Bastille Imagines

Bite Down Pt. 4

Your eyes flicker open as the light bleeds into the room through the ripped curtains, dust majestically floats around the air. Your eyesight allows you to pinpoint every single individual speck of dust. It's strange, like everything you see is out of a cinematic film. Having these new features added to your senses keeps you occupied for a while, chuckling to yourself until Dan appears within your view, unheard and appearing predatory. There are stains of blood soaking his white t-shirt and he seems rather breathless, his chest heaving in and out continuously. Your chuckle dies down to a nervous glance and his eyes slowly fade from the devilish red that once haunted you, the very eyes you saw before you died. He's been at it early, it's barely 10 o'clock and already he has stolen someone's life.

Then the thought of it slowly sinks in...I'm dead. Not living. Lifeless.

"You're...finally...up," he mutters between breaths. His eyes have finally changed into the cerulean blue that you can't bring yourself to look away from. He approaches you and sits on the edge of his bed dabbing his face of the blood. You can feel the awkward tension growing on you, what do you say?

"Good hunt?" You ask. Good hunt? Good one. Real conversation starter. You mentally face palm yourself in the utmost embarrassment. Despite it being such a sporadic question, Dan takes no time in answering like he's oblivious to the abnormality of it.

"I guess, the fucker wouldn't stop screaming. Didn't want everyone to know he was dying..." He rolls his eyes and scoffs a little. Your breath catches in throat, how can he say that so blatantly, he's talking about killing someone and his ignorant attitude has you slightly disgusted. Safe to say that it's going to take you a couple of years before you can take your first hunt. Which takes you to your next thought; how long has Dan been doing this?

"How...how long have you...y'know - done this?"

"Done what?"

"Be a vampire! Kill people! Drink their blood! Not be human!" You articulate a little more clearly for him.

"Since 1899," he says with such an inhibited attitude. Your eyes nearly fall out their sockets with the shock that forces them out, your mouth hangs agape with an anvil hanging below it. You can't imagine the man sitting in front of you living in Victorian London with his top hat and suit and tie, it just isn't fitting. You can't even begin to pinpoint an estimation on the number of lives he's taken, innocent or guilty. It's been over 100 years, only he knows.

He leaves the subject aside and stands up gradually making his way to exit the room, only to turn back and motion you to follow him. Without any restraint you follow him with the curiosity that enforces you. You follow him into the makeshift kitchen, although for a kitchen, it's extremely dirty. You wish you were back in the comfort of your own house, where everything was homely, didn't stink of somebody's lingering BO who probably died 50 years ago, nor did you have to share your living space with thousands of pests.

Despite his unhygienic way of living, he brings out a glass from what's left of a cupboard and once again repeating to drain his supply of blood from his wrist. The grotesque amount of blood that comes oozing out of his wrist churns your stomach, so much that you almost gag. So that's why he was out early.

"How can you do that?" You complain whilst turning away from the grossly disturbance. You peek round once more and Dan has started to stitch himself back together. You notice the slight smirk on his face because of your dramatic reaction, whereas he's been doing this for 117 years, so this is a walk in the park for him.

"117 years of experience, love. I think I'm used to the pain."

Wait...the pain?