To Frankenstein, To Dracula

I have imaged myself this way, over and over again. To escape everything bare toes gripping along mossy boughed branches in the night, white chiffon and gossamer flowing behind me. Bloodied, starved and not giving a shit. Bottle of sweet red wine clutched beneath my arm, and, most importantly, a horrifying, transporting, old, old story book under the other. Not a person or a computer or goddamn cell phone in sight. Just the dark, the woods, and enough light to read by, to stay a while, to escape to whatever place I open the page to. To Frankenstein, to Dracula, to Carmilla.