If you spend your life wishing to die, willing to end it yourself, even, and the chance was given, would you take it? If you had chosen that fate, when your breath became slow and painful, would you still wish that on yourself? In the shadow of death, would the reality of it dawn on you, when it was just too late?
A life of darkness was not one worth much, to Taylor.
She had been so desperate to die. Willing to do it herself, had it been possible.
She lifted the knife to her bared forearm.
The flat, cold edge of the blade pierced the pale skin of her wrist. She felt no pain from it.
The midnight black blood of a vampire spilled from the cut, but before it had even begun to paint it's dark path on her arm, the skin began to knit together again.
Taylor sighed in frustration. She had tried to make herself bleed to death many times before, to no avail. It would have been a fitting death for a vampire, to die losing what it was always taking. But she healed too quickly for that. Too quickly for Death to claim her.
Would Death's fingers feel as icy as her own, or be scalding hot, the contradiction of everything it was said to have?
Sighing again, she wiped her blood off her arm with the sleeve that had failed to protect it.
All that was left of the most recent wound was a rapidly fading scar, already less than the silver thread used to spin the web of a spider.
What a web of lies. Enticing it's victims in, promising no harm. How like vampires the spiders were.
Black was the colour of nothing. If the universe imploded, and nothing was left, what would be there? Just black? But that would still be something, in the very least.
She was nothing. Just a murderer who should never have existed, who fed on the life blood of innocents, driven by her own pain, selfishly taking to quench the burn that could never be hidden from, never be outrun, never be left behind.
Never letting go, for even on nights the moon was large, it followed her like a shadow, undetectable, but always there.
She would welcome Death like an old friend. She had no reason to live.
A life of darkness was not one worth much, to Taylor.
She had been so desperate to die. Willing to do it herself, had it been possible.
She lifted the knife to her bared forearm.
The flat, cold edge of the blade pierced the pale skin of her wrist. She felt no pain from it.
The midnight black blood of a vampire spilled from the cut, but before it had even begun to paint it's dark path on her arm, the skin began to knit together again.
Taylor sighed in frustration. She had tried to make herself bleed to death many times before, to no avail. It would have been a fitting death for a vampire, to die losing what it was always taking. But she healed too quickly for that. Too quickly for Death to claim her.
Would Death's fingers feel as icy as her own, or be scalding hot, the contradiction of everything it was said to have?
Sighing again, she wiped her blood off her arm with the sleeve that had failed to protect it.
All that was left of the most recent wound was a rapidly fading scar, already less than the silver thread used to spin the web of a spider.
What a web of lies. Enticing it's victims in, promising no harm. How like vampires the spiders were.
Black was the colour of nothing. If the universe imploded, and nothing was left, what would be there? Just black? But that would still be something, in the very least.
She was nothing. Just a murderer who should never have existed, who fed on the life blood of innocents, driven by her own pain, selfishly taking to quench the burn that could never be hidden from, never be outrun, never be left behind.
Never letting go, for even on nights the moon was large, it followed her like a shadow, undetectable, but always there.
She would welcome Death like an old friend. She had no reason to live.