Cloaked

Thirst

First, there were the Crawlers; those that could only prey on humans during the night, for the sun on their skin was too powerful. Imagine the hottest day of your life. Times that by ten. That's what it felt like for a Crawler to hunt in the sun. Their flesh did not sparkle, or burn slightly. It melted from the bone within seconds, made their limbs snap in fragility, and killed them.

Then, there were the Cloaks. Vampires that could hunt during the night, and only when the sun was minimal during the day. To begin with, the Cloaks were seen as the greatest threat. They hunted more during the winter, when the sun was covered by great draping clouds. That was before a new threat emerged.

We call them Carvers; vampires that not only drank human blood, but also had a taste for flesh, during night or day. That was when the Cloaks like myself were mocked. Considered inferior.

I only know that I have enough dignity not to resort to eating human flesh. That was overkill, and coming from a vampire, that was a strong word.

Vampire. Such a misused, overused term. We think of 'Nosferatu', and 'Dracula,' or 'Twilight.'

It sounds so pretentious.

The Crawlers are considered as the disgrace of our species. Sucking the blood from human scum, waiting in damp, dusty old night clubs to secure their prey in an almost eternal night. They were the first of our kind; white blond hair, as thin as wire, pale, milky-blue eyes. All of them had the same features. It made recognizing one another easier. We only interact with them when necessary. The same could be said for the other vampire groups; if you are made a Cloak, you stick with the Cloaks. To cross over to one of the Crawlers or the Carvers would grant you almost immediate death.

Unless you were worth something. Then you would be considered, and killed shortly after.

The Carvers are ruthless. I have only come across a few in my lifetime. Blood red eyes, thin lips, dark hair. The classic vampire image; the one that teenage girls and boys swoon over before they realize one is waiting to rip open their throats. That's why I am running. That is why I am always running.

Running, sleeping, killing. That was my daily routine, and probably the same routine I would follow until one of them finally caught up to me.

Personally, I think the Cloaks have the most appealing and hidden look, but that's probably my biased opinion of being one of them. Of course, those Crawlers with their waxen skin and watery eyes might think themselves to be attractive to both human and vampire eye.

Cloaks are elegant, sophisticated. Our tell-tale deep, dark blue eyes and jet black hair give us an edge. It helps to lure prey, to warn Carvers away.

Only, that tactic didn't work in my case.

My throat almost burns with thirst. When was the last time I had fed? Two, three days ago? I clear my throat, trying to help the sandpaper-like texture.

Like always, nothing works.

Today, the sky is a haze of grey, blue and white with a splash of pepper streaked through it. Rain falls, splashing in droplets as it hits the cold, damp blades of grass.

Winter.

It seems to make everything come to life. Well, everything except for life itself. Animals have gone into hibernation, not to be seen again until the sun rises in the sky. A sun that was once drawn as yellow and gold is now noticed as a dark shade against storm clouds. The grass that has not been coated with ice and snow is green and slick with rain.
A small pond has frozen over. Children wearing bright red mittens and cotton hats with bells test their courage and step on the icy surface, mustering up the bravery to walk into the center.
They are lucky that their parents are around to stop them. They abandon their prams, or their soaked newspapers, running to their foolish children. Once they have them in their arms, the kids cry as they are being scolded.
But there is always that one hug that makes everything feel better. I turn from the scene, my mind consumed only with thoughts of the sweetness of their blood that tasted so much better than those over the age of eighteen.

Winter is when the Cloaks emerge. The sun is hidden. Only a few light yellow rays pour onto the damp snow, almost illuminating my stark-white skin with only the slightest tingling sensation.

No sparkling here.

I lick my cracked lips greedily. The chill of the winter air sears through my scalp, tousling the blunt strands of my short, pixie-style hair. The white beanie wobbles on my head, but regains balance as I stand. I hug my arms together, trying to keep the warmth of my jacket inside of me.

To clarify the slight misconception that vampires are not living and cannot feel; we aren't dead! Surprise! The movies and the books always said otherwise. The excuse of being killed to become a vampire, to be turned into a vampire after being killed, or whatever reason. If you're dead, you cannot be transformed into one of us. Vampires are altered and superior versions of humans. We aren't dead, but rather enhanced. Blood still flows in our bodies, but it isn't our blood. The blood of those we have fed from keep us alive.

So it's keep feeding or die. That is what motivates us to hunt.

I breathe, I sleep, I hunt. It was only after I became a vampire that I realized how weak and vulnerable humans are. The Cloak who changed me told me this was a good thing. If the entire human race were turned into vampires, we would all be starved, and our entire race would die out. If you tried to re-drink the blood in your system, you would die. That blood is what keeps you alive, what your body relies on. We have to limit our kills, to keep the rates constant.

I know exactly what happens to those who do otherwise.

My brown leather boots crackle against the snow as I walk past the pond. Unfortunately, all the prey has gone. Besides, in daylight like this I would be spotted.

I know that I will have to hunt tonight. My previous kills have been too quick, and I am hardly functioning with the lack of energy. I can still remember the shrill screams of the young girl, barely dressed as we left the party together, as I sunk my fangs into her throat in an alley-way. I can recall the old man I had resorted to for a feed, who didn't even have enough time to yell as I sunk the blade of my knife into his eye.

I have to keep track of my kills, to make sure I am not spotted. If they report the killings on the news, the Carvers will find me, and I will be dead.

I will wait for the glimmering sun to be engulfed by the blackness of night before I make my move.