Laurel’s pale, thin fingers smooth a crisp page in her latest daily planner, the bold black ink words written inside months before make her mouth twist at the sight. Restock night, her written words read, scrawled in her neat handwriting. Restock night occurred every Saturday at exactly midnight when the streets were vacant enough for her to emerge and haunt them. Most of her neighbors were wise, tucking themselves into their beds for the night but the ones who weren't... her stomach growls. In the kitchen, her empty fridge is a reminder of how Restock Nights are the most important event in her planner.

Laurel knew the exact place she’d visit tonight to get her hearty meal. Tonight, she’ll venture out further than her neighboring streets to an area populated enough that noise isn’t a problem and isolated enough not to catch the gaze of straying eyes. She closes her daily planner, backing away from it and eyes the clock on her crimson wall. In every room, even the ones with black painted walls there’s a clock. Each clock has an alarm set for minutes after sundown, they remind her when freedom is within reach.

On usual nights, she tends to her roses, dances a music-less dance under the stars, and reads a hefty book hoping the night winds caress her face. But Restock Nights were different. There were no times for peace, only turmoil. Even with all her careful planning, her perfect crimes could descend into an everlasting disaster. It’s why she plans, learning her victims routines, scouting every exit route, because a moment of weakness could transform a weakling into a hero.

Laurel goes about her day, glancing into her color coded rooms of crimson and ebony to ensure the blackout curtains were closed. She didn’t remember the warm feeling of sunlight and even if she lit the fireplace in her home, warmth would never keep her company. Laurel spent her existence making enemies or perhaps the world made an enemy of her.

She laments on this sentiment, stopping by the charmed mirror. Her eyes study her reflection, and see a haggard sight. The white of her eyes were reddening, skin stretching out, hair falling out, and those fatal fangs of hers almost touch the bottom of her chin. With all her strength, she puts herself back together, protracting her fangs, tightening her skin, brushing her hair with her fingers to hide the loss but the white of her eyes remain red.

She’d scoured the dark world for this antique, a mirror that could show a vampire’s reflection but ever since she’s acquired it, she’s regretted her purchase. On her top dresser drawer, there’s a pile of photos of her before her transformation, of course. She’d stolen them decades ago after breaking into the nursing home her sister put her mom in. As a child, Laurel’s mother tried to diverge her dream of becoming a dancer by investing in the idea of Laurel being a musical genius. At first, Laurel tried to appease her mother but her skill set stayed on the grounds of mediocrity much to her mother’s dismay. Still, Laurel loved her mother and even after all those years apart found herself having to force herself to escape and not linger around.

Sometimes Laurel takes the photos she stole and holds them up against her reflection, looking for old parts of herself but in the end she never finds it. Laurel moves away from the mirror and walks off to find something to distract herself with. Before she knows it, every clock’s alarm in the house goes off. Sundown’s arrived and soon she’ll venture off for restock night.

She doesn’t want to leave her house. But there is no resisting this hunger. It crawls inside her, rattling her bones and will till she is under its command. Soon the midnight hour arrives, and Restock night begins. She heads over to the closet by the doorway and grabs her duffle bag specially prepared for Restock Night. In said bag, she keeps empty blood bags that she hopes to fill for the week. She walks to the door, takes a breath, and opens it with a bag in hand. Walking outside, the cool air hits her but she doesn’t let herself enjoy it. There is never any joy on Restock night.

The drive to the scouted out location is short. Her first victim for tonight should arrive about twenty minutes after her so for now she waits. As she waits, her eyes scan the scene and she spots a couple. The woman laughs, head tilted back at something the man says and she looks so in love while the man appears a bit peeved. It’s so funny how Laurel can spot the flaws in another’s love but when she became engaged by love’s powerful force she couldn’t see any cracks in her knight’s armor.

At seventeen, she fell in love with an older man who owned the club she’d sneak out and dance in. He told her he’d give her a stage, a lifetime of devotion, and everything a girl could dream of. Girl. She didn’t think of herself as one back then so convinced at seventeen in her naive mind she knew all the ins-and-outs of the world of adulthood. It wasn’t just her who thought that, her love uttered that in between gentle kisses on her hand that showcased his gentleman nature . He called her a lady…a lie because only a girl stood in front of him.

Laurel looks away from the couple, pushing thoughts of that monster out of her head. Was it really love she experienced or just a girl’s foolish fantasy? She sits with that thought as she searches the crowd for a gray jacket. She spots it and follows after her prey. Laurel’s swift and stealth as she follows them into a deserted corner, dropping her bag, she jolts forward and with one swipe of her hand they’re mesmerized, still and fragile as a glass statue.

