Confused, mind bruised, it seeps out
It seeps out, it seeps out
Face down, home town looks so grey
Looks so grey, looks so grey
-"Monster", The Automatic
The moon was the only light to be seen, reflecting off the lake and carving into the path like stepping stones. There were no stars. You could see, if you really looked, the outline of frail, wispy clouds at the edges of the blank white orb, and it was the only explanation for the darkness.
The path was lined with trees, strait and tall and unwavering as soldiers. Their leaves were nearly as dark as the sky, if it weren't for the slightest hint of green cast by the scarce light.
A couple walked together along this path, whispering and giggling and slently admiring each other's company. The girl, her hair a brilliant, shining blonde, curls bobbing against the shoulders, held onto the boy's arm. Neither looked older then seventeen, and neither seemed to have a face, a life, or an individuality about them, to the creature lurking in the shadows. They, in all their clean cut jackets and skirts and pearls, were nothing better then anything else with flesh. They were food.
They came closer and closer, and the creature grew impatient, his throat unbearably dry, and he pounced to the air, thrashing shoulder into the boy's chest, sending both flying back, his deep red eyes unwavering. The girl shrieked, and the boy couldn't even. His strangled croaks were silenced quickly, and he went limp.
The girl came next, far less of a struggle, but still unnecessarily loud. Her throat seemed to cave in on itself, and a fountain of bright red blood squirted from her veins. She was silent.
The creature now stood, looking down at his killings, and the moonlight cast a light on his face.
Pale, so pale it was like a face in the sky. His eyes were still red, deep and rich as the blood smeared against his lips. He looked hardly as grotesque as one could imagine. Beautiful, if a word could descirbe. Not seventeen, though the pained expression of someone far older twisted his beauty into something heart wrenching, something that people chose to look away from.
His clothes were bloodstained, and he ripped his jacket off, the coldness of the night having no visible effect on him. He looked in the distance, where the barest hint of city lights flickered. He heard more laughter, and eased back into the shadows, every last fragment of morality he had left roaring against him, begging him, pleading him. He managed to ignore it, and waited for seconds.