"Where are we going now?" I asked Mark as he dragged me along the street.
"You'll see. I want to get something to commemorate our first date."
"Whatever it is, hurry because our lunch break is ending soon," I said, and he pulled me along the street faster.
He stopped in front of the store, which I didn't recognize, and pulled me inside.
He let go of my hand and went up the counter.
I looked around. A jewelry store? And a nice one at that. What is he planning? Probably something for Irene.
Wait, isn't she dead? Then who is this for?
"Mark, I'm so happy to see you in here again," the store clerk said, and Mark nodded while itching the back of his neck.
"Is this her?"
Mark nodded.
Is who her?
I walked closer to Mark, and the lady handed him a small box.
"Put on your card," she asked, and Mark nodded.
Am I the only one with no idea what is happening here?
He grabbed my arm with his free hand, and he smiled at me.
He was very handsome, just riddled with confusing things and other things I didn't know about him.
He thanked the lady and pushed the door open, and the two of us started to run back toward the studio, which actually wasn't that far. I don't know why we had Asa drive us to the restaurant.
If only I knew more about Mark. I can tell he lies a lot, and I'm not sure why, but it makes it hard for me to understand fully.
I smiled. He was nice—well, when he wanted to be. He was also nice to look at, and because he was being himself—the real him—he made me happy and feel wanted.
I don't know if I like him, but I guess I do.
We pushed open the door of the studio and the fact that I haven't run that much since 6th grade PE started to catch up to me as I panted.
Mark smiled, guided me to my desk, and sat me down.
"You catch your breath; I'm going to go help Ryan; I saw him working on a design," Mark said, patting my back, and he walked over to Ryan's station.
I felt myself smiling again.
I looked at the box he had left on my desk.
"To Rosalind," I read aloud, and I opened it. It was a necklace with a pendant.
That's really cute, oh my god.
The necklace had some strange messages on it. Well, they were symbols, but it looked like some strange message.
One of the symbols was a curved crescent moon, which was the symbol that took up the most space on the pendant; it was intertwined with vines or thorn-like things.
"Who gave you that?" I turned around; it was Asa, and he sat down next to me with his iPad.
"Mark did on our date." Asa grabbed the necklace from my hand and looked at it.
"What a freak."
"Excuse me?"
"Him, not you," Asa said, and he typed on his iPad with one hand and held the necklace in the other.
"The crescent moon is the universal symbol of the mystical and the supernatural," he read aloud, and he handed me back the necklace.
"Something is wrong with him. He's weird," Asa said.
"He's just nervous-."
"He's been here for a while; something is up with him, and you don't want to realize that because you like him!" Asa said, yelling at me.
I looked at him.
"What are you talking about, Asa?" I asked, concerned.
"He is trouble; you better stay away from him," Asa said, and he got up and walked away angrily.
There is something up with you, Asa.
I mean, he was kind of weird—the picture, all of that, the garlic—maybe he was just. He's just. I don't know.
His overreaction to me pricking my finger.
"Vampires are often predicted in pictures blurring or strange; they can't have garlic and are blood-sucking creatures," I read aloud.
Fuck, I am getting over my head about him.
He can't be a vampire. They don't exist. And even if he was, he went outside into the sun, and he ate garlic on our date.
I held the necklace in my hand.
I looked back at my phone.
"Archives," I read, and I clicked on it.
"Fashion?" I read it and clicked on it.
In 1800, a fashion designer rose from what seemed to be nothing. He went by the name of Bryn Camacho.
I'm sorry, what, Camacho? That's Mark's dad's name. I scrolled through the page. He had countless works, pieces, and pictures. Wait, did pictures even exist then? Oh, these are so clear.
Every single one of his pieces had the same design as the necklace that Mark had given me.
"Death date unknown, spouse unknown. Son Mark Camacho," I read aloud.
It can't be Mark and his dad; maybe some great-grandparents, it can't be them. They wouldn't still be alive if it happened in the 1800s.
I don't know what I am even thinking. Oh my god.
All of his works were gorgeous, and he ran the fashion world from 1800 to, well, it doesn't say, but his pieces were extremely popular.