She bites, her stomach wrenching in both disgust and pleasure. The beast inside of her feeds but it’s not satiated even after a couple of minutes of her meal. With all her power, she breaks herself away, hand on the person’s neck to suppress the bleeding.

She could use her tongue to coat the wound but she needed at least a bag of their blood. Still holding down, she reaches for her bag nearby and seconds later is drawing her victim’s blood into the bag. The hunger in her is impatient. It wants to drink the victim dry but if she’ll do that they’ll die.

Her mind drifts to the day of her death which happened 21 days after her 21st birthday. The stage her boyfriend now her husband promised her never came to fruition. His eyes wandered away from hers and over to girls who didn’t notice the traps he placed. One night, on a night that felt never-ending, he came into the bedroom filled with anger, spouting off non-sense. The fight that ensued between them burned everything around them, yet in the end the only one covered in ashes was her. The next morning, a staff of asylum workers from Archvale Asylum came into their house, pulled her away from the prison-like home and locked her away in her coffin.

In the present, she hears the sound of a heartbeat slowing down, she sees the bag full so she pulls away, licking her victim’s wounds. She packs up the blood bag into her duffle bag, puts it on her shoulder, and then swipes her hand in front of her victim’s face. As she backs away, she hears them mumble to themselves in confusion as soon as they touch their neck, she bolts out of the corner.

She continues her hunt all night, and by the time she’s home every blood bag is filled to the brim. The last victim put up a bit of a fight so she’s covered in their blood. Her fingernails carry the grime of dried blood and she feels ready to crumple. She packs up her blood bags into the freezer and makes her way to the bathroom. Taking her clothes off, she steps in the shower, the hunger inside her is silent but will reignite again tomorrow.

She could feel the blood stirring in her body but it won’t make her heart pump. She thinks of her victims, the sound of their steady heartbeats slowing down and it makes her mind drift backward as tears start to stream in sync with the shower. The night she died, the actual night, happened a month after her stay at the Archvale Asylum, an asylum known for its disappearing patients. No one cared what happened to them because once you became entrapped in that asylum you’d turn invisible. Well, invisible to everyone but the staff.

Laurel remembers that final night of life, entombed in herself as she watches it replay. Most of the inhabitants of the asylum were screaming, sobbing, or completely numb. Laurel became numb, her body transforming to marble anyone could chisel away and change as they please. This night, a nurse came in with a handful of meds that she placed in Laurel’s frail hands with a pity look one would give a bird with an injured wing.

“You poor thing,” the nurse remarks while touching Laurel’s face with her chisel hands.

Laurel didn’t react, frozen in time, but if she could she’d slap the hand away.

“I could help you…”the lady lifts Laurel’s chin, staring into her amber brown eyes. “I will help you, dear.”

She pushes Laurel’s head to the side, observing her profile. Again, Laurel gives no reaction drifting in and out of time but then she feels it. The sharp prick in her neck that brings out a hysteric scream that echoes throughout the hospital.

No one runs in to help her and she feels herself being chiseled away. Inside her body, her heart throbs, heavy, scared and desperate to survive. Her head is stuck, unable to move because the nurse’s own is blocking it. From the nurse, there’s slurping sounds that make bile rise in Laurel’s throat. Mustering strength from her heart’s will to survive, Laurel tries to push the nurse away.

The nurse holds steady, unmoved by Laurel’s actions.

Soon consciousness left Laurel and she emerged in an endless sea of black. She awakes, days later or perhaps months, she couldn’t remember, but she did remember the taste of decay that crawled in her throat. She remembers searching for the sound of her heartbeat, a companion she never realized she relied on. But it wasn’t there. And so the first sound she heard after her death was the sound of her wailing.

Laurel’s mind is foggy. She doesn’t remember the year, the age her mind is, or even where she’s at. Water, hot, streams onto her body and she recalls stepping into the shower. She focuses on the water, coming back to the true present. On her head, she feels her hands, holding it in a tight hold. She releases her hands, straightens her body tilted over from distress and grabs around her.

She finds what she’s looking for, a wash cloth. With the washcloth, she scrubs herself clean, hard, skin reddening with every move. The blood on her body lessens with every movement but her disgust doesn’t quell. When she is finished, she steps out of the shower but on both inside and the outside she’ll never be clean.