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.