After I had evacuated the fast food outlet, I sought refuge at a solitary place where I could finally collect my copious thoughts. Such a place was found on the roof of a building; more specifically, the bell tower of a church steeple. I knew nobody would go up there. The bell wasn't implemented on regular intervals (or at all, for that matter), so I concurred that it could be my base of operations, so to speak. I felt somewhat ambivalent about it, though; the locale seemed fitting enough, but something just wa sn't right... And that seemed to add to my suspicion that...
Vampire. You're a fucking vampire. You know it, too. Known it this whole damn time. And I had known the whole damn time; during the robbery epidemic at the burger joint I had already convinced myself, and I believe now that my awakening pervaded even that time period.
I had climbed the nearly vertical surface of the steeple, and remained for a few more minutes in deep contemplation. My arms and legs were splayed out in an oddly recumbent position, palms face down on the coarse shingle surface. I was ponder ing ho w to continue my existence; either succumb to the insatiable blood lust seething under my cold skin, or simply lay back and emaciate to a bleeched skeleton. Both seemed equally appealing to me. The former would undoubtedly indite me to a life of un dead vi tality and all the precautions that went with it.
My period of nihilistic brooding tapered off to simply wondering why things were, which tapered off to What Are My Choices, which tapered off to Let's Go Drink Some Blood So We Don't Die.
The lights in the house are what attracted my attention. I could see the only visible resident- a stout brunette woman in her mid-thirties, maybe, staring fixedly at a television set. She appeared to be so absorbed in her program that I thought I'd lucked out. The house- a single floored ranch- was situated on the right side of the street, just a little ways away from where the rush of traffic would be careering by just hours later. The woman's profile was facing me, so I could approach the window and not be seen if I was lucky. My dwindling zeal reminded me that maybe stealth wouldn't be as quietly accomplished as it could be. I started to walk down the far side of the lawn, just under the menacing, skeletal claws of the trees. They seemed to be beckoning me to come closer, as to tell me a secret of some innate importance. Or maybe they wanted to incarcerate me within the writhing confines of their organic bonds, and constrict me until my head exploded from the sheer pressure. Eyeing them wearily I tried to continue unperturbed. Perhaps if they saw I was unfazed they would turn awa--
Inside it was obscured by a thick veil of shadow that I couldn't cut a swath through with night vision, because I didn't have night vision any longer. Nor did the euphonic but somehow insidious serenade of the night antagonize me. I'd lost the hearing to boot. The strength, then. That's probably gone, too.
Knowing I'd have a time ahead of me without inhuman strength to aid in my imbibing, I groped with futile, wavering gestures to attempt and exist that modern labyrinth. My feet shuffled along coarse carpeting until a smooth, immaculate surface obstructed my hands, and after investigating tacitly, I discovered it to be a wall. All I have to do now is feel my way across and find the door, I told myself.
The cold brass knob turned smoothly in my hand, and I opened the door infinitesimally so only a nearly two dimensional line of muted yellow light shone through. Looks like this is the point of no return. Go for it, buck-o.
The muted sound of talking slowly became distinct as the television set grew nearer. I lifted my head from the filth ridden rug to gain sight of my victim; and there she was, exactly as I had witnessed her outside, reclining nonchalantly on a piece of furniture that was probably a chair; although it's shape was indeterminable... somehow pliable, or amorphous. Both furniture and occupant shared the same qualities. The woman could have been described as stout, though morbidly obese would be a more accurate analogy. A polite one, at least. Rolls of celulite rippled, folded, and contorted with hypnotic fluidity as the woman tossed uncomfortably to change positions. Her sausage like fingers greedily groped a TV remote which was pointed at it's counterpart. Her face was not visible to me from my vantage, but it was discernible that her face would be broad, nondescript and unshapely. To the point of chin multiplicity.
