GrabyWriter's Snippet and Idea (The Trash Bin)

[GrabyWriter]

"Hey, Vamp. What do you think you're doing over there?" A voice called out into the breakroom. Moments later, a rather short, pale-skinned boy, no older than 19 pops from the shadows, like literally manifests from out of the shadows. He was rubbing his bloodshot eyes, his hair was black and messy, and he sounded like a car engine on it's last legs.

"On my break... why are you bugging me about this, I told you this like five minutes ago Frank," the boy begins to speak to the gruff 40 something year old but Frank stops him.

"It's been 28 minutes, breaks almost over. Clock back in and get on the grill." Immediately, the boy wanted to just throw himself into a vat of oil and just see if that'd be enough to kill him. Probably not, his dad healed from worse back in the day so he'd probably just be hot and bothered at the worst case scenario. Plus it'd damage the fryers and Frank would not be happy having to replace those things, cause it would certainly be coming from his paycheck. Putting on his hat and apron, he walked over to the grill, popped open a box of frozen patties, and plopped down a couple as he began his mundane existence.

Now you may be wondering: who the hell is this guy? Simply put, this is the son of Dracula. Prince of Transylvania, or that one castle in Transylvania. His mom wasn't anything special, just a lady that fell for the wiles of the vampire king. 9 months later, mom dropped him off at Dracula's front doorsteps. He was shown the ropes of being a vampire and he got the hang of terrorizing some citizens through all kinds of shenanigans. It was fun. For the first 16 years. Then Dracula realized... his son was going to become a man, and had grown to rely on him for nearly most of his life. He was going to have to teach his son the way around the real world to have the skills to survive without access to such near infinite wealth. One day, he'd meet his son and have one of those "talks", and the next hour or so, a bat would be crossing the atlantic with nothing but a suitcase and hope in his eyes. Just a shame that hope would be squeezed out of him by his very first job. He's been stuck working fast food for 3 years. 3 years.

The patties hit the grill with that wet, offended hiss, like even the meat knew it didn't belong here. Vamp stood there, spatula in hand, watching them brown in neat little circles. If Frank ever found out that the "heat" setting on the grill was more of a suggestion to him than a rule, he'd probably have an aneurysm and try to write Vamp up from the afterlife. Because, yeah. Powers. Vamp flexed his fingers once, subtle, like he was just shaking out stiffness. The metal beneath the grillplate warmed more evenly, the cold spots vanishing. The patties seared perfectly, edges crisping at the exact second they should, no flare-ups, no burnt patches. It wasn't even hard. It was like blinking. The true indignity wasn't that he could do it. It was that he did. A bell dinged at the front counter—order up. Another bell, rapid-fire. The lunch rush was waking up like a hungry animal.

From the register, Kayla's voice floated back, bright as a pop song and just as relentless. "Okay! Hi! Welcome in! What can I get for you today?" Kayla was the exact opposite of Vamp in every way that mattered. Awake, for one. Also loud. Also somehow not dead inside. She wore the uniform like it was a cute outfit choice instead of a punishment. She'd been here less than a year and already talked to Frank like he was an annoying uncle instead of the man holding everyone's timecards hostage.

"Can I get a double—no, a triple," some customer said.

"Love that for you," Kayla chirped, tapping the screen with nails that clicked. "Anything else? Fries? A drink? A small loan?"

Vamp glanced over just enough to see her toss him a look—the kind that said you are absolutely suffering and I find it funny. She gave him a tiny grin. He stared back, unamused, then turned to the grill again. Two patties done. Flip. Press. A tiny whisper of shadow slid under the edge of the meat to catch grease before it spit. He had learned the hard way that grease splatters were worse than holy water in this place because Frank treated them like a personal insult. Behind him, the freezer's hum dipped for half a second. Vamp didn't even have to turn around to know Frank was walking in.

"You're behind," Frank said, before he was fully in the kitchen.

