[ WP ] You 're a vampire who is tired of living . You decide to commit suicide by walking into a church and giving one last confession , knowing full well that doing so will slowly kill you .

I swiftly withdrew my hand from under my chin and took it in, paradoxically delicate and powerful, terminating in glimmering, sharp nails, scarcely different from claws, equally capable of tearing out a throat. By now they were dark with necrosis and filth, and the discoloration was spreading, heightened by the shade from the overhang under which I was sitting on a bench. I had n't fed in weeks and unnatural gifts will only get you so far. 
 
 I alighted from the bench, a single, fluid motion. To anyone watching I would have seemed to have become one with the shadows about me, my clothes indistinguishable from the umbra. I chuckled bitterly as the momentary thrill subsided, *so that was all it took now*, I thought. I used to relish the chase, the way their breathing would quicken as they tried to run in those cumbersome dresses they wore in the name of modesty. As I squinted and scanned the throng milling about me, registering a sea of bare midriffs and tattoos, all that seemed so far away. 
 
 I kept to the edges of the shadow, consequently taking a highly circuitous route, partly to avoid being seen, ( after all, I did n't want to have to go to the trouble of inciting adoration in some drunkard on the street ), but also partly to tempt fate by skirting the sun. I suspected that at my age, it would n't do much harm, perhaps a little crackling and sizzling, but old habits die hard and I did n't want to be showy. 
 
 The church was a glaring incongruity in the modern landscape, as cheaply constructed as it was, but not one of the throng even slowed as they approached it, a modest deference to its sanctity, which seemed to quiet the air about it. The wrought iron gate barely creaked as I breezed through it. I tapped the heavy wooden door and gave away, letting a rush of air pass through it. Amid all this, I barely noticed the tickle of the wards at my feet, this was a public place after all, but I felt the blessings flare across my skin. 
 
 I pushed on, my footsteps echoing through the high ceilinged hall. They had set the Eucharist out for adoration, no one had come ( another peculiarity of the modern world ), and I paused to watch, remembering the smell of rich, dark, old wine, which I never drank anymore, not only because I did n't need it, but because I could n't get it anymore, and the sound and sensation of Latin ringing through stone, which also was seldom heard anymore. 
 
 As I walked, I felt my face prickle and sweat for the first time in a long while, I knew it was the blessings radiating from every inch of the place, but I did n't care, in fact, I relished it. I could have sworn I felt myself blushing, but that was truly impossible. I gritted my teeth behind my dark scarf and advanced, turning arduously toward the confessional. To my great relief, it was not of the traditional model, I could sit down. As my vision had blurred with pain and tears, I extended a shaking hand, grunted from the strain, and sat down. Hesitantly, reverently, I closed my eyes. 
 
 “ Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. ”
