Memory Remains.

On one particularly bright moonlit night, I see a young girl walking quickly down the deserted street. And though she is not nearly as fair of face, her hair arouses a pang of memory and my heart skips a beat. She speaks. “Well met, kind sir.” But I do not intend to be kind with her. I yank her against me, my fangs reflecting the white of the moonlight. Opening her night dressing clothes, she bargains with me, offering me her painfully thin body in exchange for her life. I bite. And while her blood satisfies my hunger, there is nothing else of her flesh that I desire. I leave her crumpled there in a disarray of her shabby gowns.