Vamp's jaw tightened. "I've been on the grill for like—"

Frank slapped the order ticket rail with one thick finger. "Do not start. I've got four burgers waiting and one guy at the counter already yelling because his 'food is taking too long.' Move."

"Sure," Vamp muttered, the word scraping out of him like a rusty hinge. He slid the patties onto the buns, stacked them with precision he didn't deserve, and wrapped them so tight they looked vacuum-sealed.

Frank hovered, watching, waiting for a mistake. Vamp's mind offered him a dozen ways to end this interaction. He could turn Frank into a neat little pile of ash with a look. He could become mist and drift out the back door and never come back. He could call a cloud of bats and let them carry the fryer oil outside and dump it on the manager's car. He could. Instead, he passed the wrapped burgers to the chute like a good little employee.

Kayla leaned her head into the kitchen window, voice lower now. "You okay, Vampy?"

"I'm thriving," Vamp said flatly.

Kayla's eyes flicked to Frank, who was still looming. "Thriving. Great. Love that for you too."

Frank's gaze snapped to her. "Kayla. Ring. Not chat."

Kayla straightened, all innocence, hands up. "Yes, sir, Captain Grill."

She vanished back to the register, but Vamp caught her muffled laugh immediately after, like she couldn't help herself. Frank stayed.

Vamp could feel it like a cold draft, that managerial stare drilling into his skull. He flipped another patty, slower on purpose. Not enough to actually mess anything up—just enough to feel like he controlled something. Frank didn't miss it. Of course he didn't.

"You think you're funny," Frank said.

Vamp didn't look up. "No."

"You're still on probation."

Vamp finally turned his head, just a little. His eyes were red-rimmed already, but when he was tired they looked more… wrong. Too dark around the edges. Like a bruise that never healed.

"I've been here three years," Vamp said. "How am I still on probation."

Frank's face didn't change. "Because you disappear. You don't smile. You don't greet customers. You don't do team spirit."

"Team spirit," Vamp echoed, voice dead.

"Yes," Frank snapped. "And don't give me that tone." Vamp almost laughed. It would've been hysterical if it wasn't his life. Dracula's son, being scolded for not having enough… team spirit. His stomach rolled with regret so hard it felt like motion sickness.

"Right," Vamp said. "Sorry. My bad. I'll—" he searched for a word that wouldn't get him fired "—try." Frank narrowed his eyes, satisfied in that awful way people were satisfied when they thought they'd won. "Good. And stop going into the walk-in so much. If you're taking breaks, you take them when scheduled." Vamp stared at him. The walk-in. That was where he went when the lights got too bright and the noise got too sharp and the smell of sizzling fat made his skin crawl. It was cold and dark and nobody asked questions if you said you were "getting more lettuce."

"Sure," Vamp said again, because it was the only word they let him have. Frank finally walked away, footsteps heavy, and the second he was gone the kitchen felt like it could breathe again.
Kayla popped back into the window like a mischievous ghost. "He really hates joy."

Vamp slid a finished burger into the chute. "He loves it. It's the only thing he gets to kill."

Kayla's grin softened a little. "You ever gonna tell me why you're actually here?" Vamp sarcastically smiled, flashing his fangs for a bit before getting back to work, continuing to puzzle Kayla before she returned to her post. This was just the last 3 hours of his shift... maybe it wouldn't be so bad, would it?

---

The apartment door shut behind him with a sound that was way too loud for how small the place was. Vamp leaned his forehead against it for a second, shoes still on, apron half-off, the smell of grease clinging to him like a curse. When he finally pushed away, he caught a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror by the door. Red splotches up his forearms, blistered patches along his wrists and one nasty streak across his neck where hot oil had splashed when Frank wasn't looking. He peeled the apron off and dropped it on the floor. The burns already itched. By the time he crossed the living room—if you could call four steps and a couch a living room—the skin was knitting itself back together. Blisters collapsed inward, red fading to pale, like someone hitting undo. It still hurt, though. Regeneration never took the sting away. Just the evidence.

