Dear Diary,

I know that I once told Miguel, my sire, that strong was fighting; that it was every day. I used to live be that creed, it was the constant I believed in. I want to live up to my own standards but---it’s just getting harder and harder to fight alone.

Miguel. I wonder where he is. I’ll never forget that last meeting I had with him. I bore my lack of a soul in his gentle embrace, pouring out all my fear and confusion about my regrets of abandoning him like a fucking coward. He wrapped those strong arms around me and held me against him as I comitted what was best described as crying. He was my strength for those brief moments, and I’ve carried that strength with me all these long years. When I started to leave he stopped me. His eyes were full of emotion. I hesitated. So much to say in that small amount of time, in those few short words. But it ended the same as it always did. With a painful last kiss, a lot of tears, and a goodbye.

That was four years ago. In the big picture I always think four years doesn’t seem like that much. I guess for Miguel, him being 100 years or so older than myself, four years is like a day. But for me it’s been forever. Forever since I’ve even seen him.

So much has changed here in good old Demaitre. I wonder if he knows. I mean, I try to keep tabs with him. I talk with him twice, maybe three times a year. And I know that at least one time it had to have been about something other than demons, vampires, death, and destruction. Okay, so I don’t know anything about anyone in Los Angeles. All I know is that he's alive as a vampire can be and pretty much happy. And maybe I’ll see him soon.

So much changes. Four years ago I was an independent, still a child with a big scary world threatening my every move. And that was outside the fact that I was a vampire.

In retrospect, I’m almost ecstatic that four years ago was, in fact, four years ago. So much pain and heartache was experienced then. It makes life seem so surreal now that I'm relatively happy now.

In less than five minutes it will be Winter Solstice. The sun will dip under the horizon, and the big party will begin for wiccas, but mostly for the undead. It is against my coven to kill unless it is absolutely called for, but it doesn't mean I still shouldn't have fun, right?

Serena slowly closed her diary and leaned back. The porch swing drifted slightly under the added weight. Serena closed her eyes and curled her legs up, relishing the feeling as she swung freely under the twilight sky. She had declined many offers to bashes and other events. So there she was, curled up under her old quilted blanket in her jeans, a bright, emerald green t-shirt, and Vans on her porch swing ready to ring in the holiday with her diary and a thermos of stolen AB- blood from Mercy Hosptial. Other than the blood, she looked so much like a human, sitting there outside her house, it was kind of frightening.

She shivered as a cool breeze blew through the evening. She pulled the blanket tightly around her and sighed as the fluffy cloth caught her cold corpse and warmed her with its simplistic softness. She closed her eyes as a calming peace fell over her. She felt better than she had in years. The swing began to rock a bit more and Serena softly whimpered, willing it not to stop. It didn’t. Little by little Serena noticed that instead of slowing down, the swing was actually picking up speed. Almost as if someone were pushing it.