June 18, 1923 - Chicago

     Sitting in the back, I watch the humans drinking merrily. Their voices carry through the room as though it may not make it through the hazy cigar smoke lurking in the air if their voices weren’t projected so loudly. Laughing, they have no suspicion of what watches them. The monster inside me smiles with each passing moment knowing that my birthday gift to myself grows closer. Tomorrow, I will indulge myself, though there is no real purpose to it. Humans rejoice their passing years as they transcend through the decades, growing, learning, but mostly aging. 

     Yet is it really necessary to celebrate aging when you don’t? Regardless, my birthday tomorrow gives me an excuse to act on my sincerest impulses. The blond waitress that bring me another drink will suffice my basic carnal needs. She is young and vibrant with blood rich with sweetness. Tomorrow, that will end. She is my gift to myself. Her trepidation will delight my inner monster, her blood will quench my ravenous thirst, and her pain will spill over my every craving. This will be slow and extensive. I will let her pain and my pleasure linger. Her blood will run warm. There will be screaming. So much screaming. And it will satisfy me.