Disclaimer: Obviously everything Twilight must be attributed to Stephenie Meyer, without her amazing imagination there would be no Edward Cullen to write about. Duh.
Quick Background: A oneshot story about Edward's early days as a Vampire, days when his self control wasn't quite so honed as when we meet him through Bella.
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Dual
There is nothing quite like human blood. Its tantalizing smell, its rich, vibrant taste, the strength it sends thrumming through my veins. Its every aspect makes it an ambrosia that I simply cannot resist. Tonight was no exception. I had just finished a feast, and the indescribable thrill of the kill was still surging through my every sinew. For a moment, I was euphoric.
It didn't last long. As always, the doubts slowly wormed their way into my psyche; rational thought overcame pure physical exhilaration. Quenching the inexorable thirst is a two-sided coin, and now the tarnished dark side was rearing its ugly head.
There is a reason that vampires are feared and scorned beyond almost any other being. We are the predators manufactured to prey on the members of the race to which we used to belong. Everything about us: our beauty, our scent, our voice; is the perfect lure to draw in those hapless, helpless humans that stumble across us. Then we are the most effective of killers. We are physically nearly unstoppable, armed razor sharp venomous teeth; in short we are an infallible instrument of human death.
Killing is what we are made to do, but that never stops me from questioning the moral ramifications. The way I was raised killing is unthinkable, the ultimate act of evil. Doing it routinely just goes against my grain. Then of course there is the religious aspect; killing is against the Ten Commandments, against every religious law. Of course I guess its not a huge matter since according to all sources I am damned for all eternity anyway, but that's neither here nor there.
It also kind of irks me how very easy it is, as soon as they are singled out as our next meal, the humans have no chance. It's like leading a lamb to slaughter, the same betrayal, the same lack of any real fight. Not that we can help it, we have the advantages built in; we have no choice but to use them. The other option, thwarting the thirst, is simply next to impossible. I know only one person who can fight the burning, clawing, desperate thirst that is the constant companion in the back of my throat. My foster father's face flashes in my mind's eye, caring, compassionate Carlisle. Carlisle, the one vampire I have ever encountered who can manage to uphold what we jokingly refer to as a vegetarian diet, feeding on animal blood rather that human. Only Carlisle has that kind of self-denial, that amount of self-sacrificing love for the human race.
Of course Carlisle, who is extremely biased on my behalf (after all, I am his creation: the closest thing he has to a son), believes that I could be deny the thirst too, that I could be one less scourge picking of the humans one by one in the night. Honestly, I've tried, and I am just not that good.
However, as we are all essentially egotistical beings, I do always feel some need to justify my actions. They may only be empty words to try and placate a very upset conscience, but nonetheless they help. I have never killed an innocent. My extra little power, the thing that makes me "special" makes sure of that.
Hearing people's thoughts in your head makes the distinction between the innocent and the highly edible scum very easy to distinguish.
Take tonight for example, a very satisfying meal on both the physical and moral level. Usually it takes me much longer than a solitary hour of stalking through the shadows to find someone who so deserves to be savaged by a thirsty vampire. Those searching times, that is when my self-control is truly golden; I always find someone who is unequivocally as much a monster as myself, if not in the literal sense, before I feed. Tonight there was even an added bonus, someone benefitted from my exclusive membership in the club of the venomous damned.
I have found that the best way to use my gift to find the perfect prey is to simply wander the streets of the lowest, most disreputable neighborhoods I can find and listen out for what causes me to immediately gag in horror. I have yet to be disappointed.
This time it was two "voices" weaving in an alarming tandem that caught my attention. First there was his voice, my prey, the monster. Then there was hers, his prey, the victim. She couldn't have been more than ten years old, a slight, dark haired girl with fear flashing through eyes that were almost all dilated pupils. He already had her in his clutches, her worn but well cared for dress tearing down the shoulder, when I rounded the corner, drawn to his rancid thoughts like a meteor to a black hole.
The time had come for retribution. The moment the scene reached my eyes time crystallized in a way that only my vampire brain could ever have accomplished, far beyond the threshold of my former human imagination. Each fraction of a second was noted, compartmentalized away from the main stage of my mind. Each minute movement of everything in the alley, from the fleeing cat to the uprooted dust motes, was assessed for any threat. My body was in an offensive crouch before either of the participants of the struggle in front of me could even notice my presence. It was all over in 2 and a quarter seconds. I ripped the burly man off of the girl, employing only a fraction of my strength. Not wanting to frighten her any more than was necessary I turned my softest voice on the shivering child as I continued to hold the now sniveling vermin at arm's length. It only took one verbal prod to send the poor thing scampering home to her mother. I checked her thoughts to make sure, and that was the best I could do, it was time to finally relinquish my carefully maintained self-control. I allowed one particularly terrifying snarl to rip its way up my throat, part pure rage and part show. After all, if this wasn't the time for theatrics then what was? Then it was done, my teeth sank into that deliciously throbbing jugular and he was gone. One more waste of space disposed of, all in 2 and a quarter seconds.
Times like these, reflecting on ridding the world of such a poisonous presence, are always the best. When I try hard enough, really convince myself, all of the justifications gain that ring of truth.
As I remained crouched in the shadows waiting for an opportunity to steal out of the alley unseen a rueful image flitted through a tiny segment of my multi-tasking brain, merely a quick flight of fancy. I visualized newspaper headlines were someone to see me on these hunts: "Mysterious Man Saves Innocent Lives", or "Criminals Beware of Nightwalking Hero". I imagined I heard the newsies broadcasting the bylines to sell their wares to passers-by. I saw myself, gaining a press following as an enforcer of justice, taking out the bad guys and sating my own needs all in one fell swoop. A dark laughed curled its way through my teeth at my ironic little piece of humor. The laugh took me by surprise; its edge did nothing to cut its melodic quality, its perfect timbre. Does one ever really get used to being one of the undead?
And then they were back. All the doubts, all of the pangs of conscience came flooding frantically home. Even as a joke that was not funny. I am no hero, not even close. Who am I to condemn these people, to be their executioner? I am no more than a murderer fueled by the tireless and unquenchable thirst that now defines my very being. Is that any different than your everyday psychopath, driven by a need he can't control? I am simply a murderer caught in the middle of the elements: longing and remorse, guilt and justification, my physical self and my psychological self. I am always stuck in a duel between the duality of my nature.
Yet there was always Carlisle pushing me to be better, urging me to be more than a vigilante in the night, Carlisle and his faith, always tugging at the back of my thoughts. Maybe next time will be different.