The blond man was suffering, that much was obvious. He walked through the streets quickly, much quicker than anything I'd ever seen. He stopped in a cold dark alleyway, and turned to look at the sleeping homeless man for a second, like he was completing something. Then, suddenly, he was at the men's neck, doing what, I did not know. After a minute he pulled away from the man, who was now pale and unmoving. Dead. The homeless man was dead. The blond man had killed him. He placed the man's scraggly blanket over his body, and then he left. The pain in his red eyes was blatantly noticeable.

The image of that despairing young man disappeared from my view, and the vivid colours of the forest around me swamped my vision. I didn't understand what had just happened. How had I been watching that man in the alley, when I was here in the middle of a deserted forest?

And that wasn't even the most important question in my mind.

Where was I? What had happened? What was I? Who am I?

Even as the thoughts filled my mind I realised that, though I understood the words in my head, I had no answers. I tried to think back, tried to remember, but all I could remember was the burning fire, the searing pain, and I didn't want to think about that. But there was nothing to think about before that. It was blank, an endless blackness.

There was nothing, then there was pain, and then there was waking up in this forest, seeing the blond man and then the forest again. It gave me no answers.

I thought instead of the pain-filled blond man. I didn't know who he was, or what he was, but I wanted to help him. Whoever that young man with the pain-filled red eyes was, he needed my help. How I knew that I didn't know. I just knew it. But how could I help him when I didn't even know who I was?

Suddenly, I sensed something different in the air around me. Before I had even thought about it, I was running through the forest around me, much faster then should be possible, dragged forward by the enticing scent in front of me. It caused my throat to burn unbelievably as it pulled me forward, toward it. The tantalising scent surrounded me as I felt the pour of a sweet elixir down my throat, cooling the burn within.

It was all over within seconds. It had felt like I was watching it from the sidelines, I saw myself drop the drained hiker's corpse, but it didn't really feel like it could be me.

I had killed a man! Is this what I was then? A killer?

I looked at the dead man, realising he looked eerily familiar, and I realised why within the second. He looked exactly like the homeless man the blond man had killed. Am I the same as him then? But what were we? Killers? If so, why did we kill?

I hadn't wanted to kill this man seconds before he had died, and yet here he lay as a corpse at my feet. I got the feeling the blond man hadn't wanted to kill as well; everything I had seen suggested that it caused him pain. Yet he did and so did I. Why? They had to be a reason why he killed, and therefore a reason why I killed, if we were indeed the same thing. I thought back to the moments before this nameless man's death, and I remembered the scent. That delicious mouth-watering scent. Even the memory of it caused flames to flare up in my throat, making me want another taste of that delectable warm liquid which somehow managed to cool the fire.

Then, suddenly, the forest around me, the man's corpse, everything of my present surroundings, disappeared again.

It was a small but cosy room with two men in it. One sat by the fireplace reading a fat leather-bound book, while the other played music on a grand piano. The music was beautiful, though it filled me with a sense of sadness.

"I feel fine, thank you," the bronze-haired man at the piano said dryly, though in response to what I don't know. The other man looked up from his book and stared at the pianist, he began to open his mouth to speak, but the bronze-haired man cut him off.

"There's no need for this conversation again, Carlisle," he said. "I'm fine," he continued with emphasis. Then he began to play again, a more upbeat piece this time, which seemed to be on purpose. His companion watched him for a second, a compassionate look on his face, before returning his attention to his book with a sigh, his golden eyes quickly scanning the pages.

The scene dissolved around me. What was this? Why did I keep seeing these things? First the red-eyed man who, like me, was a murderer, and now these two men who, well I honestly didn't know what to make of them. They seemed different to the first man and me and yet similar, though I couldn't imagine them murdering people. I don't know why, since I knew nothing about them, but I felt like they could help me - help us even. My mystery red-eyed blond man and me.

It felt like the pieces of a puzzle coming together, though I didn't know how. I would find that pain-filled man and together we would go to the men who could help us. This 'Carlisle' and his companion. Just like I knew he needed help, I knew they were the ones who give him, us, it. I just had to trust in this knowledge, since it was the only knowledge I had.

There were still a lot of pieces of the puzzle missing. I didn't know how I knew what I knew. Or how I saw what I saw. I didn't even know who, or what, I was. All I knew was that I had to carry out this plan. I didn't even know how to do that. I just knew I had to.

I ran away from the corpse, not knowing what else to do. I just couldn't stand being near that reminder of what I had done. As I ran through the forest, I saw, from the corner of my eye, something flutter behind me. I stopped and went back to pick up the dirty piece of white. It was a ripped piece of paper. I easily noticed the piece of grey string that was attached to it, realising within a second that it matched the faded grey of the dress I wore. I looked at the dress, noticing the pockets at the front. I must have dropped this, I realised. Dropped it out of my pocket as I ran. I looked carefully at the writing on it,

'Dearest Alice, I'm sor,' was all it said. I didn't understood what 'sor' meant, it seemed bizarre, like the person had stopped writing mid-word. However I understood the first bit, and another piece of the puzzle fell into place.

Alice. My name is Alice.