Occasionally Laurent would take a glance back to the past, to his death.  He remembered it very vividly, and he was sure it would haunt him for the rest of his existence as well. Trailing along behind him like a kite tail wherever he went. He recalled every detail. He could still recall the rough scratchy feeling of the rope around his neck. He’d never felt colder, like someone had left the door open and the winter air had taken to his apartment.

What was it, November? November 14^th. His apartment was cold, empty. Dark. Laurent recalled when it hadn’t been so, when it had been warm and inviting and a home. Now bottles of liquor lay strewn about table tops and a general feeling of heavy unease hung in the air, the ceiling fan’s slow turn doing nothing to ease the room’s density. There was no air in the room. No light. And he left no note before he took the step. There was no one to say goodbye to. His life had changed over the past few years, changed to a life he could no longer see himself living. There was fear and guilt as the rope dug into his skin, but no regret. The tips of his shoes lightly brushed the floor, his body rocking, and he held his eyes tight shut. He thought of happier times, thought of what he had hoped Heaven would be. His fingers spasmed at his sides as he felt it creep upon him. Dark and misty, heavy, a grip that took a hold of him. Light burned his eyes, and thinking back, if Laurent tried to remember hard enough, he could hear the clatter of glass. Glass dropped by a horrified man in the doorway.

And occasionally Laurent might think back with a grimace how, if he were to die either way, much easier and less painful hanging was as opposed to vampirism.