The Count

A cold east wind hurries through an open window. Under the sturdy wooden door, a glowing fringe of yellow light emanates. On the stairs outside footsteps come and go, voices far below echo across the chasm. Sitting motionless, but not asleep, an illustrated history of time in his cold hands, the Count stares blankly at damp walls stained with mold. A knock on the door jolts him from his leather seat, spilling a glass of cheap wine. Answering quickly, she stands stiffly in the doorframe. Her black eyes show no sign of warmth, nor her scarlet lips any hint of desire. Only she can relieve a loneliness which defies the centuries. A smile slowly creeps across her pale face, they'll feast tonight in these derelict flats.