I don't know why I'm here.

Why was I put on this Earth? Was it a mistake? Surely, for the sake of the entire innocent human race, God wouldn't have made the mistake of creating me. Surely, out of love for the people, he wouldn't have placed me among the ordinary.

Did he put me here to punish everyone else? Or is it simply my eternal punishment for some crime I've done in my previous life?

Why?

These are questions I often ask myself. Mostly at night, when the darkness envelopes everything and hides me. I fly through the night, the cool breeze caressing my face, the moonlight aiding me in my hunt, the stars prickling in the velvety sky.

I love the night. So serene, so mysterious. So beautiful.

Pity it has to hide something as appalling as me.

These questions still run through my mind as I grip the tree branch harder. I am crouching on an oak tree sprouting in the park. The bark is gnarled and the branches twice as thick as my arm. This must be a hundred years old or so. The leaves are thick and offer me perfect protection from prying eyes.

Not that I need any protection.

I narrow my eyes as I scrutinize my next victims. A girl and a boy, both about seventeen years old. They are sitting on the bench under the tree, entwined in each other's arms. The boy hugs the girl closer and whispers in her ear.

His words are merely breathed, but to me, it's like he's standing next to me. I hear his sweet compliments clearly. The girl blushes. The boy leans in for a kiss.

I sigh silently and close my amber eyes. Like my hearing, my vision is perfectly sharp, especially in the dark. I can see the blood flushing the girl's cheeks and the dust particles caught on the boy's jacket.

These two did nothing whatsoever. But they made the enormous mistake of simply being here. They are here. And I am thirsty.

I open my eyes. The shimmering amber irises and the thin, cat-like irises offer a silent apology I know they will never see. But it eases my guilt.

Slightly.

I let go of the branch and launch myself forward, flying through the air silently. I drop on the ground, right behind the pair, with a soft thud.

The boy notices me first. He turns his head backwards. In his blue eyes, I can see anger and confusion.

Anger at being disturbed and confusion for…I smile at the confusion. The last thing he expected was to see at midnight was a tall, pale girl with strangely coloured eyes and long, coal-coloured hair flowing around her emotionless face. My mysterious beauty intrigues him, but also frightens him. His grip on the girl tightens ever so slightly. My eyes never miss a detail.

"Who are you?" he demands, causing the girl's head to snap around. Her green eyes search mine, her pretty face draining of colour. She seems afraid.

I allow myself to chuckle dryly. She has no idea how scared she should be.

I don't reply. I merely raise my right hand and bring it to the boy's eye level.

"Wha-"he starts but I don't give him a chance to finish.

My fingers begin to circle, drawing his eyes to it. My wrist slowly turns and so do his eyes. He struggles to look away but my fingers hold his gaze firmly in place.

My hand and his eyeballs dance, in perfect unison. And finally, his eyes roll back and his eyelids drop. He slumps into the bench, a dreamy smile playing around his lips.

My hypnosis has worked. Good.

"Dave?" the girl cries out, shaking him in alarm. Her movements are frantic, her voice high. She spins around to glare at me.

"What have you done to him?!" she cries in an angry voice, her eyes shining dangerously.

Once again, I leave the question unanswered. I simply raise my hand and repeat the complicated hand-movements.

She fights me but eventually slumps against her boyfriend.

I walk around the bench and kneel beside them. I search their faces for a moment. They both have identical expressions, a dreamy, faraway smile and closed eyes.

Even though it might seem so, I am not a murderer. I don't like killing my victims. I usually hypnotise them before I satisfy my thirst. They are transferred into a world of dreamy pleasures and fantasies. Their memories will be blank the next morning. The only thing remaining will be a slight headache and a small mark on their necks.

I pick the boy first. I pull him towards me. His head rolls back, exposing his neck and granting me perfect access.

I close my eyes, fighting back, but my thirst arises fiercely. It destroys any resistance I pathetically offer.

I glance at him one last time.

"Sorry" I whisper in his ear.

Then I dive for is neck. My mouth opens and my teeth sink into the soft flesh of his neck. I feel him twitch slightly.

Warm liquid pours out of the small wound. I smile and clamp my mouth down, sucking the sweet liquid out. It runs down my throat and burns it pleasantly. It is like an elixir, healing me and revitalising me. I drink more, my strong hands keeping him in place, careful not to cause him any injuries.

After a couple of minutes, I release him. I bite the tip of my tongue and let a drop of blood fall on his wound. It heals immediately and stops him bleeding to death. I place him on the bench and turn my attention to the girl. I brush her long blonde hair aside carefully. It's so silky and beautiful. I don't want to ruin its perfection by spilling blood on it.

