.

It was almost time to shut the window, the hardest part of every night. She turned back just to check the clock once more. A minute past midnight.

"Not tonight," she told herself quietly, but as she turned back to close the window doors she saw the figure of a familiar creature looming the darkness.

"You came,” she whispered.

“I came.”

“I waited, like always.”

“I know.” He smiled at her darkly. That was his way—darkness. He belonged to the night, to a different kind of world than hers. It both terrified her and thrilled her.

"Will you stay?" Jocelyn tried not to beg. It always started like this: her request, his denial, her begging. It was the rhythm of their relationship, but the music was beautiful. It made the rest worth it.

"Jocelyn, I can't. Not this time."

She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't waste precious time on tears, wishing he would stay for the short time he was here.

The light from the moon hit his black hair so that it glistened, making him a terribly handsome predator.

"Please, James." It wasn't begging this time, it was an acceptance of defeat.

James closed his eyes, hating his own refusal but knowing there was no other option. He wanted for Jocelyn to have everything she could ever wish for.

He wanted her, and that was deadly.

He touched her cheek gently, trying to tell her all he couldn't say with words through his simple touch. He didn't think he could leave her tonight, but she wasn't his to claim. Jocelyn was fragile; she wasn't his kind.

Jocelyn was afraid to turn around, she feared he wouldn't be there. She saw James's face in her mind all the time and she was deathly afraid of losing it. It got harder every time he was gone.

Suddenly with no warning he kissed her. It was more passionate this time, it said more.

Once his lips claimed hers, it became more violent, more intense. A torrent of wind threw itself through the open doors, forcing James and Jocelyn to the back wall of the room where they could retreat from the angry night. James pushed her against the wall, killing her a little inside with the way he touched her. It had always been like this, even from the beginning—a terrible, violent love. A forbidden storm of emotions that couldn't be bottled up or closed out.

James needed her, he could feel it take over every fiber of his being. So he stopped.

"James," Jocelyn pleaded. "Let me come tonight. I want to leave with you."

He glared at her. He had stolen her away and now she didn't want to return to where she belonged.

"I'm not going to do it."

"You promised. You said you'd turn me."

James didn't remember promising, but he didn't say that. His burning urge to take her made him angry. Why could he never control himself when he was around her? His black eyes searched her face, taking in the pale eyes and the wind flushed cheeks. He knew how much this hurt Jocelyn, because it hurt him too.

"I know you want to do it," she said angrily. Jocelyn was finished being the weak submissive one, always becoming vulnerable to James's answers, is unchallenged control. She would have fight for what she wanted. What he, too, wanted.

James knew he couldn't stop it and it made him angry. He knew that she would win this time and that his refusal, his control of the situation, would fail. His power in their relationship was precariously balanced on the edge of a knife, even if Jocelyn didn't realize it. James knew that she was fighting without much hope of winning, that she didn't understand how easily she could make him do anything she wanted.

"You always leave me," she continued, "and I wait for you night after night praying that you'll come. Then when you do, you're right here"—she wrapped her arms around his cold back—"until I blink. When I open my eyes, you're gone and I cry myself to sleep!" Jocelyn was yelling fiercely, blaming her pain rather than admitting it. "It's your fault and I'm tired of it. So either do it tonight, James, or don't come back."

Anger flared up in him. How dare she talk to him like that! Didn't she understand the danger? How precious she was? That he was trying to save her rather than destroy her?