Her eyes swept the New Orleans street looking for familiar faces. Though she sat on a roof-top she could see each face as though they were right in front of her. Familiar faces, however, grew more and more scarce as the years went on. She brushed a lock of golden blonde hair out of her jade green eyes and sighed. An ache filled her hoping someone she knew to come along, but they never did. Im sure if she could cry she would have.

Her fingers strayed to the scar on her neck where she had been bitten almost 20 years ago in 1847. A haunting reminder of the thirst aching in her throat like fire. She rose and lept off the roof, landing in an alley completely unharmed. She began her nightly act of crying and whimpering in pain until a kind stranger daringly ventured into the dark to help. When he was close enough, she attacked, biting into his neck, drawing blood but not spilling a drop, courtesy of fine southern training. She gazed at the dying man.

“God bless your soul darlin’ cause he surely forgot mine”