It had always been an awkward chair; much too low to the ground for his long, gangly legs. Despite his advanced age, his legs seemed no shorter; rather, his slightly shorter stature was on account of slouching, showing his sign of age. Perhaps an incorrect representation, but one all the same.

After these numerous years of hiding, he had been surprised at how little people noticed details. If humankind paid attention, they would notice his unnatural likeness to statues, to pictures, to the bills they casually wasted on useless things. They might recognize that he wasn't just an ordinary, unnaturally tall man; no, they'd know that he was something out of time, something from an era long gone.

From the other side of the room, he could hear Henry rustling around, probably gathering up his belongings. He was going somewhere, but refused to enlighten him on any of the details. "Abe, you do not need to worry," he would tell his friend. "I will only be gone for a couple of hours, and then I will return to you." Although Abe trusted him, it still fueled his deep hatred towards his equal.

If Henry hadn't interfered with nature, with his destiny, he might be with his children again. He might be in Heaven, rejoicing in their adventures and laughing alongside them, as he had when they were young. He'd be with Mary, smiling at her and feeling thankful that she was finally happy. His mother would be there, giving him her adoring smile and reminding him so much of his younger years. And he'd be with her, the woman who had motivated him through his years of hardship. For once in his life, he would've gotten what he deserved: death.

Instead, one hundred and forty seven years later, Abraham Lincoln sat in an ancient rocking chair, in front of a television, as presidential elections were going on. To this day, he still could not possibly understand what had possessed Henry when he had transformed him into the demons he had hunted. The elder vampire had insisted it was because he found the former President of the United States of America interesting, but Abe couldn't bring himself to believe it. No, Henry always had an ulterior motive; there was something more to this, but he still knew not what.

Still, as years passed, Abe couldn't help but sink lower and lower into an unshakeable depression. Now being one of the demons he despised, he knew there was no chance of finding those he loved, those he cherished, those he yearned for. Even once he was finally killed, there was certainly no chance of God accepting him in through His pearly gates. No, Abe would forever belong to the Devil. And all on account of Henry.

Instead of finding peace in Heaven, he was forever damned to walking the streets, concealing his sunlight-sensitive skin, protecting his fragile eyes, trying to avoid attention. He was lucky, he guessed; all anyone ever saw was a sad man who bore a strange resemblance to the man on the penny. If any of them became suspicious, they would assume their eyes were playing tricks on them, and would divert their eyes until he was no longer in sight.

No, Abe miraculously avoided attention.

However, there were still a few who were still aware of his presence. The worthiest of the presidents—the likes of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, John Kennedy, Ronald Reagan, and Harry Truman, to name a few—met with him in a secret room in the White House, protected from outside eyes. While he deemed it was necessary, so the government could protect him if the need should arise, he didn't particularly enjoy the meetings. It was only necessary.

It was a shame, really. To be such a historic figure, but to not be noticed walking the streets.

Abe was drawn from his thoughts when Henry walked into the room, standing silently in the doorframe for a moment. It was if the other vampire was studying him, gauging his mood to decide how much information to tell. Finally deciding that now was not the time to disturb the former president, he simply said, "Abraham, I'm going out for a short while. You stay here, so you don't attract attention."

Why should I ever attract attention anymore? he wondered to himself, choosing to nod in response.

He grew tired of Henry's missions rather quickly. The thrill of it no longer interested him, since he had become one of them. No, now what filled his hours was keeping up with the culture and constantly reading and writing.

With a sigh, he looked over at the bookshelf that coexisted in the room. Most of the time, he ignored the books; the ones that he did read were on a larger one located in his bedroom. However, today one caught his attention. One that he was surprised hadn't caught his attention before.

Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter.