Darkness Stalks The Night

I hate those fucking vampire stories: the ones where the main character is a conflicted anti-hero torn between a thirst for blood and his ties to humanity. A bunch of bullshit. Blood is the nectar of the Gods who banished us millennia ago: there isn’t a vampire who wouldn’t suck the blood out of a week-old Tampax to get a taste of it.

And don’t buy that crap about feeding on cows or rats to satiate the thirst, either -- doesn’t happen. If you were in a car accident and needed a transfusion, would you let them pump fucking rat blood into your veins? Not fucking likely, so why would we drink the shit? Rats disgust me the same as everyone else and, as much as I loved a good, thick, medium-rare steak before the change, cows make me sick now.

The point is: don’t believe everything you read. Crosses: a myth. Garlic: pure bullshit. Stake through the heart: of course that’d kill us, it’d kill you, too. We’re not so different from everyone else, we just feed on human blood. And we’re stronger than humans. And some of us shape-shift. And we don’t die of old age. Other than that, we’re exactly like everyone else.

Enough background. My tale begins not long before it ends, on an autumn evening as the sun dips toward the horizon and the birds chirp good-nights to the world. Noisy fuckers. One step out of my apartment building and I scent blood: maybe the night’s hunt will be easier than usual. Our choice to hunt at night started the rumors about sunlight -- another fallacy: it’s about not being seen. Most rapes happen at night, too, but does that mean rapists melt if they come out during the day? Unfortunately not: those cocksuckers deserve it more than me.

The aroma of fresh cut grass -- someone getting in a last mow before the weather turns bad -- disguises the pungent, coppery bouquet, but years of vampireness have honed my olfactory senses enough to notice if someone nicks themselves shaving a block away. This scent emanates from the park across the street: one hundred and ten acres filled with pic-nicers, joggers, kitefliers and lovers. Good hunting, but too close to home to pick prey from too often. But if someone’s willing to serve up a meal on a silver platter, who the hell am I to turn it down?

I jog across the street, the smell stronger with every step, beckoning. Two children frolic on the wood and metal playground, both about the same age as my son when I turned, but that’s a long time ago; he’s decades in his grave, the result of a drunk-driving incident in which he played the role of both drunk and driver. He didn’t take things so well when, after twenty five years of absence, his father showed up on his thirtieth birthday to offer him the gift of eternal life. People shouldn’t be so picky about their birthday presents -- I never returned any of the God-awful ties he gave me.

Sorry, Jack.

The mothers of the children perch on a nearby bench chatting about their days or complaining about their husbands. The kids aren’t crying, so the odor of blood isn’t from a recently skinned knee -- the smell is too strong to be something as minor as a playground scrape. I won’t feed on children, anyway -- everyone deserves some life -- and I wouldn’t turn a child: who’d want to be pre-pubescent for the rest of eternity? Only being stuck forever as a teen would possibly be worse. I glide past the foursome glancing sideways at the soft skin on the women’s throats, the gentle pulse hidden beneath, and think of Jack again, and of Madelaine. Maybe that’s why he did it, maybe dots connected and he realized what happened to his mother. When one of the women looks at me I smile, purposely showing some teeth. She quickly returns to her conversation. I’ve always had a way with women.

The sun behind the treetops gives the red and gold autumn leaves the appearance of being ablaze. If I gave a shit, I might stop to admire the beauty of it, but too many years of heightened colors and delicate sounds have dulled the effect, left me uncaring about such things at the best of times -- in spite of Anne Rice’s opinion -- less so with the kiss of blood on the wind. Now there’s beauty: warm blood, fresh from the kill.