It was 4AM. Mitchell felt the hard cold ground against his skin and socks as the hole in his sodden boots seemed to stretch with every step. He paused at the corner of the street, staring up at the pink house where he could imagine George was anxiously prancing around and Annie sat in the corner of the room, frequently getting up to make countless cups of tea. The thoughts of their angst made him frantically wipe his messy hands against his leather jacket, knowing the stains would not show against the black.
He breathed. Huffing out long desperate clouds of breath as he wiped his chin, the realisation of the past hour flashing before his eyes like an old movie. Dracula.
He shook out the image, it wasn't him, he had changed, at least he had been.
It had been a long late shift, endless hours seemed to pour on. The bitter sweet taste, relief, lust, desire. Mitchell ceased his thoughts until her face stopped appearing, and the guilt and shame stopped creeping up on him, making his hairs stand on end and his body shiver.
He begun again. Endless hours had seemed to pour on, and by 2:30AM all his senses were blurred and the blood lust, the need for the unexplainable and heart wrenching satisfaction for it's oozing pulse had consumed him. He could no longer mop up wet, hot, scarlet spills on deserted theatre room floors, or take blood from naïve, unknowing patients who put his heavy breathing and steady eyes down to exhaustion. Mitchell had tried, nobody, not George or Annie could argue that he hadn't fought his yearning for just the smell of the fresh, pure substance, for something that was so natural and essential for his kind. He felt his body repel as he remembered the feel of it against his teeth.
Mitchell had found himself staggering out of the back exit of the hospital, his eyes blinded by the starkness of the streetlamps although they were all that guided him towards the bus stop. He would have walked if he had known. He would have forced his way through the streets of Bristol if it had meant she wouldn't have been standing there innocently, awaiting a bus which would take her safely home as she had probably done everyday without fear of her safety or her life.
But he had brushed her shoulder accidentally, through the haze of his desperate eyes and she had laughed quietly when he had apologised vaguely. She had told him not to worry kindly and her gaze had strayed longer than it needed to as many of them did, she had smiled again, pushed herself forward and stuck out her hand informing Mitchell her name was 'Steph' sweetly.
But sweetness, kindness or sincerity meant nothing to him, not when his head was filled with memories of his last bite, and his taste buds were alive with the smell of the blood pulsing through her veins, not knowing that within minutes they would be spilling down his chin, rolling over his tongue or left splattered across the ground like paint against a canvas.
Mitchell had muttered a name, whether it had been his or not he couldn't remember, but she smiled so he figured it had been audible and realistic. And male. It would have scared her away if it hadn't, but at least something had. At least she was free. At least her heart still beat, and her future was not ripped from her soul as the skin had been ripped from her neck.
He didn't know what had happened after that. He had to hold his nose in an attempt to stop the scent from corrupting him even further, filling his minds with possibilities and temptations which he would later give in to. But he had continued talking, he had continued to bring her in, using his charm and wit and dark black locks to convince her that he was a nice, honest and likable man. He had tricked her like a cold-blooded murder would, just as he had done so many years ago in his hay day with Herrick to unsuspecting women who had been enticed by his dark velvet suit and striking black eyes. But Herrick was dead, and he had no one else to point the finger at other than himself, he could not blame an accomplice for his killings or a persuasive whisper in his ear because it was all him. He had done it all by himself. He was the cold-blooded murderer and always would be.
Flickering memories of his hand against the small of her back, the uncertain smile on her face, as he guided her into the alleyway claiming there was a café which served the 'best coffee in Bristol' just around the corner. She had believed him, she had trusted him because she had been naïve enough to think that she could live on trust alone, and that the world still had some sense of morality, heart and truth. But those were the three things that Mitchell lacked, although he had tried to disguise it in he, Annie and George's ploy to 'be human'.
Then he couldn't control it, the lust was incontrollable, and either he acted on his desires or he screamed in rage, misery and despair and she would most likely scarper. His teeth were grinding together now, killing for the firm suppleness of her skin between them as she rushed into his mouth and put an end to his suffering which had reached an unbearable peak. He was rubbing her arms softly, thriving of the texture and what lay beneath it waiting for him, he discarded the sudden rush of fear in her eyes and lunged into her.