A Vampire for Christmas

Chapter 1

Sawyer

I’m the definition of “an idiot with dreams who went too far.”

What’s that look like? A beat-up car struggling through Albertan mountains in the middle of winter, days before Christmas, on my way to see something cool on this fucking planet.

All because my grand aspiration of exploring the world led me here.

Lovely landscape, from what I’ve seen so far—wrong time of year.

I always hated—or more like, was jealous of—those vacations that parents would take their kids on that make you wonder what they do for a living.

When toddlers go on cruises, and by the time they’re ten, they’re swimming with dolphins in Hawaii.

By fifteen, they’ve explored Greek ruins, and by adulthood, they have only a small list left to explore.

Although I dreamed of being one of those kids, I was not. I was the one who, after returning to school from holiday breaks, had to hide my jealousy over their fresh tans and stories of the beaches they played on or which foreign country they visited.

I was jealous because I wanted to be them. I wanted to explore the wondrous places of the world and escape the boring-as-fuck city I was born and raised in, the one Mom was too stuck in to leave.

Sightseeing was limited to the non-fiction books the local library stocked. As a child, the pictures of landmarks and other cultures fascinated me, and when old enough to walk there alone, they became the escape from my home life—from Mom, her addictions, and her on-and-off again boyfriend.

The farthest holiday vacation we took were trips to the mall.

They sucked for every reason possible, especially around Christmas, because it further stressed how shitty of a mother mine was—is.

Malls are always an advertisement for how some people are born lucky.

Not even silver-spoon-in-the-mouth lucky. Just…loved. Wanted.

And I was not.

It wasn’t even the lack of material items we had in the house, or her being more absent than present, or that she never put in one hundred percent—thirty at most, fifty on a great year—it was that she’s been using me since the day she birthed me.

The monthly government cheques were her entire motivation for keeping me and putting in the bare minimum that parenting demanded. Giving me up to a family who might actually care meant the government support would end—and that was how she funded her numerous addictions.

Childhood me never understood, but with age came wisdom and all that, and then it made sense. Between the weed, crack, cigarettes, alcohol, and heroin, she couldn’t possibly spend an extra non-mandated dime on her daughter for anything relatively fun.

Since Christmas gifts were so rarely a thing, and the holiday trips I was both jealous of and enthralled by were definitely out, I learned pretty early on that Santa isn’t real. If he were real, why would he skip my house and visit the rich?

So, I prayed. Not to God, since religion isn’t for me. My prayers went to whatever—or whoever—was out there: Nature. The dead’s souls. Myself. Mother Earth. Whatever listened, I pleaded.

I wish for a better life. To explore and be free of all of this. To escape being Mom’s emotional and financial punching bag.

Of course, childhood wishes couldn’t sate my wanderlust. They were, after all, mere words. But wishes led to dreams, and as I got older and crept closer to adulthood, they led to plans.

Given my numerous dead-end jobs, having a “better life” became too expensive. I was rich enough to gas up the cheap beater car bought with a year’s worth of savings and to afford my rent on the rundown place I’m forced to call home, but nowhere near financially stable enough to travel.

Regardless, there was one promise I made to myself. One single fucking promise I’m probably about to regret when my bank account cries over the stupidity of this entire hard-sought plan.

To see the Canadian Rockies at least once.

Living downtown Winnipeg is the complete opposite of the emerald lakes, taller-than-skyrise mountains, and lush forests displayed online, so the Rockies became my destination.

It doesn’t require a flight overseas, and it isn’t overly expensive.

I wouldn’t be paying resort fees or staying in a luxury hotel.

The past two years have been spent working my ass off as a laundromat attendant, a waitress, and a retail store cashier, all so I could fund my life and slowly save. Enough for the gas to get me the couple provinces over, food, and a cheap cabin about thirty minutes past Jasper, Alberta.

Two years…because of Mom. Once eighteen and the government cheques ceased, she was quick to toss me out on my ass.

Between working and a friend’s assistance, I eventually got on my feet, only to be ripped back down every time Mom calls, begging for money for rent, or food, or whatever bill she “forgot” to pay.

