The Days Before

My name is Lilian Tracy. I was born in Boston, years before the war. Back then, I was just like anyone else. Young, pretty, wealthy and, most of all, stubborn. But not stubborn enough. Back then I made one mistake, a mistake that rippled through my life, tearing everything apart. I fell in love. This time, I'm not making that mistake again. I'll die first.

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5. So It Began

1926

 I woke in a room full of light. It cut into my skin and pierced deep into my skull, where a pounding migraine reminded me insistently that yes, getting shot hurts. At first I didn’t understand what was happening, why people kept stabbing me and looking at me and prodding me for no reason.
 Then I remembered that I’d been shot, and by all rights ought to have been dead. Right. Dead girls – especially when they don’t have a heartbeat – typically wouldn’t continue living. Not that I could help it, really.
 I’d been so careful until then too. I’d kept my feedings discreet, stayed away from large crowds, blended in when I had to. I still remembered what it was like to be human, after all. Most of the time I barely noticed the difference between us anyways. Except, of course, when I was thirsty.
 But now I’d ruined it all. I’d gotten myself shot, and then, probably before their eyes had recovered, seemingly miraculously. Of course they’d turn me over to some sort of scientists after that.
 “Hello Ms. Tracy. I am Mr. Jameson, the primary physician assigned to your… care. Now, I know this may be difficult, but I have a few questions, and I would like you to answer them as honestly as possible.”
 So it began.
 

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