My victim continued to view her program, oblivious to my presence seven or eight feet behind her recliner. I was shaking spasmodically and drooling unknowingly. My coiled legs unhinged like a compressed spring. Defying the delirium and lethargy seeking to gain control, my pounce was executed flawlessly. I sailed through the air, appendages extended, reaching. The woman had finally heard me, and was in mid turn when she caught sight of her assailant; she screamed and fell backwards from the chair. I flew entirely overit and collided with the wall. My skull thumped with a sickening thud at the moment of impact, I fell to the floor in a crumpled heap, moaning and mewling as a wounded animal.
The woman was getting up clumsily, stumbling over her own legs in her desperation to flee. She had begun to sob, and was screaming inarticulate please of help. But I was beyond remorse. Beyond pity. Beyond feeling, even. The veil of coldness had dropped over my emotions, dulling them indefinitely... But predominantly, the hunger prevailed. I was not myself then, but I truly was an animal. Head still throbbing with choking agony, I picked myself up, fighting the fervor of deliriousness. A pounce as I had performed before would not have been possible, I merely stumbled drunkenly to the poor woman as she still fumbled to gain her physical and mental composure. She was crawling towards a door on the opposite side of the room. I screamed with a rage that possessed a strange, reptilian undertone. It resonated off the walls and echoed once, equally lizardlike. The woman glanced back, groped for the door handle but was unable to locate it. Running my tongue idly throughout my mouth to clean the surplus of saliva, something I felt both surprised and didn't surprise me at all. Fangs. Huge, gleaming incisors had exchanged places with two of my normal teeth.
She had curled up into a fetal position, arms joints locked. I clawed and hissed and spat with blind rage, trembling, being so close to my goal. "What do you want? Oh, Jesus help me! What do you want?!"
I didn't respond. Couldn't. I had finally managed to unlock her elbows and pin them onto the floor. She had her feet underneath me, pressing against my ribcage. She pushed. I was propelled backwards about five feet, skidding to a halt on my back. The woman had opened the door and into what appeared to be a kitchen.
Few people can truly understand bliss; of course, one who has been in love or experienced sexual ecstasy could claim so, although few human beings recognize what it's like to gain vitality instantly; to suddenly have immense strength at one's disposal; to have one's delirious mind become cleared with crystalline clarity, and obtain a physical and mental apotheosis. I could make such a claim, however. For when my twin incisors pierced the soft, yielding flesh of my prey, the effect was instant. Liquid life began to flow through the hollow, enamelous tubes protruding from my gums. It's sweet taste flooded my mouth and tickled my throat, as it trickled inexorably to it's destination. As my metabolism processed it, the fervor of hunger was washed away, and a sensation of invincibility replaced it. It was that moment when I finally understood a saying that resurfaced numerous times in my life: An animal who has tasted human blood will never go back.
The subject of the imbibing, however, did not fair so well. Her copious fleshy deposits were shrinking with amazing rapidity. And by the time I was finished, she was an emaciated, skeletal husk lying dead on the floor. A final emotion was stamped onto her dying countenance: it looked like bliss.
So I was a vampire, and what do they do? They're parasitic, that's what, I thought with grim realization and dawning distaste for what I had beco me. I have to ingest plasma to survive now... and I'll probably have to do so soon. As if this thought cued a psychosomatic reaction within my body and whatever metabolism it possessed then, I began to feel weak... no, beyond weak. I felt pu rely decrepit, as thought the burden of a thousand years age had caught up with me.
That fight took a lot out of me... considering I haven't taken in any plasma yet.
No use procrastinating against the inexorable, I would have to do what was nec essar y.
Were there really slayers out there, habitually scouring the Earth for undead fiends to vanquish? I thought it was quasi-possible.... Quite more than that, actually. I thought it was dam n near a certainty that there were slayers lurking amongst the populace just yearning to shove a steak through an unweary vampire's heart. After the events of the last few days I wouldn't have dismissed anything with a second thought any lon ger. The world of vespertine horrors had animated itself inside my mind and it wouldn't vanish; becoming a vampire will do that to you, if you can dig it. You have a hard time not giving credence to something when you are that something.
