Just past midnight she sits in the cold artificial light of her desk lamp, controlling the sounds that wish to rip from her throat as she thinks of possible futures, none of them happy.

She keeps her hands pressed tightly over her eyelids, but it won't keep the pain from escaping. Tears of acid roll down her cheeks, the heat of them burning her flesh. She draws her hands away, every inch from fingertip to wrist coated in clear liquid, and at this moment it is as offensive to her as if it were the blood of someone she recently murdered.

She sees herself standing as a ghost at her own funeral, watching the service, seeing the people crying for her, and one who is not. She cries out to them and no one can hear her. She knows they will not respond and yet she calls out anyway. She hears the eulogy that says only nice things and she remembers all the things she did wrong. In her disagreement, she is caught in guilt.

Then she sees a vivid image of herself as an old woman sitting at her dining room table, a navy blue coffee cup sits to her left and she stares into space with wide, vacant eyes. The look of loss. She is trying to deal with the death of her husband.

It's times like this that she wishes that she doesn't feel as much as she does. She wishes she couldn't feel every emotion at once. It feels as though her whole body is being turned inside out. As though she is drowning, grasping at her last breath and unable to find the surface.

Conflict boils in her mind between what she learned as a child and what she has seen in the last half of a year. She can't deal with the paradox. Two things, both of which she knows to be true, but they are mutually exclusive. They won't resolve themselves and she can't get them too. So she cries for hours, split down the middle about her existence.

As a Christian she believes in salvation and damnation. She believes in an afterlife. She has seen and heard too many things in her life not to believe the teachings on Christianity that have been impressed upon her ever since she was a child. There is too much truth she has experienced that will not leave her mind.

As a vampire, she believes that her soul is recycled through different bodies. For how long, she doesn't know. Possibly for however long there is human life. In the last half of a year, she has seen and heard too much truth in vampirism to deny it. The supernatural echoes with the chords of truth she has been seeking her whole life to explain why she was always different.

The two exclude each other. It is impossible for both to be absolutely right, and yet she cannot determine where the fault lies in either. She argues with him time and time again about salvation and damnation and the fate of their souls. Neither will yield the side being fought. He attempts to try to show her that they believe the same thing differently, and she refuses to see.

Each will fight until the end, and the only way to tell is when someone knows for certain.