Blood Memories

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I was with Edward the day he killed himself.

It happens to us sometimes, especially the old, the ones who've lost the joy of then and can't quite grasp the now. I don't know why. But I'd never seen it until that morning Edward jumped off his own front porch and exploded in the sun like a gas fire.

We'd been friends for a long time. I know everyone else thought we were mad for living in the same city. But he stayed out of my hunting territory, and I stayed out of his. Besides, sometimes it was nice to talk to someone without lying.

I was on my way out at about two o'clock that morning when the phone rang.

"Hello."

"Eleisha, it's me. I wanted to tell you good-bye."

He'd never called me before, but Edward's accent combined traces of a British accent with a New York pace. I'd have known it anywhere.

"What do you mean, good-bye?"

"This house is bright and loud," he whispered. "I don't think I can live here anymore."

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