The subtle noc turnal murmurings passed through my keen ears, but I paid them no heed. On the street below me not a human being was visible; the vast majority of them were in deep torpor by now, and it was then, brooding in the tenebrous gloom, that I realized exactly < i>why I had my new abilities.
They were predatory.
Preternatural sight to aid the stalking of a hapless victim in sparse to nil illumination; superlatively sensitive auditory reception to detect a subject when it was not visib le; some k ind of extrasensory empathy to get the gist of the subject's emotional status, and exploit that to manipulate them; nearly instantaneous wound regeneration rendering the hunter immortal or nearly (I had no idea if actual vampires were synonymou s with those of ancient lore; my guess was some things were true, some were not) and tenfold an average male's strength to subdue the ill-fated person.... And Lord knew what else. But it all fit.
Like a fucking puzzle.
I inhaled sharply and wasn't surprised when I didn't feel the spasmodic yearning living organisms tend to feel when they hold their breath for too long. The night air was cool, a gentle breeze was aiding that. The full moon stared down at me- perching like a raptor now, hunker down with my kne es level with my face, hands planted firmly on either side- and it's silvery but somehow rheumy radiance lightened my now nearly transparent skin even more. I could have testified to it that my skeleton was visible.
The typical stirrings I was accusto med to hearing at such a time were not just amplified, now that I think about it, they were textured somehow. Layered. Not only would I hear just the laborious shuffle of a pedestrian on the sidewalk, but I could hear infinitesimal par ticles of con crete eroding from the surface with each passing gait, crunching and grainily moaning as they were trampled. Not only would I hear the mechanical drone of a fly's wings, but the individualized beat of each veiny extremity.
And it was maddening.
No, it was far more than maddening, it was inarticulate lunacy, and the mere thought of having to cope with the mundane symphony of life abrasively throbbing in my ears tempted me to rip them off my skull. But then, that wouldn't do so well, would it? They would grow back, I told myself, not interrogatively. I knew it.
Scaling the steeple to the ground seemed to have lost it's finesse and daring. It was, in fact, utterly terrifying because I could feel my newfound physical and supernatural talents seeping from me. I knew that any second I would plummet helplessly the fifty or so feet to the lawn below and surely meet my fate there, probably snapping my neck or driving my legs up through my torso or--
Didn't happen. Whatever supernatural energies coursed through my veins hadn't entirely quit- yet, anyway- and I was able to adhere to the wall just fine as I proceeded downwards with spawning horror. When I reached the lawn I felt something close to exaltation, perhaps what a claustrophobic feels when he gets out of the subway, or an invalid discovering he can miraculously walk. It was bliss to be earthbound. Of course that was probably the fatigue and lurking lethargy puppeting my psyche, but it felt right. I remembered at last to exhale the breath I had drawn over ten minutes ago, and that summoned a suppressed chuckle. If I had done that yesterday, I'd be dead as a doornail right now. Of course the notion was absurd, forgetting to breathe, but someone being so astoundingly absent minded that they would do such a thing conjured dark humor within me. I laced my arms around the back of my head to stretch. Apparently undead vitality doesn't make one impervious to the perils of discomfort.
I shook my head, trying to force germane thoughts back into my head; I had been getting off onto meaningless tangents relevant in no way to my predicament. I had to find a subject (I refused to coin the term "victim" to the person I would feed from), and I had to make haste. Utilizing what remained of my inhuman perception, I comprised my entire will on listening to my surroundings for somebody- anybody- meandering by. The hollow rush of the air answered, but no organic correspondents replied as willingly. "Gotta do everything myself," I scoffed, and walked onto the sidewalk with my hands entrenched in my coat pockets.
Get ahold of yourself, man. You're worrying about the fucking trees that might be out there to get you. Not only is this lack of plasma affecting you physically, bud, but mentally as well. You don't hurry up and you'll be shriveled and insane, buck-o. Get the fuck going.
I did.
Crouched just below the sill of the window, I contemplated a plan of action. Waltzing through the front door was out, unless I wanted to blow my inconspicuity. Crawling through the window seemed more logistic. But I would have to find another one, I didn't want to be in close proximity with my victim while trying to sneak in. I meandered and my hunkers around the perimeter of the house, and stopped when I found the nearest window. The room it glimpsed into was lacerated with gloom.
