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something I said mostly out of habit, as I had always tried to do since I was younger—an act of courtesy for a kind gesture—but as soon as I said the words, I knew that I meant it for many reasons more than just his kindness in allowing me to use the bathroom.
    Darren looked up and I could see that he was, once again, stunned.   I met his eyes then, trying to tell him just how much I was thankful for—because I knew that I would never be able to find the words to sufficiently express myself.   How could I thank someone for saving my life?
    When I finally felt somewhat satisfied, or at the very least, thoroughly embarrassed for my own lameness, I shut the bathroom door quickly behind me and flipped on the light, ignoring the way my cheeks burned.  
    The bathroom was big, spacious, and very clean.   There was hardly anything to prove that it was being used—just the bare essentials—and I wondered briefly how long he’d lived here, comparing it to my own bathroom—which was just as stark.   I avoided the mirror and quickly undressed, realizing for the first time since the night at the diner that I was still in my uniform.   I then wrapped myself in the large towel I found hanging on the shower door.  
    I spent a few minutes hand washing the underwear and bra I had been wearing, scrubbing numbly at the bra strap that had grown hard with dried blood.   After several minutes, I wrung the delicates out and placed them over the air vent, hoping they would dry.   Finally ready to feel the relief I knew a shower would bring, I turned on the water and dropped the towel to the floor before opening the door and climbing into the glass enclosure.    
    I stood there for what seemed like hours, letting the hot spray beat on my back, watching the blood-tainted water go down the drain.   Fighting tears, I finished with my shower and wrapped the big soft towel around me, stepping out.   I dried myself and dressed in the still slightly damp underclothes I’d washed and the very oversized t-shirt and sweat pants Darren had provided before turning to the mirror with great trepidation.
    With a deep breath, I ran my hand over the surface to clear the fog and stared at my reflection.  
    My shoulder-length blond hair was tangled badly and I vaguely recalled the ponytail it had been in before shaking my head, forcing the thought away.   My green eyes were bloodshot, red and puffy from all the tears I’d shed recently.   My lips were pale and cracked.   My face was sallow, almost ashen.  
    I felt my hands rise of their own accord and I swallowed hard as I reached back and pulled my hair off of my neck, holding it up with one hand while the other slowly crept to the torn punctures there.   My fingers passed gently over the matted flesh and I shuddered, turning my neck to get a view of it in the mirror.   As I did so, I gasped.
    Suddenly, a flood of memories of the previous night washed over me—the way I had felt the tearing in my heart as I watched Phe fall to the floor, as I watched her eyes close for the last time.   The way the blood had still been so warm and fresh on my fingertips; the murderous rage that swept through me; the pain I felt as that thing —the vampire—bit into my own neck; the cloudy sensation I had been left with; the way my body had felt so murky, so slow.
    It washed over me—all of the pain, both physical and emotional, ripping through me like a hurricane—tearing at my heart, tugging at my lungs, pulling me inside myself as I struggled against it.
    Before I could stop myself, I had sunk to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest as I sobbed into them.   I cried for my lost friend, I cried at the thoughts of Phe’s parents—the only family I had left.   I cried for myself—because I’d lost her, the last connection I’d had to this life.
    I cried, and I cried, lost in my grief.
    “Lucinda…?”   His voice was muffled behind the door and I came flying back to reality, nearly choking