New York, 1986
"what if I told you that I could do more than heal you? What if I could restore your life and then some? Would you want that?"
"I'm not ready to die, I'm so scared. Please don't let me die, not like this."
"I am truly sorry that there isn't enough time to do this the gentle way, I hope you can forgive me."
Sharp fangs sinking into your neck always jostled you from your reoccurring nightmare. You sighed as you surveyed the sweat covered sheets surrounding you, running a hand through your hair as you fought to banish your fear.
After that awful night in the alley where Max has found you, you'd ran as far as you could, trading the west coast for the east. But no matter how fast you ran, you couldn't escape your own mind.
Your life as a human was long gone, but the memories populated your nightmares. They reminded you that no matter how different you were now, how strong, you would always be that pitiful girl who'd almost died, alone and unloved.
Whatever you were now could never erase the fact that you used to be nothing to this world.
You slunk out of bed and sauntered to your balcony, taking in the breathtaking sight of New York City when night fell.
Your hands gripped the railing as your eyes scanned the bright lights, the racing cars, and the bustling crowds. You breathed in deeply, taking in your last view from the balcony before you had to flee your apartment and search for a new one, attached to a new sucker for you to use.
As much as you loathed it, your vampirism allowed you to take revenge on the cruel and wealthy in ways you'd never been able to before.
While other vampires went straight in for the kill, you preferred to play with your food. You didn't just want to feed on random humans, you wanted the ones you chose to suffer.
You preyed on the titans of Wall Street, the trust fund babies, the old money bastards and all the other men who would have stepped over your corpse in the gutter.
You were beautiful and you knew it. It was never a struggle to ensnare them. You hung around at the fanciest restaurants in the upper east side, and the classiest bars in the financial district. Hunting was pointless, the men came to you.
You spent a few weeks stroking their egos, among other things, and they gave you anything you wanted. The money, the power, the influence they had became yours just as much as it was theirs.
They allowed you into their homes and their hearts. When you were sure that they trusted you, that they loved you, you dropped the mask and showed them who you really were, teeth and all.
Maybe you should feel bad for using them and draining them, and some part of you did feel a small pang of guilt every time the life drained from their terrified eyes.
But you had walked with them at night as they ignored the starving people that lined the streets of the city. They refused to offer even a cent of their "hard-earned" money.
When your eyes welled with tears at the downtrodden state of those around you, they wouldn't dry your tears. Instead, the rich men would tell you that those stranded on street corners had earned their place in life.
"How will they learn?" they'd ask you. "We can't just give people money," they'd patronize you, "this is America! Anyone can pull themselves up by their bootstraps nowadays."
They'd assure you that they helped them more by not sharing a minuscule amount of their vast wealth. The homeless were a plague on the city, they'd insist. Didn't you want them to help themselves?
