Derelict

You knew that the recession was coming, but you didn't need to worry. After all, you had a college degree, a husband, a kid and a house in the suburbs. It came as a shock when your boss called you in and reluctantly handed y ou your pink slip.

You couldn't help pay the mortgage and lost your house. Your husband was supportive for the first few months, but after one too many nights of eating substandard food purchased with food stamps and listening to your self-pitying rationalizations, he left and took your daughter with him.

This double blow was too much for you to bear, and you turned to the bottle for comfort. The meager unemployment check couldn't cover the additional expense, and you ended up evicted from your squalid tenement. Somehow, despite it all, you managed to surv ive.

One Christmas Eve, as you walked through the downtown crowds that had gathered to watch the lighting of the tree, you decided you'd had enough. You swiped a razor from a dumpster, and as the lights blazed into the sky, you slipped into a nearby alley and slit your wrist. You were no expert; it took a long time and many gashes for the blood to start flowing in any significant quantity.

You flopped down against the wall, and waited to die. As you sat, a hungry-eyed bum staggered into the alley with you. At the sight of your spurting arm, his face twisted into a nightmare and his mouth stretched wide like a viper's. The monster buried its fangs into your artery; you were too weak to protest. You quickly lost consciousness.

Then you awoke. You were in pain, and the monster stood over you. He stared down - sorrowfully? - at you, and ran into the night. You had to discover the nuances of unlife on your own. Your grotesque shell has deadened your sorrow to an extent, though you still hate your sire, and would kill him if you could.