The sculpture craved out a stone and fell in love, and called this art of his that his calloused hands had created, Pygmalion. The unfortunate soul fell in love with the perfection he crafted, in the pride of being its creator, cried to gods with a prayer holed into his bruised knees at his sculptor's feet to grant his desire a breath of life. But what it brought to him in the end? Nothing but for the him to leave his sculptor after being fulfilled in his desire that seated satiated and the perfection, which was no more because he would find a better one in another.

The myth of Pygmalion is well known, but nobody talked about Pygmalion itself and she thought of herself as the one.

She had left Russia during the time of blizzard with nothing but a horse carriage and few silver coins to spend on herself. She moved across the countries, settling on the Irish Island for a time being and then to the England during the succession of the Tudor King. She didn't dwell at one place for longer for, she, couldn't age a day and staying in a country where the superstitious people and Monarchs burned alive the women for their practice of medicine thought to be a witchcraft was dangerous for her. She returned to Russia and the grief of returning to where she had died tormented her soul. She got sick and laid down in a prolonged fever, she wondered if she could die, but then the woman recovered after two weeks and she had never hated herself more than it.

She travelled again and settled herself in place of parfumiers, where the scents of flowers and fragnant oil were caught in glass bottles. The cobblestone streets of Paris gave oddly comfort at evening when the nostalgia would often return and she would walk back from a library carrying books in her arms, and pass the Cathedral street of Île de la Cité near which the river flowed and leaves from the autumnal trees settled below in the river. She would stand at the bridge, watching the city at the sunrise and her heart would ache inside her chest in longingness.

They could have been together.

If she had been immortal.

It was another day at evening, she carried herself as if she didn't exist in plain white high collared gown of English fashion that stopped at her ankles, and a hat that covered her hair, she stomped her soles of leather high boots on the cobblestoned street and passed the onlookers without a concern but then she saw her, as a fleeting hallucination sitting in a horse carriage with another young man, laughing in his arms and then she was gone.

She would not lie that she hadn't tried to find the girl in the entire Paris. THEN, the war broke out and the girl was a nurse at the military camp tending to wounded soldiers. She enrolled herself as a nurse, to help the injured soldiers at the battlefield and more importantly, to be near that girl, a girl of petite and lean frame fresh in her virginal years and then, her name was Catherine. If anything, they became acquainted at the camp.

It was not, yet it was enough.

But then heavens again had to make her suffer, a bullet from the enemy pierced through her heart when she rushed out of the camp to help an injured soldier and She stood there watching and then held the young girl in her arm as life drained from her beautiful face.

The Victory was won, but it wasn't recorded down in the history; the sudden dropping of hundreds of soldiers right and left on the battlefield. The war ended with a brutal manslaughter, the bullets of the military didn't kill much of the men than her who stood in the middle of the battlefield of corpses and wiped the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand.

Before leaving that Paris, she went to a perfume shop and asked the perfumer to give her the bottle she asked him to prepare. The man gave her a small flask, and she opened the cork to sniff the diluted pale red liquid in it and closed it again, clutching the bottle near her breast.It was perfume of her body. It was perfume of her blood which she had carried with her from Russia as a reminder of the tragedy and constant pain that she's cursed to be alone for eternity.

She had seen the civil war, and stood under the bridge of London during the time of WWI and she laughed at the fate of men, thirsty for each other's blood and throat. She lived in shadows of Berlin in perpetual grief and despair because the people whom she had come to know died in the war and of age old and the only one lived, was she.

She wondered if she could die too.

She sat on chair at her London's house with a wooden box of letters in her lap and in the end threw them over the bridge, letting her own memories to be washed away.

Memories only brought pain and she moved back to America where she could forget her about existence, or perhaps make her appearance known to others through her hunts to be put to death, but then nothing happened, nothing changed.

She had appeared to the St. Michael cathedral of Russia, and tried to go for suicide while going inside the cathedral at night. Unholy creature like her, could be burned in the presence of the cross at the altar. She knelt before the son of Mary for her retribution but she remained intact when she tried to swallow down holy water or steal from the mass, and her hands trembled when she tried to put stake in her heart because she looked down at the ring and remembered that she had to live a little further, if nothing but for her vengeance.

And then it came as shock in the broad daylight when she's crossing the street dressed in her white Victorian shirt and a black hat on her head, and she passed her.

again...

She wore her face, if she didn't know better otherwise could have fooled herself into thinking that she had come back to life. She turned back on a spur, staring at the girl with widened eyes who was walking with a younger lad. Those eyes, those smile belonged to 'her' and now that she could have her again, she wouldn't let her go.

For the first time in hundred of years, her hope returned and her wait finally ended and this time, she swore she would not let her slip through her fingers even if it meant fighting against God and burning down the entire world just to protect her.

She wondered, if her heart remembered to love her again and perhaps, she did.

She watched the girl through shadows, and stood at her bedside when she slept, would touch her face and brush back hair, the intoxication started to return and she found herself desperate to have her.

She could have reached the girl for the dance at the banquet, lead them through the floor and get to know the girl but hunger struck her at odd hours and she had to feed before she could be near her. Despite everything, she could not have had her blood. It's something she would not ask of her.

They could have met in another situation, perhaps at library or at a flower shop , or at coffee shop or a night bar but she hadn't planned in years for them to finally meet in a situation where the girl caught her feeding on the man and she could not bear with it.

She had to remove her memory and the girl passed out on the concrete ground, partly because of spell but partly because of the fear. She knew that the girl would be alright, and disappeared with the man after closing punctured holes in his neck to dispose him on the road near the hospital to be found and taken in but then, she saw an ambulance taking the girl to the hospital and the panic struck her heart.

She had snuck inside the hospital, took a younger doctor from behind putting hand on her mouth and got her white coat and name plate. She locked the unconscious doctor in the janitor closet, took her cellphone and changed into clothes in the washroom stall, cut her hair. Long tresses or black hair fell in the basin and on the floor, and she snapped a rubber band in place. She rushed through the corridor when the emergency came in, and wheeled the stretcher with nurses and paramedics inside the ICU room.