I clicked on another piece. In 1900, it was the same fashion pieces that Bryn Camacho had made, but they were different and even more popular.
"Bryn Camacho," I read. Again? I thought he had died. I blinked. Maybe his family liked to take names after dead relatives.
I clicked on one more.
"Ceo Bryn Camacho," I read. This is the Bryn Camacho I knew; this was Mark's dad.
I scrolled through each picture, and each one had the same symbol.
Maybe it was a family heirloom or something?
This whole situation is making me so confused.
I looked at the time. 7:48 p.m. is crazy.
I shut off my phone, and I opened up my notebook.
I have to come up with a new collection. Maybe something small could be sold.
I felt the pen hit the page as I mindlessly sketched out different designs that were kind of based on Bryn's designs, but they were different.
I don't even know what I am drawing; the pen is just hitting the paper.
"He's not." I turned around.
What?
I got up from my chair and looked around the studio. No one. Curtain after curtain, desk after desk—no one.
I blinked, and I went to sit back down. Let me just work on this and stop stressing.
"What he?" I heard it again.
I sighed. Now I am hearing voices, and they are not making any sense. Maybe Mark is trouble.
God, why am I thinking of him?
"Seems," the whispers said.
If I don't talk to them, they will stop. They aren't real; I am not hearing voices.
"He's dead."
I knew the voices were talking about Mark. No, he's not; he's not dead. He's not dead.
Mark.
"Yes?" I asked, picking up the phone and putting it on speaker.
"Are you still working?"
"Yes, I am working on a few designs for my new collection," I said, responding to him.
"He's not what he seems," the voices whispered, and I sighed again.
"What's the matter?" Mark asked.
"I'm hearing voices," I said, and I heard Mark laugh on the other side of the phone.
"Are you sure it's not mine?" he asked.
"No dumbass, I heard them before you called me."
"That's weird."
"Yeah."
"I think you are working too much, and you should get some sleep. I'll come to check on you when I can; my dad is being annoying right now," Mark said.
"You don't have to."
"But I want to," he said, and I felt my heart skip a beat and a smile grow on my face.
"He's dead." There was the voice again. How could Mark be dead if I am talking to him right now? Maybe all this fashion stuff is getting to my head.
"Okay, your choice. I am going to take a nap. I will call you when I wake up," I said.
"Bye, Rosa," and the line went dead.
I felt myself shiver. I was alone once again.
What is happening? I felt my head start to spin.
"Rosa, I thought I told you to go to sleep," Mark said, reaching out a hand for me.
He looked weird. His face was cracking, and he looked old. I mean, he was still handsome, but he looked old.
I looked at my hand; it was shaking.
"You said you were coming later," I said.
"I know you need me." His teeth started to grow. They looked strange, like he was going to bite me. Bite me, what the hell?
"Do I?" I said, looking at my own hands
I looked around as my studio became this weird place I couldn't recognize and became more and more distorted minute after minute. I don't even know who he is anymore.
His teeth were huge, and he was walking towards me, and I felt myself back up.
I couldn't even look him in the eye because they were not even there; nothing was there. He wasn't there.
"Come stay with me, Rosalind, forever."
I watched as his hand slivered around my body as I turned. I felt myself spinning in circles as he smiled at me with this creepy grin.
His teeth, his teeth. They were sharp, and he was going to eat me. Fear, fear, fear-.
"Rosa!" a voice yelled, and Mark was there. He was normal.
"Mark," I said, and I reached out to touch him.
"What is wrong with you, weirdo?" Mark said, holding my hand.
I'm losing my mind, oh my god.
"You."
"Me?"
"Yes, you are making me go crazy."
"Crazy with love, I hope."
"Just crazy. You are making me fucking crazy. This whole thing is," I said. I looked around; everything was normal again. I was normal, and he was normal.
"What whole thing?" Mark said, still holding my hand.
"Fashion, it's making me crazy," I said, looking at his nose.
I looked at his other hand; he had a bag in his hand.
"A gift."
"For who?" I asked.
"You," and he handed me the bag.
"Why are you giving me so many gifts today?"
"Just take it and stop being like that," he said, taking the bag back and handing me what was inside of it.
