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’.
These are the journal entries of a centuries old vampire, Nicolas Rider. Welcome to his world...
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Monday, May 20, 2013
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.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
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.
Monday, May 6, 2013
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.
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