And that which was not memory persisted too; the memento of my dream had followed me into this new day, and the puncture marks upon my neck itched and burned. The skin grew pale around that bite, a colorless white expanding from those two holes. And what of the dream which warned, this memory which said I must become as he? Was I to be lost to the night? Was the beloved sunrise to become my enemy? Would I never again smell the morning dew, or sit to watch the golden end of a day? Would these wounds not heal?
Drabble Series: Veiled Vista
Tale Told 