After I repeat the process, I lay her next to her boyfriend. I step back, and then I push them closer together, arranging them into each others arms. I gaze at them for a little longer before turning around and retreating into the shadows.

I do this almost every night. And I hate it.

Hate myself for doing it. Hate myself for being so weak. Hate myself for not being able to resist my thirst. Hate myself for that tingling pleasure and absolute satisfaction that comes when the blood touches my tongue and floods my senses with rich taste.

I tried. Believe me, I tried not to. But after a month, I was a shaking wreck. I couldn't move without my body screaming in pain and purple spots dancing before my eyes. My head throbbed murderously and my throat burned.

That night, my dark side completely took over. I ran among the alleys, sparing no-one in my path. I usually take care not to kill or cause pain. That night, it was different. I tore at their throats, enjoying their screams and their blood. So delicious. So satisfying.

The next morning, I took one look at my bloodstained nails and clothes, my torn shirt and burst into tears. I held my head, smearing blood on my face, tears streaming down my cheeks. The tears turned to fury. Fury against myself. I looked in the mirror and hurled a book into it, unable to stand the monster that stared back at me. It was my eyes. They reflected my hunger and cruel, twisted joy. I stared at the shattered glass, my vision blurred through my tears. They glinted in the sunlight, creating millions of small reflections of the person I hated. I turned away. I couldn't bare to look at her anymore.

I tried to hide it, ignoring it as if it was merely an annoying habit. I tucked my head deep into the high collar of my coat, hugging it close to myself as I hurried to work, my boots clacking on the grey and littered pavement. My eyes searched the expressions of the passer-byes. All I saw reflected in their unfocused gaze was an attractive but shy girl, hidden by her coat struggling against the cruel weather.

No-one saw who I really was.

No-one.

I've also tried to end it. On so many occasions. I'd sit on my bed, my letter of goodbye sitting innocently on my pillow. Knife posed in hand, wrist extended.

But it never works.

Not that I don't have the courage or determination to do it. But my kind is blessed…cursed with a superior healing factor that mends broken tissue in seconds. I can break bones, have organs punctured…I can even have my heart torn out and grow a new one and be ready to fight back in matter of minutes.

So that's why all my attempts at suicide fail miserably. I slash at my arteries. A few drops of blood escape before my flesh knits itself back together.

I groan in frustration, tears welling up in my eyes. Letting out a frustrated cry, I stab my wrist again, wringing at the pain. With some sort of a mad determination, I continue to stab at my veins, determined to end my suffering.

When out of breath, I drop the knife and clutch at my side, breathing heavily. I glance at my blood-stained wrist. All I managed to do is stain my shirt slightly. I can see the flesh growing and the skin healing with a small hiss. It didn't even leave a scar.

And its not just knives. I have tried drowning, drinking lethal poisons, hanging myself, shooting myself. Nothing works; I always wake up an hour later, left with perhaps a small headache or an irritated stomach. But I am left living.

Even my own body is against me.

I am standing on the top of a block of flats, back from my latest hunt. My hands are bloodstained and gooey. I have had to scratch out a couple of eyes tonight.

I wipe my hands and stare at the moon absentmindedly. A sudden gush of wind tears my hair band out and flutters my long, ebony locks around my face. I close my eyes, welcoming the cool air.

The city is alive under my feet. Cars honk, tyres screech. People laugh, cry and swear. Lovers embrace, husbands beat their wives, children scream for candy.

I look down, wishing to be one of them.

I wipe my mouth and slowly suck the blood off my fingers.

Perhaps…I muse to myself. Perhaps I will know how to live with my curse. How to control my urges and how to stop myself from harming and killing my victims. Perhaps I too will find happiness with someone. Perhaps I too, like other people, will find friends and people I can trust.

I tap my nails at the concrete absent-mindedly, humming a tune to myself. I open my mouth and start to sing.

I pour all my despair and pain into the words and melodies. The wind carries my words far into the night.

It's an old song, in a language only a few know and understand. But it doesn't matter. Who would be listening? And if they would understand, who would care?

I close my eyes and continue. As my voice rises, the stars seem to fade and the sky is slowly flooded with light and colour. I have stayed out long tonight.

Are my wishes selfish? Does a monster like me deserve anything else than death? Or am I too evil to even deserve the comfort of death? I age slowly. I am nearly a century old, yet look twenty. It would be God's ironic sense of humour to make me immortal.

Will my suffering and war with myself ever cease?

Perhaps…

I don't know.