Hama, who knows me not, but whomst I have admired from the shadows for my entire life, is running, chased by the horde. She screams and cries as they gain on her. Though I succeed in rescuing her from devourment, abandoning all care for my own life as I do so, I cannot protect her from the bite of one of her attackers, discovered whilst inspecting her breathless body lying on the floor of my saferoom. The horde passes, distracted by other prey.
Not wanting her to be alone in her final hours, I wait with Hama on this moonless night, pitch black, her body unusually cold in my arms, and seeming to lose more heat with each passing hour; I wait with her until her transformation into an undead. I close my eyes and try to sleep, but her heavy breathing becomes more monstruous throughout the night, until I feel flecks of her spit landing upon my neck, as her every breath now becomes a gruesome growl devoid of any humanity. Knowing her to be fully transformed, I open my quivering eyes to see her cherub face one last time, and it is as beautiful as I always remembered it from those stolen glances across the room or the street - oh, Hama, how I have longed for you so, how many hundreds of hours I have spent in happy or unhappy musement, pondering your perfection, and whether I should ever be close to it - and even her glowing red eyes and festering, blood-craving lips cannot mar her divine beauty as she begins tearing the flesh from my neck.
Oh Hama, my sweet Hama. Is it cruel that the last thing I did before cradling you to sleep tonight was to lock the door to this room and throw away the key, that we might be undead together, here, forever?