Good enough.
I gripped the bottom of the window, not caring if it was bolted or not; surely I could snap a cheap stainless steel rod to smithereens. But I didn't have to fret about such things, the window glided effortlessly up it's track and stopped appropriately at the top. Clutching the inside of the sill with neurotically jittery hands, I pulled myself in with a grunt. My entire body was beginning to feel leaden and emaciated at the same time; I seemed to weigh five tons and be as frail as a leukemia patient simultaneously. I needed blood soon.
I opened the door.
The ubiquitous shadows were eviscerated by a dull yellow luminescence, revealing a narrow hallway finished with peeling, moldy plaster. The once white carpet was a stigmatism of cake frosting, mustard, ketuchp, and pizza sauce, all melding into a sick vomitish blend. At the end of this filth laden passage, was a barren wall. On the opposing opening, the hall tapered off into a living room that made where I was standing look like the Ritz. Furniture that looked too decayed even for the junkyard was situated unevenly about the hellhole, although view of the vaster expanse of the room was deprived from the corner of the wall. I surmised there wouldn't be much of a change what I'd already seen.
Indistinct rhetorical jabberings persisted, and I immediately recognized it as a TV news program. My destination was determined, then. I would have to creep ahead into the living room and physically pacify my victim.
Easier said than done.
I crawled on my stomach, clawing at the carpet with my arms to gain inertia. Being within such close proximity to the mural of congealed food remains, however, slowed considerably; because apparently many of the stains were not just there, they were recent. The stench the stain collage emanated was like a physical hand enclosing on my windpipe, with the intent of suffocating. This new nausea didn't do anything to augment the situation positively, but it did add some difficulty. My entire essence was devoted to suppress the urge to throw up. That would give away my position, and although I didn't think my victim was worthy of apprehension, I had an inkling that remaining unseen would benefit my predicament much more than running quixotically towards my victim. I didn't realize it then, but that inkling was actually the faint remnants of predatory instinct.
So I hadn't lost it all, then.
Though my common sense had been decimated entirely. I had forgotten the fact that respiration was no longer a mandatory function for my body.
Funny stuff, that is.
I calculated possible plans of action, however my cognitive patterns were growing hazy as delirium crept into my mind, setting perceptions askew. My legs curled up underneath me, poised to spring, palms planted firmly on the floor.
Retrospectively, in the seconds before that impulsive lunge, I can only now see the complete stupidity of the compulsion; although it was uncontrollable. The instinctive drive needed blood, and it intended to have it with or without my conscious consent. I had been nothing but a starved, feral animal on the brink of madness.
I fell forward onto my victim with my arms outstretched.
The kitchen's decor was identical to the rest of the house; dirty linoleum floor, sordid plastic counter, single table with a single warped chair. My victim had run to farthest extremity of the room, a corner, and had drawn a knife with a serrated edge. I paid it no heed. I lunged drunkenly once more. A shriek, and the blade slashed across my shoulder. The pain was exquisite, a red hot line down my left arm. Another jab, this one lodging the blade into my stomach. Some organ there had been pierced, and was leaking. I didn't know if that would matter... undead or not, I was in bad shape, and under normal circumstances I could've probably shrugged it off without a second thought. But that wasn't other circumstances. It was the Worst Case Scenario.
Blood poured down my trench coat in crimson streams, pooling at the floor. My victim had become paralyzed with either terror or complete disgust for her actions. Subject of attempted murder or not, her squeamishness didn't falter.
I yanked the knife from my cut, ripping through the wound further as I did so, creating a gaping gory mess. The knife clattered with a metallic clink on the linoleum. Trying to ignore the pulsing pain, I fastened a hold on my trembling prey. She seemed to be beyond struggle, which felt oddly like submission.
I didn't care. Lowering my head to her neck, I drank.
I was an animal. I had tasted blood, and I would never go back.
