Those Who Bleed

I. Veins of the City

It was his favourite spot to kill. 

The brittle brick wall, coming apart at its mortar seams, had turned from pinkish-red, to rust, and now to a shade so layered and deep it could only be described as empty black from all the blood that had been splashed onto the wall of the long-abandoned building.

Once an apartment complex for the up-and-coming hopefuls, wannabe actors and desperate writers, then, after the rumours started, when people noticed the stains and at first thought, or rather despairingly hoped, it was some sort of accident, a stray that had been run over, an adolescent fight that did not warrant warning the police, the tenants of the building began to change. The police were warned, because those hopes that it was not blood born of violence were extinguished when more and more blood began appearing, alongside missing posters for residents in the area, and so the pricing of the building dropped, the real estate agents began bringing their clients elsewhere, the owner hurriedly put the building on the market before he lost too much money, the hopefuls changed to the depressed and even more desperate, those riddled with scabs and hollow eyes, who left windows open and doors unlocked because they did not care what happened to them; they wanted a release that could be written off as not their fault, so the families who would mourn not the lost members, but what those daughters and sons could have been, would not have to list suicide as the cause of death.

It was easier to prey on the hopeless than the hopeful, but it was certainly less fun.

Seren loved to destroy what could be good. 

That's why the limp body of the woman before him wore an expensive watch, a gift, Seren thought, from a boyfriend or significant other. Not married - no ring. But she had been talking on the phone, excited, about moving downtown to a newly opened building that was just so perfect, where she would only have a ten minute commute to work, and oh god, she could not wait to get out of the slums. Finally!

She was trying so hard not to belong to the area which she walked down, but certain things gave her away. Ripped seams on the bottom of her navy skirt, part of a smart, but old suit. Probably a hand-me-down from a family member who had once shared the same wish to be successful, but had gotten realistic, and so passed down those pitiful wishes to a new generation. Her hair was greasy, her scalp white with dry shampoo, tied up into a smart but messy knot, probably something she had Googled how to do in an effort to appear more professional.

The watch really was the only nice thing about her. So Seren slipped it off her wrist, and into the pocket of his dark pants.

He did not know why he did this. Collect knick-knacks from the dead. Not victims. Seren didn't think of himself as a persecutor; he did not pity those he killed. After all, they would open their eyes again, if they were strong. He might see them, confused, wandering around with burn marks on their face and hands, wondering why they could only go outside in the twilight hours. Some of them recognized him, accused him, attacked him. 

They all hated him. 

Maybe that was why. He stole the lives they knew, leaving them wanting to die and unable to do so. If he was already taking one thing from then, then why not other things? A watch, a nice looking tie, even though he would eventually throw it away because he could not get the bloodstain out, a pair of earrings even though his ears were not pierced. glasses, anything that seemed remotely personal, really. Because he could. So when they woke, they would be missing both themselves, and important pieces that might remind them of their old lives. That they could show their families so they weren't accused of being monsters, being shunned, being asked, why would you destroy yourself like this?

But he kept those pieces of their old lives.

Why?

"Ngh..."

The woman groaned. Seren tilted his head down at her. Would she wake soon? Sometimes they never woke at all. Even if his teeth barely pierced their skin, some humans simply did not have the ability to recover from the shock, from the pain. Apparently this one would not be one of those weak ones. 

Seren raised a delicate, pale and long fingered hand to his mouth, wiping the blood off his lips, the only part to him that had colour other than ivory and ebony. He licked his thumb, tasting the blood. 

As always, it disgusted him.

It was not metallic, as blood was meant to be. Not delicious and warm, not a taste of momentary respite.

It was sour and rotten, the taste of sewage, repulsive. 

He spat, red saliva, landing on the woman's cheek, slowly fading of colour. More of that detesting blood trickled from the pin-prick marks he had left on her slender neck.

Soon, Seren knew, she would bleed no longer. Though the blood would continue to exist within her veins, it would no longer flow, no more of it would ever be created. She would be able to open her wrists and watch it all flow out, and never know the difference. 

She did not have to die.

But Seren, also, did not have to kill. 

"Die well," He murmured, his voice containing the slivers of an old accent, something an old black-and-white movie star might have once sounded like, but it was difficult to trace exactly. Seren turned, leather shoes soundless on the asphalt, long jacket fluttering slightly as he turned onto the street where cars blew past, oblivious. 

The moon rarely disappeared from the sky, but soon the sun would take its place in the sky. The moon was always there, pale and watchful, even when the sun rose and Seren would no longer wander outside.

It wasn't that he couldn't. Many years of existence had given him the chance to observe and learn, to experiment, until he learned the secrets of the sun. But it was bright, so bright, and although he could endure the pain, he simply preferred not to. Even when he had been able to breathe, alive, Seren had preferred the night. It was easier to manage, easier to be alone. 

He was slipping his phone out of his pocket, ready to make a call to have someone pick him up and take him home, when he felt it.

A sharp pang, like he had swallowed a blade, moving down his throat and into his stomach. Seren gasped, eyes widening, placing a hand over his gut, covered by a gauzy silk shirt. 

The girl who went past was oblivious to the pained man she sidestepped, moving quickly, head down and hands shoved deep into pockets, knuckles gripping something tight. Before Seren could regained himself enough to look up, she was gone, down one of the many maze-like alleys, scattered with construction that would never be complete.

Seren's lips, soft and red not with blood, but simply because they were the only part of him that  had never changed when he had turned, parted slightly in shock. Despite never having felt this pain over hundreds of years, he had not forgotten the feeling. It had been replaced with yearning, a desperate and dark desire to remember, to feed.

Seren smelled blood.

Not the tainted, decayed scent he tasted every time he sunk his sharp teeth into the tender flesh of an unwilling struggler, but a sweet, tantalizing smell, one that made him dizzy, his head spin and his mouth wet. 

For the first time since he had died, Seren was hungry.