SM owns everything, I just reserve the right to mess them up...
You Stole My Happy
Executioner, murderer, bloodsucker, hunter, extortioner, leech, destroyer, predator, slaughterer, killer; these are the names that are associated with my kind, with me.
I am a vampire, in every sense of the word. I have been for last three centuries, and that's cause for celebration.
Observing humans takes a certain kind of patience that is only achieved from years of experience. As I grew older my tastes changed; they became more, refined. I no longer just wanted to quench the thirst; I wanted to satisfy my need with something more. Something new, something different, something unlike I had ever had before.
Soon, I was watching from the shadows. Should I take the untainted virgin girl or the perfectly aged older woman? Did I crave the effortlessness of a trusting country boy or the exertion of a tough street thug? How old should they be? Girl or boy? Man or woman? Should I take the girl who looks to God to save her; when the only sound to answer her prayers is the dull thud of her bible falling from her hand as the last flicker of light leaves her eyes? Maybe my desire is more for the bad girl; she does everything to rebel against the conformist society, she has steel piercing her flesh and ink covering her skin, but the greatest quality this girl possesses is the want she has for me. Her deviant side exposed in the way she offered herself; the quiet sigh that passes between her lips as I close my own over her throat, like an expression of gratitude.
Like the saying goes: don't judge a book by it's cover, but that's exactly what I do. Unlike books, the packaging gives away more than enough about what they will taste like. And that's all that matters.
Taste.
The virgin girl: sweet and untainted. The older woman: dark and potent. The country boy: smooth like his drawl and rough like a dirt road. The thug: bitter like his attitude and thick like his skin. The God worshipper clutching a bible always tastes like candle wax and cheap wine. Whereas the deviant bad girl's ink and steel give depth and contrast to the already full flavour she has collected over the years.
Once I chose my mark, the pursuit began. After all my long years the thrill of the hunt was still rousing.
Moving from the shadows, I created a mental plan. Should I follow for a while and steal them away when no one was looking? Maybe I should bump into them and strike up a conversation, only to walk away. Did I itch for an effortless hunt or the struggle of a genuine chase. I could wait for them to come to me; whoever has enough courage to approach the predator deserves a chance to try and prove their quality. Thus, they decide their own fate; if they seem amusing enough I might hold out before devouring them completely.
I do admit, spending too much time with them can cause problems. They start talking about themselves and their families, their jobs and what they want to do with their lives. It all just makes satisfaction that much more difficult to achieve. They get under your skin and maybe, just maybe, make you feel the tiniest bit guilty. But those thoughts are soon overshadowed by more important things.
The hunt.
The thirst.
The blood.
They all end up dead anyway.
So, here I am, on my three hundredth birthday and I'm all alone. Who will join my party for two?
Girl or boy? Girl.
Young or old? Young.
Short or tall? Short.
Brunette or Blonde? Brunette.
Straight hair or curly hair? Straight.
Shy or outgoing? Shy.
Innocent or wicked? Innocent.
Loner or accompanied? Loner.
Perfect.