He sits on the cold, cracked stone fence of a misty cemetary in the dead of night. His icy grey eyes pierce the darkness, watching the stumbling silhouettes of the drunkards with amusement. If a passer-by were to see him, they would see a man that seemed like no other man. With his exaggerated cheek bones, intelligent eyes, well-formed mouth, and distinguished nose, his handsome good looks were set off with a fiery look of fatality. He wears the mask of one who is death personified. A strand of dark gold hair falls into his eyes, and he lifts a soft, pale hand to sweep it aside. He licks his lips in anticipation, for he is parched and in the need of a drink. He stands and begins to walk. His clothes are worn well, in the form of black slacks, a black silk shirt, and a long flowing overcoat. His golden hair is worn to his shoulders and swept away from his face. He increases his pace, walking as one often does who has a purpose needing to be fulfilled. He approaches one of the many bars in the ghettos of this dull city. Just as he gets there, a drunken man stumbles out. He is singing softly to himself, growing increasingly louder. Because of his song, he hears not the evil that follows him, and remains oblivious. He follows him for a few blocks, and enters behind him when he stops to unlock his door. Yet, he still goes unnoticed. At the top of the stairs, he grabs the drunk by the shoulders and throws him hard against the wall. His shoulders are flat back against it and his eyes now show fear, and the clarity of soberness brought on by fear. He dashes quickly in front of him, with the swift movement that no human could ever see. He snarls his lips back, baring two sharp fangs. He digs his teeth into the soft flesh of the man's neck and is lost in the passion of feeding. He hears the man's heart pouding in his ears, and he hears his own as well. His mind goes foggy with the exctasy of the man's blood clashing with his own. He can feel it coursing through his body, and it leaves a pleasant burning sensation everywhere it touches. It is like it is bringing him to life. Wait . . . the constant pounding in his ears is slowing . . . Disappointedly, he backs away from the man, leaving his body slumped against the wall. He relishes in the aftermath of those feelings of satisfaction. He licks the blood from his teeth and lips. Then, just a few minutes later, the feeling is gone, and he is left feeling as cold as he was before. Again, he feels that hunger, and again, he is on the hunt. . .
Copyright ©2002: Megan E. Dickerson
October 15, 2002