I feel like I’m on a precipice, staring into an eternity that may or may not include you. I recall the first time I met you, a star-struck mortal, awed by my golden beauty. Of course, I never showed you how marred that beauty was on that day. I simply ignored you as the mere human that you were. Why you were such obvious friends with the werewolf was vaguely intriguing, but I was more than able to disregard you at that point.
There were more meetings, I know that; three of them, if I recall. I could smell your lust, and noticed your blushing glances, but you were still unworthy of my attention, or, at least, that was how I felt. Finally I decided to deal with you once and for all. I turned my attention on you, and seduced you. Not that it took much to do so. You were already so infatuated with me I did not need to use any of my powers to draw you in. I simply gave you a little of my attention, and you flew to me like a moth to a flame. When I finally had you where I wanted you, I exposed myself to you, stepping into the light and sweeping back the veil of my hair. In that moment, I expected horror, revulsion, and a swift getaway.
You shocked me. There was a moment of profound understanding which staggered me then, and staggers me now. How you, an ordinary, unmarked human, could possibly understand my pain beggars belief; I do not understand it. And yet you did. There was no disgust, no horrified sympathy as you backed away from me. Instead, you smacked the wolf, and called him a moron, before turning back to me. Instead, you reached to touch me, meeting my eyes for the first time (for all your infatuation, you ever treated me with the cautious respect meet for a vampire.) Your gaze sought my permission, which I, astounded, gave, and you touched me, grazing your fingers over my scars, and now I find myself here, on the edge.
I think I shall fall.