"Worth it," he muttered, and meant none of it.

The apartment was quiet in that way that felt louder than noise. One flickering ceiling light. A couch that had definitely been found on the curb. A tiny TV balanced on a milk crate. Everything smelled faintly like dust and old oil. Vamp went straight for the fridge.He opened it, already reaching—

—and froze. Empty. No blood bags. No labeled bottles. Nothing but a half-empty carton of milk, some wilted vegetables, and a pack of raw chicken shoved onto the bottom shelf like an afterthought. He stared. Closed the fridge. Opened it again, slower, like maybe reality would get embarrassed and fix itself. It didn't.

"…Fantastic," Vamp said to no one.

He leaned back against the counter, head tilting up, eyes closing. He could technically go out. Find a blood bank. Find a willing donor. Do the whole awkward, humiliating song and dance of pretending this was still mysterious and cool instead of a chore.

Or—

He looked back at the chicken.

"…Sure," he sighed. "Why not."

The kitchen was barely a kitchen. One burner that only worked if you turned it just right. A chipped pot. A knife that had seen better centuries, metaphorically speaking. He chopped vegetables with more force than necessary. Threw the chicken in after, let it sizzle, added whatever spices were within reach without reading labels. Salt. Pepper. Something green. Something red. A questionable splash of broth that had been in the cupboard long enough to develop vibes. It smelled… not terrible. He stood there stirring, shoulders finally slumping now that there was no Frank, no Kayla, no ticket rail screaming at him. The soup bubbled like it was alive, steam fogging his glasses until he shoved them up his nose. He tasted it, straight from the spoon.

Paused.

"…Okay," Vamp admitted quietly. "Okay, I see you."

He poured it into a bowl, grabbed a spoon, and collapsed onto the couch. The TV flickered to life after two tries, landing on some painfully bad comedy—laugh track too loud, jokes too old, the kind of movie where everyone was yelling for no reason.

Perfect.

He ate slowly, savoring it more than he wanted to admit. The warmth settled into him, chased some of the cold out of his bones. He laughed once—actually laughed—at a joke that absolutely didn't deserve it, then immediately looked around like he'd done something illegal.

Halfway through the bowl, his phone buzzed. Vamp groaned. He didn't even have to look at the screen.

"Of course," he said, answering it anyway. "Hi, Dad."

"Good evening, my son," Dracula's voice purred through the speaker, smooth and rich and impossibly unbothered. "I trust you are well." A pause. Then, mild annoyance. "You sound tired."

"I always sound like this, dad," Vamp says.

Another pause, longer this time. Vamp could picture him perfectly—sitting in some absurdly expensive chair, wineglass in hand, already regretting the call.

"You are learning discipline," Dracula said. "Humility."

Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. He always says that. Doesn't make him any more humble does it?
Vamp's jaw tightened. "Dad, I hate this job."

"Yes, yes," Dracula said dismissively. "Everyone hates their first job. You are meant to struggle," Dracula continued, tone sharpening just enough to sting. "It builds character. You cannot live forever on inherited power."

Vamp stared at the wall, at the little crack that kind of looked like a bat if you squinted. "I'd settle for not smelling like grease all the time."

"You will endure," Dracula said. "Now, unless you are being hunted or staked, I have matters to attend to."

The call ended. The silence afterward felt heavier than before. Vamp set the phone down beside him and just… sat there. Spoon still in the bowl. TV still laughing. Soup cooling, untouched. His mind emptied out completely. No thoughts. No frustration. Just static.

Minutes passed. Maybe more. At some point, the laughter on the TV got too annoying, and he muted it without really looking. He sat. Stared. Existed.Then, distantly, like a thought drifting in from another room, it hit him.

"…The heater."

Vamp sighed, leaned forward, and flicked it off before it could drain the rest of his paycheck overnight. He slumped back into the couch, staring at nothing again.