Famished: Theif

I am not a bad kid. Really, I'm not. These days, I act different. But 
I'm still not bad, I don't think.

No, I'm not bad. I'm just hungry. 

I made Dudley cry yesterday. It's not uncommon. He's weak, so piggish, 
emotionally immature and too stupid to realize it. I was weeding the 
garden, and he came out to taunt me. So I told him to fuck off. I 
snarled at him and called him some other bad things that I don't 
remember. Then he started to cry. 

Uncle Vernon took out one of his old, unwearable belts that night. 
He yelled at me and hit me. Sometimes I wonder why the neighbors don't 
hear. He's so loud... But maybe they do hear and they don't do anything. 
It's a quiet neighborhood. Very old fashioned. People like to mind 
their own business.

He hit hard, but he didn't make a scratch. It made him mad, but I was 
relieved. I don't know what color I bleed anymore, you see. Or even if I do. 

But there were bruises. Lots and lots of bruises. They covered my ribs, 
my upper arms, my back. You see, Vernon Dursley is an expert at hurting 
others. Especially me. He knew exactly where to hit me so that when I put 
a shirt back on, nothing would show. He made me so angry.

He hit even harder than usual that night. He wanted me to bleed, but I 
wouldn't And I was so angry at him. He didn't know it, he just kept 
screaming and screaming at me, but I wasn't listening. I was watching 
the throbbing vein in his temple, and thinking about how easy it would 
be to just pounce and end all the pain.

But I would never kill anyone and drink their blood. Not even the Dursleys.

Besides, Uncle Vernon's blood is probably sour.

The rest of the night I spent in the kitchen, a bar of soap in my mouth. 
It wasn't so bad, really. It could have been Aunt Petunia’s cooking.

I joke now, but it scares me. I can't eat anymore, not any of their foods. 
They repulse me, the grease and the seasoning and the charred bones of 
dead animals. I've started to spend the quiet hours of night vomiting up 
the evening meal. And I'm so hungry. 

I know what I have to do. I really, really know what I have to do.

So one night, I do it.

The next morning, it's all over the news. A hospital, a small muggle 
hospital, was broken into in the dead hours of night. Nothing was stolen, 
and no one was harmed. The only thing amiss were the packets from the 
blood drive held earlier that week. They were shredded, drained of 
their contents. The authorities believe that some sort of wild animal got in. 
They've no proof otherwise. All over Surrey, hospitals have increased night 
security. It wouldn’t happen again.

I slept for the first time in weeks that night, but after seeing the 
news, I felt much more uneasy. 

I don't want to kill anyone, but I can take the blood meant to save 
their lives.

I lick my lips. I can still taste it.

The blood had been sanitized. It was cold. It was devoid of any flavor 
whatsoever. It was like eating gruel at a table filled with turkeys. 

I drank as much as I could hold.

I can't justify my actions, but I'm full now. For a little while, at least. 

No, I'm not a bad kid.

I'm a vampire.