A/N: So, this is my GCSE coursework, that I wrote last term- no, two terms ago- Hell, I don't know. It was last school year sometime. I'm sure lemonzilla or Hatsuka could tell me. Anyway, thought I'd see what anyone else thinks

I Am Rogue

I cannot remember.

How long have I watched others wither and die? How long have I lingered? How long have I watched from the shadows, never daring to step into the light?

I cannot remember.

I do not know how old I am. Nor do I know when I was born. In fact, I know nearly nothing about my past: where I came from; who my family was; not even what I looked like. I know how old I look now; I see it every time I look in the mirror, even though I try to avoid seeing myself. I look like I'm seventeen, maybe eighteen, but I do not know how long I've been this way.

I cannot remember.

There is only one thing I do know - and it is no memory. It is ingrained in my bones, tattoed on my skin and gouged into my soul.

I am Rogue, and I am dead.

I know you won't tell – how could you? – but still, I am nervous about so much as thinking this, never mind vocalising it. Because suddenly, I am responsible. Responsible for another. I had never expected this. Not now. Biologically, it would never be possible for me to reproduce – nor would I want to. Because I am a member of the shadows, of the darkness, I suck the blood of the living. I do not care for lives; I take them

I had picked him out – he was perfect . Young enough to be full of life, yet not too young to leave me light headed witht he hopes and dreams that flow in his veins. Early twenties, I would guess, born, perhaps, early '88. Fit, athletic - plays cricket; English upbringing, English accent. He was odd. A loner. Perfect.

He went home through the docklands, which have been abandoned for years, a myriad of steel and empty shells. It took him forty minutes from the coffee shop to his flat (14A of Building 6 on Crescent Street), every day; lock up, cross square, follow road, through docks, next road, turn right, second left, half-way down road, enter building. I did my research. Found out everything I needed to know. It was set. Perfect.

He would have an accident: slip on one of the old machines or trip and fall into the waters – conveniently smashing his head and bleeding dry. Maybe I would rough him up a bit – a victim of the currents. I have done this before, so many times. Perfect.

You know, at first I thought I would be disgusted with myself. After all, I came from these people; once, I was one of them. So surely, stooping to sucking out the life and blood of a person would affect me, at least a little? A living, breathing, thinking person? But it never did. I never felt the disgust that I know should be there, or the horror. Nor was I alarmed; the action of killing and feeding seemed natural and normal. Watching the blood drip from my fingers and taint the earth deep crimson only was merely fascinating and intriguing. I was curious.

So, led by the curiosity within me, I experimented. I learnt that you had to be sneaky, and a close call with the polizia in southern Italy thoroughly enforced this, with my fleeing on a boat to Sicily then on to Greece. I have been all over this great world, met others like myself, on occasion. And finally wound up here: New York City. The ideal home for us, for our kind.

I know there are others, but we are a nomadic and primarily solitary race, and we tend to keep to ourselves, so I only see them now and again. Just a glimpse.

I had been walking away from such a glimpse, and had gone to lie low within a nearby coffee shop when I first saw him, behind the counter, shoulders nicely filling the crisp, white shirt and not looking remotely effeminate within his green apron. I'll admit; it was the superficial aspects that first caught my eye. I may never deign to speak to such beings, but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy looking. Especially with him.

You don't often get males with the courage to wear their hair long, which is a pity since I always preferred longer hair when it was in style, though I did hate the primping and choking scents of the time, not to mention those abominable corsets. Everything, including hair, looks so much better when treated simply.

His hair complements his face, and the colour is one I have never seen before – and I have lived a long time. Almost slate grey, perhaps a little lighter, that has individual hairs that burn silver in the sun. He wears it in a horse-tail that curls into loose ringlets at the end, with a loose fringe on one side that isn't quite long enough to reach his eyes. Even in a horse-tail, his hair brushes his shoulders. It was that hair that caught my eye.

And then my eyes started to stray. He is from another time, this one. An aristocrat born a few centuries too late, with the bone structure to substantiate his claim. The silver male had a straight and strong nose, pale, peach lips to make a full mouth, and marble skin – a diamond in a coal mine.

And that was when I caught a whiff.

A scent so rich and tangy that I actually considred annhilating every human in the entire shop just to get a taste then and there. But after all, I could never finish that much blood, not to mention that many dead would be nearly impossible to hide from the New York Police Department – the interfering vermin. So I started to follow him; to plan. It was all deliberated and adjusted to the final degree, and the night was set.

The night of the new moon, so dark and still, with so little moonlight to alert him of my presence, as if he could have the eyesight! But still, there was a certain poetic irony – I felt like I had come from out of a fairytale from the Brothers Grimm. Not one of us bothers to plan by the moon and the stars; there is no point, we are far too advanced for any human to predict, yet I still find myself indulging every few decades, just for the thrill.

But for some reason, poised above him like the proverbial eagle waiting to strike, I paused. Because he was looking at me. And then for the first time in as long I could possibly remember – since I woke up – I felt blind panic claw at my chest, and my breathing become erratic and stretched as it rasped in my throat. Which is nonsense, since I do not even need to breathe and only do so since doing otherwise would unnerve the herds. Besides; why should I – the perfect killer – fear a lowly mortal?

It was the way he looked at me, like he knew me, that made me think that perhaps he was not so lowly. Maybe there was more to this one than I had thought, and maybe I should have been more aware. Looking back, I know that I had been true to my techniques, which have never failed before or since, and that there was nothing I could have done to be surer. Yet, at the time, I mentally inventoried every action looking for mistakes or slips. Somewhere to explain how this thing could possibly have heard me coming. And to be quite simple, he could not. At least, he could either not be human or not have heard me coming, either will do.

So I panicked. I succumbed to the bitter taste in my mouth and lashed out, completely blind. And then I was clawing and ripping and biting, watching blood spray left and right, coating the walls and earth as I desperately tore him to pieces.

By the time I had caught control, he was lying; twitching and on the ground with thick, crimson blood dripping from my fingers.

But even before my very eyes, organs began to heal as otherwise fatal tears in the tissue began to knit together. Bones healed and shards gravitated towards their origin, while skin crawled over healing muscle. His whole body seemed to oscillate and convulse as everything returned to what it had been. I had forgotten the venom. Because I simply attacked, and not bled him dry, the venom had reached his heart and taken over. Storming through his veins and corrupting cells as it rampaged throughout.

And seconds later, he was fully formed before, and just as perfect than before. The square jaw just as strong, the high cheekbones just as flawless and the smooth skin - completely unmarred - reigned supreme and snowy-white once more.

Eyes of the same slate grey as his hair with the same dark rings and identical silver flecks slowly opened to meet mine. Those same eyes slowly took in his surroundings, and the loss of his humanity was made apparent when the blood oozing and dripping down the walls didn't even cause him to blink. Instead, he slowly, yet oh so smoothly, rose to his feet and surveyed the docks with an air of mild curiosity.

"Who am I?"

You are Shay, and you are dead

A/N: Honestly, I still don't like it. There's somthing... cliched about it now. Still, what can you do? I could rewrite it, but I can't be bothered, I have enough catch-up on my hands as it is. I confess I did a little tweaking, but I couldn't help myself. I like it much more after the tweaking, anyway.

Reviews are love - really!