It's such a complex taste, you can't imagine.
Only our species can taste the difference. The subtle nuances that make all the difference between the best and the worse food we can have. There's always a few qualities – the best qualities. Hot - pulsing fresh from its vein. Thick - coating and soothing as it rolls down the throat, metallic – a tang of iron, but that would vary in strength depending on the person. The best drink was someone in their prime; early twenties up to mid thirties. Young, fresh and so strong, the slightly chubbier girls always having a richer blood, the muscular pretty guys... the best drink he had had, a man barely twenty two, trying to fight with him. His throat had been torn wide, the blood flooding Mitchell's throat had been rich and pure, a strong metallic tang of iron with a slight mineral, salty taste... the dregs left a softly sweet texture on his tongue.
It was unpleasant to drink from very old people; over sixty, their blood would have mixed textures, and those who had taken drugs or been drunk for a lifetime was worse, the chemical taste of toxins in their blood making a far less satisfying drink. No matter how foul it would seem, though, the primal mind delighted in the kill, the hot wetness, the feeding until an empty corpse dropped. It was difficult to turn people. Once you were so immersed in the drinking, like an animal, to stop and wound yourself so they could taste vampiric blood, to become one of you – it was a challenge.
Mitchell had been sitting there for over an hour. Time to time he would push himself to his feet and wander through the crowds, immersing himself, absorbing their sweet, sweaty, sickly, strong scents, the pulsing of thousands of veins, nothing but water bottles to him, the man in a desert. A million oasis' that were blocked by the walls of his will. The walls were crumbling. He found himself watching children as they went past, wondering how it would feel to feed from a child, the power of the life force, and he felt bile rise in his throat. He had to stop. One gloved hand pushed into the damp grass and he got to his feet, heading home, striding along the street.
It was the tiniest thing. The only other person on the street, and they were texting. They walked into him, stumbled, and all he could smell was their scent, their heartbeat pounding in his ears as if he had his own, and their words tore the air, harsh and nasty, "Watch where you're going, freak!"
Freak
FREAK
"Monster." He hissed, hearing them as they stopped again. They were facing his back, "What did you say?" threatening. Confused. Everything was thrown sharp and slightly pink tinged as his eyes went black.
Badum badum badum
"I said, what did you call me!" a hot hand on a denim covered shoulder. Turning him. Anger pushing adrenaline –
Badumbadum badumbadum
"I called myself a monster." Tongue catches on fangs, black eyes lock on the neck, the pulse can be seen as the unnatural sight registers, fear floods, the smell of terror rents the air, and he welcomes it, lets it push him, the feral vampire screaming inside for blood the pumping the heart pounding life blood drink feed feed FEED NOW
BADUMBADUMBADUMBADUMBA-
Too fast to take in, crash to the wall. Hands in leather, plastic cracking on the floor, fangs in the air, bitter sweat then biting, salty ripping, flooding blood flowing dripping running and drinking. The vampire is happy. Strength flows through muscles, grip tightens and the squirming stops. Mind is clear and fingers slip, blood runs in a thin sticky line, none left in the body still wide eyed. Hot and fresh on Mitchell's mouth, vampire trying to be normal. Running now, feet pounding, tears flow thick and salty and destroyed inside. One chant pounding mercilessly now. "I failed, I failed, I failed."
Monster inside rejoices.