Lazarus: Sleeping Among the Grasses

That night I slept among the grasses. The winds blew in a constant whisper and all the many grey blades chattered along. Glad to have brought at least a jacket, I draped it over my chest and arms and swiftly drowned in the wake of the previous night's dreams.
    Silently the same woman, the same false prophet, stepping toward me from the void, stepping with bare white feet and perfect toes. I remembered my impression of them formed the night before: smooth white pebbles arranged in fine sand.
    "And you wanted ... what?"
    That voice remembered too, as if I never left, as if the dream had never ended.
    "To be normal." My words effortless, as if I were just an impression on celluloid with an accompanying sound track.
    "You aren't?"
    "Am I?" That same odd feeling of hope from the night before, welling up from my gut; engulfing my lungs, stealing my breath, and then ...
    "You're ... a vampire."
    I could feel the celluloid crinkle as my eyes twitched in disbelief. But then I remembered a world outside the dream. Putting my tongue to each canine; feeling a familiar curvature and razor sharpness, inspecting the tiny holes at the end of each.
    "Where will you go?"
    "Where else can I go?" Then the knowledge returned: the ancient lore; the tales of enclaves hidden among the world of men. And then I awoke.