September 25, 1605 – Kurashiki

     My feet pound against the ground, leaving impressions in the soft dirt but they are not the only feet I hear. The padding of heavy paws closes in as I speed through the trees. The branches pull and tear at my shirt like claws, digging into my skin. Before my blood can hit the ground, creating a light tap on the leaves beneath me, I am fighting my way through the thick undergrowth several yards away.

     The panting of the wolves is close enough for my heart to pick up its pace. I am not normally afraid of werewolves but I also don’t normally kill off a pack’s families while the wolves are hunting. Closing in on a cliff, I make a choice, die or jump. The rocks below will not be forgiving but the wolves will be even less. As my feet leave the ground, my only thought is ‘This is going to hurt’.

August 14, 1772 – Bengal

     Dust whips around me. The ground succumbs to desiccation. Cracked and crumbling, the earth longs for rain that will not come. Many people have deserted this place in search of food and water but countless others waited too long. The stench of their bodies baking in the summer heat is revolting and despairing for the ones who still call this home.

     I do not come into town often these days. The humans’ thin frames pulling their skin tight against their bones while they stumble weakly through the streets aren’t exactly the enticing meals I prefer. However, there are a few who seem to be healthier than most, the ones who, undoubtedly, are responsible for all of the thefts and brutal beatings recently. Trying to save themselves, they steal from others but it only makes them tastier prey. And they are easy to track.

July 28, 1518 – Strasbourg

     Our feeder humans, or sheep as we call them, are mindless, vacant drones. A shadow of life in a human shell. They feed on our words as much as we do on their blood. With a sole purpose of pleasing us, they follow any command, even ones that cause their own demise. The sheep here are not mine, nor did I give these orders but I do admit, watching them dance in the square until the streets are painted crimson with the blood from their feet is entertaining.

     Dancing endlessly for days, most of the sheep have already died of exhaustion. I have watched them every night for weeks and I am not alone. Tonight is different, however; tonight a young boy is pulling at a sheep’s dress, begging her to stop dancing. With tears rolling down his cheeks, he calls to his mother but she cannot answer. She’s no longer present in her own body. Moving gracefully on weary legs, she knocks him to the ground without realizing he is even there. His hopelessness holds him down, keeping him from standing. And for the first time in a long time, I cannot look upon the human pain we cause. 

March 18, 1698 – Venice

     The sounds of beating hearts and light dancing steps flood my ears, only stifled by the impeccable rendition of Carlo Farina being played by a delicate looking man. It should be enough to sit in the corner listening to such a wonderful piece but there are too many humans here to quiet my thirst for long. The humans may hide behind their beautiful masks and refined dancing but I know their desires for this night are just as carnal and basic as my own.   

     I walk across the floor toward a young beauty, a woman full of life for mere hours longer. I raise my hand and she places her palm against mine, her glove protecting her from feeling the coolness of my skin. We dance around the room, never speaking, but never needing to. Her eyes, peeking out from behind her mask, expose her lust to me. I am sure she can see desire in mine as well but if she would only look closer, she would see the hunger and greed that fuels it. The same hunger and greed that will take her life and appease my own.