The Waking

A rabid wind rattles the roof tiles. One gust of extreme violence causes such a groan of wooden complaint that I think the floorboards to be wrenched from their nails and hurled in the air. Another, and the air is sucked from my world, an oxygenless vacuum.
Then, I remember, it all comes flooding back. It is this wooden shell that groans, stones that rattle on the lid, not tiles. The winds have awoken me and it causes no fear. I am a child of the storm with no need for air, no requirement for breath. I am vampire, and it’s my time to rise. See you soon.

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