I have always loved the kill.
It's because I am an animal, I guess. Because the stench of fear, the snarling of the wind in my ears as I flush the prey out of hiding, makes my now cold heart leap. I feel perfect, and honest to my nature only when my legs are pumping like pistons, my feet smacking the ground and rising again at unreal speed, running and out-running.
It won't escape. I've waited far too long for a meal. I love tackling it furiously. But each of my victims are never surprised. We both knew from the beginning that it was doomed. The dancers change, but the song remains the same, night after night. They never once had a chance, and each victim knew it.
And more than anything, I relish my glistening canines puncturing the skin, ripping through the flesh. Terror fills its last emotion. Horror smothers its last shrill cry. The creature struggles once, twice, falls to the ground, unable to keep fighting. I wait for it to get its breathing steady, weakened by shock. I need it to be still, so I can focus. I feel around with my icy-cold finger over its soft, warm neck for the right vein to sever, then whip back my head and let the last thing it sees, through blurry eyes, be my fangs in the moonlight. Then I end it all in one swift BITE. The bone snaps as the neck breaks. It lies there, streaming rivulets of blood in the winter evening. No time to waste, I think. I can't let all the gore flow away. Still, I pause despite myself, and observe it curiously if only for a second. As I watch, though, I don't mourn another life gone from this plane of existence. No, instead I smile weakly and unfeelingly. Then, too hungry to pause any longer, I cradle its head in my pale hand, crane my neck, and I begin to drink from the dead. I absorb its life, and it's feelings. It is just another human, another one to die by my hand. It's life is insignificant, it is nothing but food.
Crimson are my fangs.
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