September Short Story of the Month

EVERY TIME

The blood tastes different every time. Hey, look at me when I’m talking to you. Of course I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help it. Can’t help walking the night, looking, watching them with their bodies warm and their blood hot, and wondering what they taste like. Because the blood tastes different every time. It’s true, too.
Every time.
But I don’t exactly recommend it either. Hell, if it weren’t for the fact that I couldn’t get enough of it, I don’t know how I’d be able to stand it. Well, just look, if you will. Just think about blood for a moment. Not exactly the most attractive thing, is it? Not the most sought out beverage nor, for that matter, the easiest to get a hold of. You don’t exactly see it sold on a street corner. So one would think it would be a pretty cruel joke by God to create a creature that can live off blood alone. Assuming, of course, I’m not the spawn of Satan. Not exactly ruling that one out either. Humans, if you haven’t learned already, aren’t the only ones to question their existence.
Yes, I drink blood. Sometimes I mix with Vodka, sometimes I even throw in some fruit and ice and make a smoothie of it. But I do drink it. No, I don’t kill people. Not anymore. Going on eighty-seven years clean. Maybe I’ll meet a nice girl sometimes, and maybe I’ll sneak a nibble if I can’t help myself, but that’s all. No. I don’t kill. That’s why I look. It’s the only reason I look and I look all the time. I walk downtown and hear the pounding, varied rhythms of their heartbeats, and all I want to do is join them in a dance. Because I know what I’m missing. I remember it whenever I see a sensuous, beautiful woman. The beauty is overpowering and it all comes from within. Believe me, I know. And the taste, God, it… well, it beats the hell out of pig I can tell you that.
Right. Here’s the basis of my menu. Pig, goat, sheep, chicken (which, by the way, does not taste like chicken). Farm animals. I don’t actually work on a farm, I just make a lot of farmers ask a lot of questions.
I’m telling you this because I’m going to fall off the wagon, and since it’s almost been a century, I think I’m gonna fall pretty goddamn hard. See that girl over there? No, not the redhead. The blond next to her. Yeah, her. I think I’m going to take her. Sorry.
And I say that not without sincerity, I really am sorry. Or, I was sorry. Maybe I’ve forgotten how to be sorry and I’m actually just hungry. Traffic stops for me as I cross the street, walking over to her, and I’m secretly hoping she doesn’t see. Maybe I don’t want to see. I don’t think I want to look in her eyes. The worst thing I could do right now is fall in love.
Her heartbeat stands out above the others, her scent a calming vanilla in a sea of sweat and ash. I feel her rhythm flowing into me. I haven’t danced in awhile, sure, but it’s not like one ever really forgets how. I see her, and more importantly, she sees me. We share a smile. I say a few words, something maybe dark with an undertone of dry, sarcastic humor. She giggles, but it’s distant, she’s already lost herself to me. The look in her eyes says that she never wants to leave me, the funny thing is that she won’t. We skip flirtation and she’s leading me back to her apartment. I like this girl.
She brings me inside and offers me a drink, and I like this girl. I’m so nervous that I’m almost shaking. And I get stupid, realizing that I’ve again fallen in love. Fuck. My next thought is even stupider, because I think about turning her.
You know that gift you get for Christmas, the one that looks really good in the package, but you take it out and realize you’ve got no idea what the fuck to do with it, so you go to return it only to discover you’ve lost the receipt? Yeah. Immortality’s kind of like that.
Didn’t want it for me, don’t want it for her. Should be simple as that. Only I do want it for her because I want her for me. Never said I wasn’t selfish. The hardest part will be telling her that my intentions are for the best while I have my teeth in her throat. Man, let me tell you, things rarely get more awkward than that.
She comes back with a drink I didn’t ask for but it doesn’t matter because it’s nothing compared to the one I’m getting. The thought of her, of having her, warms my body. I want her, I need her.
So I take her.
She goes without complaint, they always do at first. We’re on her bed, I’m on top of her and she didn’t even ask how in the hell I move so fast. After awhile, I stopped asking too. We share a kiss and it’s pleasurable of course, but I’m going to give her a kiss that she won’t soon forget. She’s lying beneath me, I’m running my hands along her body, fingers tingling with ecstasy, maybe even with remorse.
I haven’t even done anything yet.
It’s been a very, very long time since I’ve even hurt a human being. I don’t want to, never did. Yes, a man’s got to eat. But now I see her and realize this was never about a meal. It is, and has always been, about passion.
I love her.
So I kill her. My hands run through her silky hair, then jerk her head back and she lets out the slightest moan. It’s quick. I make it as quick as possible, not spilling even a single drop of blood. I save her from a night of embarrassment, and the torment of forever. I don’t say anything, I don’t even stay to finish my drink, because I’ve got one fresh from the butcher waiting at home.
I don’t wonder if she’s at peace. Whether she’ll meet God or Satan and ask them the questions that I never can. It’s not on my mind at the moment. And maybe the girl isn’t either.
I knew from the moment I woke up that I’d take a life tonight.
I still don’t know why.