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Blood Moon

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Renesmee Cullen woke up on her eighteenth birthday and felt….odd. It wasn’t like what everyone said, that she magically felt that she was now a woman, that she was now an adult. No, she felt odd because she had begun to wonder lately what the point of everything was.
It was strange. She had lived all her life not questioning a single thing, and now in the runup to being eighteen, she had begun to question everything.


She padded into the bathroom and had a shower, then peered at herself in the mirror. There wasn’t difference. The change wasn’t physical, at least. She still looked the same as ever, pale skin and tawny eyes, dark hair. The only thing was that she had a new pimple on the bridge of her long nose. She scowled at it. It just figured that, as a half vampire, she didn’t get the cool powers. She had enhanced speed, which for a couch potato wasn’t a lot. She had fangs, which only came in handy at Halloween because she refused on principle to drink even animal blood. It was just ick, and when she didn’t need to, why should she? She had grown up quick at first, looking about six years old when she was only a year. She didn’t remember this, of course, but there were photos, and thankfully she had settled down at about five years old, by which point she looked ten. She had the pale skin, a little of the strength, but somehow the “enhanced beauty” part had skipped her completely. It wasn’t fair to live in a house of beautiful vampires and be the only one who was a bit ugly. Suddenly something dawned on her, and she gaped at herself in the mirror.


Oh my God. How was I even born?


She went to school, was graduating in a few months. She’d sat through the awkward videos and Biology classes. Vampires were technically dead. They shouldn’t even have sperm.
But there was no denying that her dad was her dad, because Bella had been human when she had had her and Renesmee was definitely part vampire.
Is this what adulthood is like? She wondered briefly to herself. Was adulthood having an existential crisis every morning when you looked in the mirror? She hoped not. Downstairs, she heard the opening strains of the piano and sighed. One morning. There could never be just one morning where her father wasn’t perfectly playing the piano.