Chapter Text
The myths of vampires are legendary.
The garlic, the cross, sunlight, stakes and holy water. Drinking blood, casting no reflection and sleeping in a coffin. Well – the poetry’s lovely and the myths are good for writers and eccentrics – Stoker and Rice and the others. Long dead Gothic tales lost in dusty books high on shelves. Sometimes resurrected for the romance lying cold in withered veins of ink and imagination by black clad teenagers with souls as deep as puddles.
There is something beautiful in the idea of vampires – cursed souls that drink the blood of virgins and innocents.
What is it about vampires that excite human interest and bring blood gushing to the surface of skin?
I don’t know, to be honest, but vampires have always fascinated me. But this story, unfortunately for me, isn’t about vampires. I wish…but no, not vampires. A far more canine, feral beast. A girl. A girl with mood swings and wicked eyes. A girl by the name of Magenta.