Forgot my ass. Instead of being responsible, she reshaped her money into pizza boxes, injected it, or smoked it and left the evidence inside the numerous ashtrays her disgusting apartment is littered with.

Her deadbeat boyfriend doesn’t help either. Doesn’t lift a hand. Doesn’t work. Torments me with leering looks and the horrid nightmares he once cursed me with. Even now, thinking about him causes shivers to roll down my spine—ones having nothing to do with the low temperatures I’m driving through.

But they’re “in love” and no matter the emotional abuse, she continues to run to him when he hollers, like a starving dog for scraps.

Actually, that’s an insult to dogs.

Every time she begs for help, I plan on finally telling her where she can shove it—but the horrid thing called DNA that keeps me returning ends up transferring much of my savings into her accounts, forever draining my vacation fund.

After a breakdown six months ago, I was done and stopped giving her money. I decided to plan a dream vacation—to accomplish a goal and get out of Winnipeg for a bit. It may end up being my biggest mistake, but it’s one I’ll die trying to accomplish. I got myself here, and there’s pride in that.

At this moment, it’s becoming a regret as mammoth sized as the mountains canvassing the lands on either side of me. The fact my piece-of-shit car is surviving the two-day drive from home is a miracle, except I’ve severely underestimated Alberta’s weather.

That thought about seeing Jasper before dying—yep, death is certainly happening.

My thoughts digress to focus on the road. If there’s a road, because the snowstorm I drove my poor dumb ass through suggests otherwise.

My car’s all-season tires are thin and pathetic against the negative forty-degree Celsius weather, couple feet of snow, and sheet of ice encasing the mountains. The couple thousand-dollar price tag on winter tires makes those an unaffordable luxury.

Like this vacation, I think to myself snidely. Should have used the money on tires, and then saved for a trip later. I’m an idiot who probably deserves to die.

Not like I’m leaving behind a stellar life.

The sun is a mere glow above the treelines, wrecking the already-terrible visibility of the road. My plan to reach the cabin before the sun sets won’t happen, based on the GPS’s estimated arrival time being another thirty minutes.

Regardless, my hands clench tighter while my foot presses harder on the gas to speed up. The road coils around the landscapes, so any speed I manage to climb to is immediately decelerated before ending up in a snowbank.

Snow falls heavier than my weak wipers are keeping up with, but without any other choice, I plough on. My white-knuckled driving and rigid spine—and the fact I’m barely breathing—is everything opposite of a relaxing holiday.

Why the hell did I not come here during summer, like the rest of the world does?

Tears prod at the corner of my eyes, because instead of the thin-walled freezing apartment which, for the most part, is safe, I’m in some backwater valley of buttfuck nowhere, trying and failing to do one fun thing in life.

To make one Christmas wish come true for childhood me—one place in a long list to visit.

Crying isn’t allowed, because tears will make seeing the already impossible roads worse.

Let’s not tempt death more than I already am.

The tourist websites mention Rockies’ wildlife as a selling feature, but there’s yet to be a wolf, bear, or moose the entire drive. Not even a deer, and those live all over the place.

So, when the massive—and I mean fucking massive—moose steps out from the dead forest to my right, the fact that it isn’t hibernating becomes my first thought.

Then I realize I know shit all about moose, which freaks me out because I don’t entirely know what to do: speed up and keep going or stop for it.

It pauses by the curb, and while slowing to take a picture seems like a nice keepsake, risking its wrath or even my car’s well-being over having to brake and then start again isn’t worth it, so with a bit of speed, I push on to leave the innocent animal’s home in peace.

Instead of the nearly non-existent tread of my tires gripping snow and propelling me forward, my stupid rear-wheel drive gets into a fight with the endless ice.

It’s a battle lost when my tires spin without traction, resulting in a loud squealing noise—which causes the moose to dart forward, a blur in the corner of my vision.

Oh fuck! “Come on, come on, you piece of shit!” I stomp the gas, right as a flash of black appears beside me.

There’s a large thud of metal, a crunch as the animal rams into my vehicle, and things blur. The car spins off the road—is the sky now the ground or is everything just white?

White…and black.