Them
Her worn feet slowly made their way across time and place, one in front of the other. They didn't matter to her. Feet were simply transportation, not worth anything. So she did not tend to them. Her cold hands held an apple, red as blood. Though time passed, it was always red, always full, not touched by time. It used to hold her soul. Now she holds it like a rag doll, not caring. Her soul was long gone, chased away in the first thousand years of life by the poisoned vampiric soul that all of her kind got, through time. But she still kept the apple. When she offered it to people, they could not resist the apple, nor could they resist the silk white hair that laced the innocent face of what appeared to be a girl in rags, who had seen only seven summers of life. But when they touched it, their blood was sucked into the apple; silent like drifts of wind blowing lightly against everything, their presence unknown. They were called vampires, blood sucking monsters. But in the hearts of some rare mortals, they were the Silent. The Pitiful. They, who are damned, who are cursed. They, who need to kill to live, even if it pains them deeply. They, who live for all eternity without peace for their destiny. May they one day be freed.