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Garlic really isn't any use.

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Nov. 28th, 2008 | 08:52 pm

I am now completely certain that you are a vampire. And not in that sexy Hollywood sort of way. There's nothing darkly romantic about you. No, no black lace or dried roses. It would be much easier for me if you were, because then when people notice the heaviness of my thoughts and steps, I can point at you. And they'll look at me sadly and say, "Yes, I'd have fallen for that too." But instead you are the sort of vampire no one else can see, the kind with a reflection and a broad, simple grin. You are the very worst kind.

They say you have to invite a vampire in, or it cannot enter your house. That's the truest of all the myths, but it helped me very little. A few hurried looks and smiles in my direction, and there was no need to ask. I threw open every door and window of my house. I let the midnight wind howl through it all, blowing at the curtains and chilling me to the bone. Shouting, I welcomed you into my home and into my mind. Stupid, stupid girl.

It took longer than I would have imagined it, upon reflection. But I've recently discovered your silent, angry self-control, that kept me in your grasp long enough to fully enjoy my destruction. You laid me out on an old table, eyelids fluttering and mind racing. And somehow, without even laying a finger on me, you devoured me. You opened me up and feasted upon everything you could grasp. You left me empty and hollow and broken. You left me with nothing at all.

Now I think I'm one of your kind. I have yet to find a poor lost soul to ravage, but sometimes when I speak to strangers I can feel their weakness. I can sense it like an animal, a frailness that feels like bone and smells like funeral bouquets. It's only a matter of time before I lunge and bite and feed. I want to hurt and break someone the way you did me. I want my power back.

I hate you for doing this to me. But I hate myself even more for allowing you to.

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