It was a cold, lonely night in the shadowy town of Liverpool, England, bringing chilly winds to anyone who was out. But, to George Harrison, the cold was welcoming, it was something he has felt since he could remember. This wasn't unsusual for a vampire like himself, of course, it was actualy rather normal. It had been roughly 62 years since his own life had been stolen from him. He had been only nine years old. It was a miracle, really, to have even come back from the dead. His sire should have drained him dry, leaving nothing but a prune-ish figure of his body, pale and stone dead. He had no recolection of it, for he had been so young, so innocent, pure, even. He had hidden it extremly well, his afterlife depended on him to act exactly as a living person. It was harder at first, of course, with two fresh bite marks on the side of his neck, and also the trouble of his fangs. His bite marks faded over time, of course, but he never had gotten accoustome to his fangs. He had retracted them the day he descovered he was no longer mortal, and never learned how to re-atract them. He became quiet, hoping not to show their length and sharpness, trying not to attract attention. This was proven impossible, for he also became more handsom as he grew, skinny and yet strong, skin a pale ivory, his hair like satin cloth against the skin, full lips a pale red and soft to whomever was lucky enouch to kiss them. But his voice-oh, his voice, could instantly make you crave more. It was as smoothe and sweet as honey itself, a treat to the ears. It was no wonder how quickly he was excepted into the group The Beatles, his voice and his talent with his guitar.
But that was then. This was now. People thought he was dead. They thought he was dead all the way back in 2001. He laughed silently at this, as he had been dead long before that. He had heard about John's passing, filled with sorrow and even a dash of envy for the soul who got to pass onto the other side while he was practically cursed to roam the world with an unquenchable thist. The thirst for blood was only ubtainable if you were willing to kill for it. Killing a life to satisfy a hunger that didn't do a thing for him, it didn't give him back the life he had lost so many years ago, it wasn't even quenchable. He had tried eating human food, which wasn't all that bad to him, but nothing was as sweet than fresh blood. To mere humans, the take was sickeningly metalic, but to his kind, the taste was of the aroma of the freshest of white roses, the taste pure honey and cream all wrapped up to gether to make the ultimate sacrificial food.
The more he thought about it, the more stressed he was. He had come outside to unwind, not to think of all the things in his un-death. He sighed, and looked up to the sky. Cloudy, as usual for Liverpool, bot only in a few spots. Otherwise, he could see the stars glimmering in the sky, shining like there was no tomorrow. He looked back down, wishing someone could understand his feelings. Yearning for someone to talk to, to let it all out and let them cheer him up, making him happy to still be on the living plane, to open his eyes in the world around him. A tear fell from his deep, dark brown eyes, making his high cheeckbone glimmer in the pale moonlight. If only, If only. But it would never happen, would it?