Every time I wake it feels like the first. I have memories of previous occasions, of my first breaths in the dark lab, of moving silently through darkened streets, striking out at will and feeling the easy give of flesh, but they don't matter. There are other memories beyond those I have lived through, but these belong to another and are only useful when needed. They tell me where to go, and when it is too dangerous to go on and I must drink that vile concoction that puts me to sleep.

But even these are of no interest. On first waking, my only thought is to move. My periods of inactivity eat at me, make me itch. As is so often the case, it is already dark when I wake today. My first action is to go to my room and change my clothes, as those I wake in are too large, and hamper my movement. I am conscious of retracing the steps I took on my first occasion, across the courtyard, through the house to the room with the mirror, but already these idle thoughts of a murky past are giving way to anticipation.