Acerba Sorte

There was once a time when Virginia applied the ancient adage of 'it's the small things that matter' to her life. She always insisted to her relatives and friends that it was no trouble at all to help them out, whether they required books to be collected from the local library on the way home, or needed someone to mow their lawn. Of course, they all loved her. When I think back on her memories, I can see how they looked at her; she wouldn't have noticed it – she was too modest – but they knew she was good. They envied her generosity and kindness. “She has a beautiful heart,” they used to say about her, clearly unaware of how sickening their display of affection was.

What a horrible shame it is, then, that her beautiful heart could not save her. She had been planning to visit her grandmother that evening, 'grandma' being a bug-eyed old woman with a crooked back, and had bought her some pork chops for her supper. Perhaps it was just a random attack; perhaps it was simply that her blood had a particularly attractive smell that night; perhaps her attacker had been stalking her for months. Regardless of the reason behind it, she was sired that night. For a week, I watched her family fall apart, revelling at their weakness and wasted tears. I did not kill them; that would have been too merciful. Instead, I let them worry. I could not enter their house, but I did not need to; from the balcony, I could hear her mother's awful sobs, muffled by pillows. I marvelled at how all these lives had been ruined by a single action, and aspired to achieve something similar. I drank from the boy next door one night, whose blood was particularly delicious – youthful and energetic - and abandoned his drained corpse on the doorstep of his parents' house, and then I left that street forever.

It was an immense temptation to reveal myself to everyone she had ever known. Utilising her memories, I could remember them all: the first boy she had ever kissed; her best friend from University; even her favourite teacher at primary school. Often I imagined the looks on their faces when they saw what they thought had been the young woman they loved suddenly transformed, stronger than they could imagine, faster, and – it cannot be denied – much better looking. I dreamed of meeting them all, and telling them of how Virginia was tragically no longer with us, and then gliding forward and sinking my teeth through their tense flesh with the sweet, red ecstasy gushing forth into my mouth, and I would wake from these dreams excited and anxious.

People would see Virginia's demise as a terrible thing, but in my eyes it is simply a release from the frailty of human life, and the path to something greater. Her soul is gone, and I am sent to replace her; it's the cruel things that matter.

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