I kept a diary when I was human. I wrote silly little girl things in it, about the boys I had crushes on or the fights I could hear my parents having or what I wanted for my birthday. The stupid stuff that feels so big when you’re young. And I remember, I kept this list in it, I called it “MY STUFF.” Like a catalogue of all the things I owned. The mix tape my friend Stacy made me, with that Backstreet Boys song. My headband collection from Claire’s. The postcard my cousin sent me from New York City (she called it “The Big Apple” and said she’d never had pizza so good in her entire life). The Aerosmith CD with all the nipples on it, which I nicked from a garage sale and never told my parents about.
But now that I’m a vampire, and I’m gonna live forever, it’s weird to think about owning things. That STUFF would ever be mine. Possessions come and go. They’re found, lost, they deteriorate or lose their value. Even sentiments fade away eventually. Look at me and Hoyt. We used to be as real as anything on that list, and now, well, we’re just a dusty ol’ memory being stuffed in a box.