Pseudopsychosis.

Isobelle was cold, but she was always cold these days so it didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered when you got to be her age, other than making sure no-one realised that you were three hundred and seventy nine years old. Thank hell she didn’t have to contend with the kind of restrictions the books had always told her she would, she didn’t have to stay out of the sun for fear of burning, or avoid garlicky dishes. In fact she could still eat human food, although she had to throw it up afterwards, but eating was one of the ways she was able to blend in, that and having a normal non-nocturnal life not like some kind of obvious demon of the night.

Over the years she’d tried changing her looks but very little stayed, her body instantly healed so piercings were soon pushed out, her hair somehow returned to…