Samuel looked in the mirror at his long pale limbs. They had withered like languid lilies, long denied water and light. Oh they were still plump, his young flesh was firm, but only because he was young. Before long, it would become withered and wrinkled if he were to deny himself. Now it was the colour of old bones; and his veins were thick ropes covering him. His face had thinned, making him gaunt and his dark eyes shone dangerously back at him.
He reached out for the book, slender fingers stroking the slight tears and the repair work his sister had made to it. The photos looked ancient, worn down by sticky child fingers, and yellowed by time. He would forever watch the colour ebb from them, until they were completely gone. And then nothing would remain of his mother and father, not even the memory of them. It was this that terrified him; he would forget with the passing of the years and would wonder where his beginnings had been. Perhaps he could write it down, or draw them…but he was not so talented. He could not form eloquent words, or use his fingers (elegant as they were) to sculpt and mould the faces of those two.
His father had whispered it to him once, that "Our kind" forget. He told Samuel that he could not remember his own parents, but for one time that he had glimpsed his father. "You saw him?" Samuel had asked eagerly, a chid who was infinitely curious. His father nodded sombrely, and told him of a night when Samuel had still been small enough to be lifted on one arm. "When I looked at you, I knew that you looked like your grandfather."
Samuel swept his blonde hair out of his eyes, trying to think of his mother. But already he had forgotten her. He opened the book, and sighed at the photo of her. No, he wasn't remembering, only seeing the picture. He never remembered that she had taught him to feed, his father helping them perfect it. He never would. The photo showed both his mother and father together, her stomach was swollen under a flowery dress and his father was not smiling.
He had not seen his sisters for weeks, but he was not worried about that. They were never in danger. They would come home eventually, when they grew tired of other's beds. His brother remained here, and that was the reason for his withering limbs. They should have all separated. It was his mom's fault, or so his dad had said. She had taught them to feed, when she should not have. She had taught them together. His dad had told them, "When I am gone, split up. Keep away from your sisters." Samuel had listened; he had never slipped into his sister's beds unlike his brother. His brother had not listened, and soon enough his sister's stomach had swollen just the same as the photo he held now. But he had not gone away. He had lingered, because he did not want to part from his brother.
The book fell out of his hands, onto the bed and he sat beside it naked as the day was born. He didn't want to go out; he wanted to stay here in their bed. He wanted to wait for his brother to return, but outside of his window were the beings that could make him content again. It would give him back his body that was so slow to age. He had always understood how different they were, his kind and humans. Humans gave him what he needed to live. Their pleasure gave him what was almost eternal life. He smiled thinking of them, but it was a complicated smile.