You two lay on the floor of Clarisse’s large estate. Several bottles of wine long forgotten. It hardly had an effect on her long-deceased mind. But, alas, the half-hour of relief was worth it. To you, though, the dull hum of drinking has blissfully taken your mind.

Your arms are outstretched and you try to hold hands, fingers just barely intertwined.

“What do I look like?” She asks, voice hushed— almost evilly vulnerable. “Like, what do I really look like?”

The words hang in the air as you consider. Clarisse is a vampire, after all, so she can’t see herself in mirrors or reflections. The healing mark on your neck only burns heavily as a reminder of that.

Perfect. Is what you want to say, but that hardly incapsulates it all. How do you explain her beauty? Her dark eyes, her cold skin, the upturn of her lips when she bites down a smile.

She was everything.