Worst sleep of her undead life. That was one way to describe that night. The bed sat in parts, tucked within an abandoned corner and she had to board up the window with makeshift cardboard curtains. It was a look. But it was effective. At least for the time being.

Thud.

What were they doing? Playing volleyball with household appliances? It was that sound that brought a groan to her lips which sounded more like a guttural sound that reverberated at the back of her throat. She hated moving. She stretched out, trying to fix the irritating kink in her neck. She blinked up at the ceiling hardly looking forward to the monotonously mundane task of unpacking that lay ahead of her.

Although the new location certainly brought a vague bit of intrigue to her world. New hunting grounds. New surroundings. New faces. A new place to explore and claim. A new place to rattle. What kind of city name was Sacrosanct? It hardly rolled off the tongue and it didn't go with any other city name in America that she had heard.

The prior place they had moved from already became a fading dot on the horizon. Oh, they had good memories there, however brief it was. She could still remember the face of her latest fixation that had killed himself.... Out of love, she figured. It was not at all that he was trying to escape her, even by the most extreme means of taking his own life. He was a pretty one, that Trevor. Even as his face rotted away, he still retained that prettiness. She wondered if they found him yet. She'd left him with a black satin bow around his neck like she gifted that town her Trevor back as a generous parting gift. It seemed only fitting that she would leave him in town-square. If only she could have seen stir it would have caused.

She felt the call on night even as the vampire all but slid off that so called mattress. If one could call it that. It was basically a box spring. There was no time to argue that notion as the sun threatened to rise and the only choice remained was sleeping on that or the closet. Worse, the room had a smell to it. It was distinctly there, she drew that air into her lungs, scenting it, nudging the air with her nose much like an animal. It definitely had a smell. It didn't take her long to pinpoint what it was. It smelled of death.

Vaguely.

Someone had died in here. Someone old. She hated old people with their wrinkles and their less than appealing scent. Their ability to keep talking... and talking with their dulling minds and cataract eyes. Of all the heinous things she had seen and done in this world, she found cataracts creepy.

With a sigh to release the scent from her nose, she moved to rip down the cardboard with a little too much angsty flourish. She did not bother to turn on the light, finding comfort in the darkness or maybe she simply chose to wallow while in a mood. It took little time to use her affinity to tame her silken bone white locks and shift her appearance to look exactly as she desired with make-up that only added to her gothic doll-like appearance. The voices of her parents could be easily picked up somewhere within that house, she found herself almost curious of the displeasure of her mother's voice. Something happened. That was quick. A new record maybe? Perhaps she shouldn't even bother unpacking this time.

She wore her slippers, a pair of plush black bat slippers, along with simple black attire that added to the doom and gloom vibe she so often wore. The slippers softly scuffed against the floor as she observed the the commotion in the kitchen. If someone hadn't died yet, they would soon, she was sure. She knew all too well of her mother's unwillingness to let things go. Judging from her father's appeasing response she gathered no one had died, unfortunately. It looks like they were staying. At least for now. The conflict seemed to be over grass of all things, one that her father seemed willing to fix. Although the flirting was enough to make her eyes roll. It was then that she moved into eyesight, allowing herself to be spotted. How quickly the mood shifted from outrage to an all too cheery disposition. It was almost unnerving if she wasn't used to it. That cheery greeting met her along with the question about her room.

"It smells like an old human died in there or dirty socks, maybe both. They smell the same." She stated rather blandly. Was her only way of greeting at the moment. Far more curious as to who their focused ire would be upon this time. She had abandoned the argument that a boxspring was not a mattress, at least for now. Yet, anything else she might have said was soon cut off by her mother throwing the 'speedy' mover under the proverbial bus. A snort drew from her father as Morgan lowered her gaze down to her mother's feet to see one of her boxes, already worse for wear. She wondered where the others were. A mystery it would seem. The boxes probably scattered around like a glorified scavenger hunt. The efforts to make her name as big as possible to not end up with similar results as last time had been all in vain.

Her electric blue gaze sliced toward her father as he all but damned himself with his words. She knew he'd be the culprit. She was beginning to wonder if they did it on purpose. The man who spent hours reading refused to read one name. "Again?" She questioned, less than overjoyed. "I am starting to think you do it on purpose and mom purposely goes slower than a snail to make you do all the work." Fine, she would throw both of them under the bus. At that, Morgan crossed into the kitchen, whisking by both of her parents to open that fridge as if expecting something to be inside, closing it immediately when she found it unsurprisingly barren. She was clearly far from hungry for anything they would stock in the fridge and yet it almost felt like a habit. It felt overly human. She should stop that. She felt that heavy amber eyes of her father as she closed the fridge door, leaning against it. When suddenly it was her father's voice that caught her attention, finally meeting that stare.

'Good Morgan' he said looking all to pleased at himself and the pun of her name. He did not just say that. She wondered if they named her for this purpose alone. She scoffed at his groan-worthy pun. "I am changing my name." She threatened but it sounded more like a grumble. A threat she would never keep.

"Let's just kill the neighbours, problem solved. I can make it look like the wife did it." She added all to simply, clearly thinking herself as helpful. Content to help solve the issue about the grass with a little bloodshed.