Murdered by a vampire right in front of us, poor lass.

I've been thinking about doorways lately. Not the wooden ones with hinges and handles, but the invisible ones we pass through without realising—the spaces between what was and what will be, between who we were and who we're becoming.

I've escaped the memory, but I can still feel it clinging to me like blood under my fingernails.

I... I didn't want this.

I had the strangest dream last night. Or maybe it wasn't a dream at all.