Author's Note: In case of any confusion, this is written from the point of view of an original character - one I used in two of my previous stories, and whose backstory I vowed would be told. I am still working in Meyer's vampire-world, and the vampires we already know from this world will have a profound effect on this character's life.

Chapter Three

Two days and Thirteen Hours Later

My heart was exploding. I was going to become a thousand tiny pieces.

With one final, gut-wrenching spasm, the pain dissolved.

Was that purgatory? Or was it hell?

Either way, this was not heaven. I had grown up around devout Catholics, and I knew what heaven was supposed to be like. No golden crowns or bejeweled pavements adorned this place. Just a dim light from the boarded-up windows, and though I could see details of the room I hadn't seen before, I knew that in my pain I hadn't moved from the ground where that monster had dropped me – was it just hours ago? Or had it been a matter of days? I couldn't tell; time lost all meaning when your only thought was "Somebody, please, find me and kill me." I picked myself up from the ground of the shack, testing my arms and legs in case the pain should return. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary; if anything, I felt better than normal.

I took in the room now; no furnishings, but a couple of broken wooden crates lay haphazardly in the corner, and a broken mirror hung on the wall above a boarded-up fireplace. I heard the rats before I turned to see them; the high pitched wails were deafening, as if these rats were terrified of something.

It had been only seconds since my heart had narrowly missed destruction, but already I knew something was missing. This room was too quiet. If I had thought the rats' squeals were deafening, I had missed the overwhelming aspect to the silence. My throat ached and my head pounded with thirst, but my rational side worried about this strange state of things.

I was never an academic child, but my mind was working quickly, and before I realized it I placed my hand over my chest, feeling for what I could not hear.

I had no heartbeat.

No comforting thump thump to fall asleep to.

That man - the monster – his red eyes were seared more perfectly into my memory than any day I had spent in the orphanage. Had he turned me into a monster too?

I was dead now, but I wasn't in heaven with Molly and Sister Mary and my father. I was dead, but I was still alive.

I couldn't think on this conundrum any more though; the scratching in my throat, like sandpaper against a baby's skin, took over. I hurried from the shack and into the empty street, wondering where I would find something to ease my parched lips. I momentarily wondered where that dollar bill had gone – I must have lost my grip with all the spasms and the screams, it was somewhere back in the derelict house.

I stepped into the light, determined to begin my search –

It was blinding. I jumped back into the shadows, away from the burning brightness and took a calming breath. I reminded myself to let my eyes adjust – I had been in a very dark room for hours, if not more.

But I didn't have time to adjust – I needed to find something. Something liquid and warm and thick – my mind screamed at me – I slipped along in the shadows of the other rundown houses, searching for anything – anywhere.

I smelled it before I heard movement in the side alleyway. There.

The flow of blood from the young man's throat brought back presence of mind, and I found myself fitting the pieces together quite nicely.

Blood; it was sticky and red and it slid down my throat so nicely and I wasn't so desperate anymore. It was what I had been looking for; my own magic elixir, like taking gulps of sweetened milk. I hadn't given second thought to springing at the man, hadn't even given him enough time to scream. Did it matter to me that I had to kill another man so that I could live?

At least he'll be in heaven, I thought caustically, and then looked down at the face of my first victim.

I was ten and he was fourteen, and I was sitting on the steps of the dorm and trying to draw, but he had taken my slate and held it up for the other children to see.

"Look at this ugly thing!" He chortled in twisted delight. "Such a silly little girl – wasting chalk on a stupid drawing."

The boys with him laughed and some of the enamored girls whose hair was not messy and did seat neatly in pigtails giggled as well and I felt my cheeks redden and my eyes water. I snatched the slate back and ran down the steps, into the yard, away from the laughing voices.

The picture had been of what I remembered of my mother.

I saw that face – the laughing boy – and I knew I'd never forget it.

It was that moment that I discovered irony. I felt better now, for having had something to drink. I felt better now, for killing a man who had made my childhood miserable.

Blood; it tasted good. It spilled from this evil being, and justice was served.

I liked blood.

I was a vampire.

Later, I would discover that I could move faster than an automobile – faster, even, than a train. I would step into the sunlight, shading my eyes with my hand, and I would see that my skin sparkled – like the diamond on my mother's ring when it caught the sunlight – and in my amazement I would drop my hand and the brightness would blind me once more. I chose to stay away from the sunlight for a little while.

I would find that I could hear people talking – conversations in the marketplace – when I was supposed to be too far away to hear them. I would see things clearly – details on signs and in the melting snow – that I hadn't noticed. My world was clearer, brighter, shinier.

I would also notice, as I tried to pick up a stone in the street, that I was stronger even than any boy I had ever met – and my fingers would grind the stone to dust. And anytime I passed someone in the empty streets I prowled, I found that their scent – so sweet, so inviting, like no other food I had ever tasted – drew me in, and I would drink.

I would later find that I couldn't sleep and that I remembered every detail of every passing day in perfect clarity – but for that quiet moment, as I stared at the face of the man I had killed – of a man who deserved it – a wave of emotions poured through me, more powerful than any I had ever felt before. I wanted to give him what he deserved! It wasn't enough that he couldn't breathe any more, that no more blood flowed through his veins that he may walk and talk and live. I wanted to hear the sickening snap of broken bones. I wanted to tear his throat out; I wanted to crush his ribcage and rip out his heart. So I did.

I was angry at him; angry at the people who had told me what the world was supposed to be good and that God was good; angry at the man who had killed me, but wouldn't let me go to heaven. Beyond the anger, however, I felt something different – something more potent.

There was a rush in each of my limbs that only a few hours ago had been in such torment. More than adrenaline; strength and agility and life. There was delicious danger in the sharpness of my teeth, sweet anticipation for the thrill of the kill.

Little Mildred - Curly, number 2352 – had power. It was a gift, and I was going to use it.

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