April 21, 1753 – St. Petersburg

     With my eyes closed, I lie on the snow covered ground.  The cold soaks my pants and wrapping my body in an icy embrace. Lying there, I image that in the silent, bitter air she would have been able to feel my looming presence. Here in a secluded forest, her screams were isolated to my ears only. Still, she walked here with her hand in mine knowing the darkness that was to consume her. 
     Willingly, she replaced her life with temporary pain and fear. Detached from the world, she chose her escape through my unbiased and unforgiving fangs. In the moonlight, her pale skin dulled against the glistening snow as her crimson painted the fresh powder in perfection. The scent of blood warms my soul and for the first time in a long time, I feel alive.   

January 8, 1592 - Arbois

     The smell of bread fills the small kitchen. With flour dusting her hair, she dances across the floor with steps as light as the traces of perfume she leaves hanging in the air. Beautiful and vibrant, she brightens my otherwise dark existence. Considering herself as food connoisseur, she has shown me her world through flavors and textures. 
     But my brief flirtation with a normal life shatters as quickly as the glass that falls from her hand when she sees my dark eyes. I tried to hide them from her but the monster inside me ruined yet another opportunity to forget what I really am. Her world has a plethora of choices but the only palatable thing offered in my world is her. As she stares back at me, I realize that now she knows that too.

August 6, 1923 – Chicago

Thick with the smell of rich cigars, the fog of smoke burns my lungs. I watch the sweat roll down my glass and make a wet ring on the table as I listen to the sounds that fill the club. There is a beauty singing of suffering and it melts on my ears. Her voice rolls over the room, ricocheting off of the walls with smooth cadence. There is laughter bellowing through dense smoke. Innocent and light, their laughs lack experience with creatures like me. 
I look around at my potential meals, trying to decide who my victim shall be when the waitress approaches my table. She twirls her hair and flirts, no doubt for a bigger tip. Noticing my glass of untouched rum, she asks if I want something different to drink. I smile at her deceivingly. I do want something different but it’s not on the menu. It’s holding one. It’s her. 

October 9, 1980 - Los Angeles

     The night battles with itself to prove my guilt. The rain pours down, coursing over my skin and washing away crimson while the moon struggles to cast its light on the quiet shell remaining from my actions. The rain offers no delectable scent and no warmth but replaces her blood on my flesh with cold, nondescript water. The only positive aspect of being cleansed so soon instead of relishing in the bliss of a fresh kill is that it will make it easier to walk through the streets to my next victim unnoticed. 
     I stare at her lifeless face. Soon every aroma, every speck of her will be gone from my body and I will be left with only my memories. She was a prostitute; like everyone else, she had potential once but life got in the way. Still, she didn’t deserve my fangs. She was merely a human nobody will look for. I don’t know her back story and I don’t want to. Knowing only makes her more of a person and my deeds more like sins. 

August 4, 1748 - Somewhere in the Carolina’s

     I had been traveling for weeks. I was no longer sure where I was or what I was looking for. I avoided the towns like the plague I would be to them. I wandered the night and hid for the entire day, never seeing another soul for days. This night had started the same way; I meandered aimlessly until the silence was shattered by screams. Intrigued by the sounds, I hurried and watched as the humans slaughtered a Cherokee village. For reasons I still do not understand, I intervened despite going against my survival instincts and saved one human.
     The only survivor of her tribe, she asks me nothing. She saw the monster in me, what I am capable of, watched me rip soldiers and scatter their parts across the field. She does not ask because she already knows the answer. Her skin contrasts against mine as I lead her by the hand. I am not sure where I am, but I now know where I am going. To the one person I trust to make this woman my immortal friend. I am going home and Marcella will make her mine.   

March 11, 1753 – St. Petersburg

     The snow crunches under his feet. His heavy steps make him easy to follow. Arrogant and oppressive, he tends to order and beat his wife like a dog. If you were to ask, he would say he loves her but we shall about that. 
He opens the door to his home and to the surprise I’ve left for him. His face goes pale when he sees her, blood spilled across the floor, her eyes hazed over, and her skin colder than mine. He rushes to her with tears filling his eyes, screaming his pain into the night. Perhaps he did care for her some after all. Before even sees me in the door, my fangs are in his throat. I fill my belly, trying to quench my thirst but knowing that to be impossible and turn to see the only witness to my crime. Less than two years, he stares at me from his seat in the pool of crimson near his mother. Kneeling down beside him, I rub his cheek, streaking blood on his pale skin, and tell him sweet lies about how everything is alright before I leave him alone, waiting to be found by a better family.