I’m sitting across from her, I can see her smile. I smile to, and I reach across to grasp her hand.

I let go, she pulls back, her smile growing, and I slowly saunter towards her.

This is it--the end. One last night of romance together. She will die with the morning; her body will give out to the sickness. A normal way to die in a normal world.

I do not think this is sad; I never had much of an attachment to her in the first place. She is fun.

I don’t think she cares that I don’t care--she’s wants me too much to think about that kind of thing. I’m thankful for that.

I’m wrapped around her--we’re lost and slowly she whispers in my ear--“bury me, won’t you? Bury me in a coffin. A stone one”

She whispers that she wants to buried as I bury my face into her, her lips, her neck, anywhere I can reach--I want this last night so much.

“I will.” I finally whisper back. She’s given me enough I can give her one more lie at a funeral.

She’s lying there covered in blood, doctors running around like mad men to my eyes; I can’t understand them, because she is dying and there is nothing else.

I love her so much--so, so much and there is nothing I can do. It is awful, because I’m scared that it’s my fault.

She cried when the ambulance came—crying so, so hard and all I could do was hold her hand.

I have loved her since I was so small and now here she is, slipping away.

She looks at me with tired eyes and smiles, trying to tell me that I should forgive myself.

Then she speaks, and I lean in close to hear her. “I love you,” she whispers, and I whimper softly, “and please, please, bury me in a rose garden. I want to live forever surrounded by flowers.”

I cry out, sobbing, “I will. I will, I will, I will, I will, I will…” Continuing on and on and on as I bury my face into her stomach as she goes flat.

I see terror in her eyes. I like terror. But in her face is recognition, she knows there is nothing she can do. I like that. Chasing prey makes me loose my appetite.

I found her a couple of months ago. I knew then, that I simply had to have her. I spoke to her, convinced her I loved her.

She was with me for oh so long. I like to have a relationship with my prey.

I would caress her cheek at night, whisper beautiful words in her ears when she wanted them--and now here she is, paying for the service.

She does look beautiful terrified.

I take her arm, and she rises with me, not letting herself be pulled. I reach down slowly, putting my lips against her neck.

She says something suddenly. “I want organs. At my funeral. And not too many people, and at night with a full moon and mist and everything.

“Of course.” I whisper, my lips still touching my neck. And then I bite in, I bury my face in her neck, the beautiful crimson blood flowing freely.

Of course I will honor my promise. It will be simple enough to arrange.

She was one of my favorites after all.

When I’m at her funeral, I can’t remember what our lives were like. Whether or not I loved her, or what she wanted.

So I stay quiet at her funeral, with not too many people in the middle of the night (the date was out of my hands and I can’t control the weather) when she is placed in the soil.

She will be buried in a stone coffin, filled with dirt already with roses growing in it, and then the coffin will be placed in a mausoleum.