"It's my dad's; he wanted me to give it to you as an apology because of the way he treated you," he said, and I held the book in my hand.
I flipped through a few of the pages. They were all designs. I smiled.
"Thank you; this is cool," I said, and I put it on my desk.
"He said you can copy any ideas that are in there because they are from when he was in high school or something," Mark said with a smile.
He was lying, I could tell.
"What?" Mark asked.
"Are you lying to me?" He went silent. He was. I sighed.
"It is my dad's," he said. That was true.
"That's all I need to know, then," I said, and he nodded.
"I'm sorry."
"It's fine," I said.
I smiled at the book on the table.
"Do you want me to-?"
"Don't go; you sit down; I don't care where; don't leave," I said, and I sat down at my desk with the book in hand.
Mark pulled up a chair.
"You look through the book; I'm just going to be on my phone," Mark said, keeping me company.
"Thank you," I said. I felt relieved; no more weird hallucinations.
Bryn Camacho.
1802, this dress reminds me of her; everything does. The pink reminds me of everything about her—the dainty, the beauty, all of it. I will do anything to bring her back to me.
Maybe I should write little diary entries like this.
I looked up at Mark; he was very immersed in his phone.
1802? I flipped page after page; they were all from the 1800s, which was strange.
1823, this suit is for my little boy. He's 23 now, Mark. He looks so much like his mother and me; it makes me feel like she is here with us again.
It was a black suit with pink stars on it. These were cute and held meaning, which I feel made his collections as a whole better.
The last one was 1901, and the date was scratched out and the page was soaked in this weird taint.
She's not back with me. And he's to blame, my little boy, my little mark. Why mark? Why? Why can't you be in her place? I want her back more than anything, more than you, my son. You. It's all your fault. I was going to turn her, but you came instead. I hate you. I hate you. Mark I hate you so much.
There was no design on this last page, only this message.
I don't think he's read this last page.
"You said this was your dad?" I asked, and Mark nodded without looking up from his phone.
I looked at the faint glow on his pale face. He was freakishly pale.
I mean, nothing against my freakishly pale people; I just haven't noticed it. I was too distracted by his handsomeness.
His hair was dark brown, but it was still shaggy and cute.
His forehead. Why am I looking at his forehead? It was nice and pretty big, but it was sexy.
"You have a sexy forehead." What the fuck? Why did I say that?
"Excuse me?"
"Ignore me," I said, and Mark looked up and smiled with his teeth.
His forehead had a few wrinkles, and his whole face did. It added to his character.
"Okay," he said, and he went back to looking at his phone.
"Mark," I said, and he looked up at me.
His eyes were this dark color.
Weren't they blue? Why do they now have this reddish hue?
"Are you thinking about how handsome I am?"
"In my nightmares," I said, and he laughed.
He had straight lines where his smile lines were. God, he had all these weird features, but all together, they made him really handsome.
His nose was kind of pointy and nice. His face had no blemishes except for a few marks here and there.
His lips were a reddish-purple color, and they were pretty plump.
I looked back up at his eyes.
"What are you looking at?" He said he was bringing me back to reality.
"Your face," I said, and he laughed.
His teeth were this yellow white and his teeth were all straight and nice looking.
"Do you bite your lip a lot?" I asked.
"No?"
"You sound unsure."
"Well, you are asking me weird questions," Mark said, laughing.
"Well, yours, whatever the fangs are called, are long and sharp. You look like you have veneers on those teeth. And I feel like you would bite your bottom lip a lot," I said, overanalyzing the whole situation.
"What's a veneer?"
"Fake teeth people get."
"My teeth are fine; why would I get fake teeth?"
"Well, your fangs look fake," I said, and I felt my eyes start to move. They were moving towards him.
We locked eyes. Fear fear. Why? Why?
He stopped and blinked with a smile.
"I guess it's genetic?" He said it with a smile, and I nodded.
That was strange.
I turned back to the book, and Mark got up.
"Where are you going?" I asked, looking back.
"Nowhere; I'm just looking at you," he said with a smile, and I faced forward.
He put his head on my shoulder.
I looked at the necklace on the desk and then the journal.
They both had that crescent moon thing.
"What does the moon mean?"
