Vincent belongs to Vinny-kins *ha ha see the resemblance?* Story on the other hand is mine :]
Vince is a werewolf- excuse me *half werewolf* born in the 1500's.
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Once upon a time, the second generation of an infected soul lost everything he had. You see, this man, this creature laid eyes on a girl. She was the one thing that tamed his hungry mind, with her soft distant eyes, dark like a cave that closed him in, that kept him safe from the world. This man loved her; he memorized the way her soul pulled at his, with a drifting sweet scent like roses laced with sugar. She knew what he was, and she admired his strength; she said everything about him was perfect, even when he changed. He protected her, he needed her, and he became addicted to her. His life fell flawlessly into a rhythm with hers; until one day, she was taken away.
They bound her by her wrists, hoisted her high for everyone to see, and dropped a smoldering pile of tinder at her feet and smiled as she screamed. Her young skin swelled with the heat, boiled and burst until her blood charred on what was left of her body.
The man watched her burn. He watched as his whole life tore away from him, going up with her flesh into smoke. She saw him there that day, forcing one last smile, one last moment that he could feel safe in those brown eyes until the flames engulfed her body.
Ever since then, that man let his instincts rule him, seeking the girls soul year after year, century after century hoping that he would loose himself in her eyes again.
No, this isn't a fairytale. This is a fucking nightmare.
-
A heavy mist of rain hung over the city like a plague of humidity and flooded basements.
Vincent kept his head down, beads of the water from his onyx hair rolling off the tip of his nose. He squeezed a cigarette with his thumb and index finger, pulling it out from between his lips. His eyes stayed focused on the asphalt that shattered solid streams of rain like a liquid bomb. A steady serpent of smoke twisted into the air from his mouth as he sighed. The blanket of precipitation gave an illusion that the lights from the street lamps hung in the air; suspended by nothing but a blurry orange halo.
People came and went, giving the young man nothing more than a glance and a curious thought about why he was standing in the rain without an umbrella. He drew his eyes up to meet a woman's face. Her cheeks were reddened by the chill of the night, with lipstick rolled over the curves of her mouth in a shade just as bright.
'Whore.' He thought, 'Cheap whore.'
"Awfully cold tonight, isn't it?" She held tightly to her jacket, clutched near her chest which Vincent eyed deviously, knowing how the local sluts functioned.
He mumbled a low agreement, with something uneasy kicking in his stomach.
"Why are you out here by yourself, aren't you freezing? You should be inside…someplace warm." The woman smoothed out her damp blonde hair with her free hand.
Vincent flicked his cigarette at her feet, the glowing end fading as it hit the wet ground.
"How much?" He looked up at her from under his brows, considering an allusive wink but not executing it.
"Not much. All things considered." She sauntered closer, brushing a strand of his feathered locks away from his face. "You have such pretty eyes."
"How much?" He hissed again, narrowing his "pretty" dull silver orbs.
"Thirty for the night." The woman bit on her lower lip, pressing against Vincent's chest. "How about it gorgeous, just for you?"
Inwardly he laughed. 'All things considered…right.'
-
His teeth tore open her flesh; both bodies reeked of alcohol and smoke. She screamed, but he ignored it, pulling his mouth away only to rip her throat open with his fingers. Blood ran down his hands. It made rivers in the shallow creases of his palms and wrists.
"Shut the hell up." Vincent growled through his bloodied lips. His bare torso gleamed with sweat and remnants of rain. When the woman fell quiet with death he picked her head up by her hair and slammed it into the floor until it cracked.
'So damn easy…so…easy…'
There was no remorse, no regret. He needed this.
-
He was sure that when the police found the shell of skin, the media would display it like a trophy, claiming to have a man hunt for the forever mysterious. He wanted them to display it, so he never cleaned up. Fear made him feel empowered.
The body by then was torn from the inside out, missing both sides of ribs and a poor little prostitute heart. He took the muscle and buried them under the bed sheets, cracked every major bone in her body and then some.
Getting caught hardly crossed his mind. He would skip town get a scalped plane ticket and head home to Russia, fangs still sharp and ready for his next catch, leaving every memory of stealing a soul behind in a trail of blood and jet fuel. (to be continued...)