Poor girl, I thought, looking down at the frail human I was now pushing to the morgue. She was young; maybe sixteen, and she had died after an accident involving her horse. Potentially Irish, burgundy hair, eyes the color of hazel. Bridget Kilkenny. I was then abruptly interrupted from my thoughts as I heard a steady beating. The beating of a heart.
The beating of a heart so far away only supernatural senses could hear. But surely there were no humans in the room, there were, after all, no voices. I certainly would have heard it. But there it was again. Beat, beat. I followed it, curious if one of my nurses had carried one of my patients down. But no, there were no humans in sight. I continued on the rugged, filthy, path to the beating, slightly faster than human pace. What I had found surprised me.
I opened the drawer, in awe of its contents. Lying right before me was possibly the most beautiful human I had ever seen. The woman had soft ringlets of caramel, and a heart shaped face. It was embellished with full lips, which were once pink, but were now losing their color, fading to pallor. Her eyes were unopened, but her eyelashes were hitting great lengths. Even dying, her face was inviting me in, exerting warmth. As I looked, I pondered if such a thing as love at first sight could exist.
If it could, this was surely the diagnosis. The disease was attacking each and every one of my undead cells, grabbing my full attention. But what was the woman's name, I thought, bending to look at the label on the drawer. Esme. Esme Anne Platt. As I said the name aloud to myself a few times, I noticed a rapid increase in her heartbeat, her floral scent becoming bolder as it ran through her veins. Faster, Faster. She, my newfound love was dying. But would I be able to get her to the hospital in time? What, with her…one hundred eighty-seven seconds left? She must be saved. If she were to die, an ache in my self would never diminish. After this encounter, I would surely never feel whole. I reveled in my desire to want her, to need her, for a sixteenth of a second. But at this moment there was no choice. The mystifying creature's life was ending, and rapidly.
No choice. No choice. Was it moral? I would be killing her all the same. Would she want to become a monster? I couldn't ask her in her unconscious state…I honestly didn't know. But what I did know, was that I had this sudden want, no, need to have her with me. What if she didn't want to? It is so hard to not be selfish. Beat, beat, beat, beat. No time. I made my decision. I couldn't' resist. No cure to the disease.
"This will hurt a bit, but don't worry, I'm here," I whispered in her ear, as if she was my patient. Then after one last breath, I sunk my lips into her jugular. At this moment, it was almost impossible to stop. But miraculously, I managed to. Not her. My only thoughts. Not her.
I enveloped my hand around her mouth, muffling her screams of agony. In haste, I then pulled her into my arms, traveled to the edge of the morgue, swiftly pushed Bridget Kilkenny's door, and ran like the wind.
An enchanting disease. No other like it.
Esme. Esme Anne Platt.