"Oh uh. I don't really know," Mark said. He was lying.
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
"You are!" I said, turning around, and he looked down at me in the chair.
He rolled his eyes, and he put his hands on the arms of my chair.
He got closer and closer to me.
"I'm not lying," he whispered.
"You are," I said back, and he rolled his eyes again and took his hands off the chair.
"You are good," Mark said, not looking at me.
"Good at?"
"Me."
"I'm good at you. What does that even mean?" I asked, and he turned around quickly.
"How can you tell I'm lying?" He asked.
"So you are lying?" I said it with my eyebrow raised.
"I asked you a question. Answer it." Damn, why is he being so, so. What's the word? Dominant? That's a strange word.
"You are a bad liar," I explained.
"I'm not."
"You are."
"All you do is lie, so it's easy," I said.
"It should be hard then. No one else can tell—every single one. No one could tell. So why can you?" He asked.
"Because you are a bad liar-."
He interrupted me, "I'M NOT A BAD LIAR!" He screamed in my face.
Damn, what is wrong with him?
"Sorry," he said. He could tell by my face that I was confused and scared.
"I didn't mean to scare you," he said. He started to breathe heavily, and I could tell he was freaking out.
"What is wrong with you? Calm down. Mark."
"Mark. MARK!" I screamed, and he looked at me with these sad eyes.
"I'm sorry," he said, and he started running.
"Mark, where are you going?" I called out.
I'm not running after him; that's too much romance for me. What is up with him?
As he ran farther and farther, I felt my. I don't know. Like my soul was getting pulled with him with every step.
What is happening? I wasn't like this before. My heart was hurting, and I felt like I had to run after him and never let him go.
What? Oh, my god. Do I like him?
No. He's just handsome and nice to me. I don't actually like him.
And my legs are moving on their own.
I rolled my eyes, and I started to run with them. I opened the back door, and there Mark was standing there.
It was dark out, and Mark was standing under the moonlight.
"You do this a lot," I said, and he turned around.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"It's fine; why are you always under the moonlight bathing in it?"
"Because I like it."
"You are capable of not lying, so why do you lie?" I asked.
"I have to," he said, and I feel like he has said this before.
"You don't."
"I do, I do," he said.
"So, can you tell me what the crescent stands for?" I asked, and he sighed and rolled his eyes.
"It's something my dad made before I was even born." Not a lie.
"I guess it was his way of knowing stuff." Not a lie.
"Knowing what?" I asked, and he glared at me.
"You are just full of questions all the damn time, aren't you?" Mark asked.
"I just want to know more about you," I said.
"I don't know."
"You do know."
"I can't tell you," he said and sighed.
"You're lying again," I said, and he snarled at me. Bitch. I gave him a nasty look.
"Sorry," he said with his head down, looking at the floor.
"You're forgiven," I said, and he nodded, looking back up at me.
"How can you tell?" He asked me with this desperate look on his face. He looked like a sad puppy.
"I don't know."
"Now you're lying."
"But I'm not. I can just tell. My brain just knows when you are lying," I said, and he raised an eyebrow. And then he gave me this creepy grin.
"What's wrong with your face?"
"I guess we are just meant to be," he said, smiling, and I rolled my eyes at him.
We went silent, and we sat in comfortable silence.
He was looking at me, and I was looking at him.
I feel like we should kiss, but I'm going to shut that idea down so fast.
"The crescent symbolizes the supernatural," he said, and he told the truth.
"That's all I'm telling you," he said, smiling at me.
"That's okay," I said with a smile, and he nodded.
"It's cold," Mark said, rubbing his arms.
"No shit, you are in a short sleeve shirt and got the nerve to storm out outside and stare at the moonlight," I said, laughing, and he smiled.
He walked past me, and I felt something wash over me.
"You coming?" He asked, and I nodded.
"Give me one second; I want to take a few pictures of the moon." He nodded at my half-truth and pushed the door all the way open, and as I heard it slam, I took the pictures.
I looked around.
At the dumpster with the fabrics and the weird crates with nothing in them, and then at the trash bags piling up.
What was that? Why did something "wash" over me like that?
He's not what he seems. He's not telling me something.
I'll find out. I will find out.