Bloodthirsty: prologue
It was cold, a bitter, numbing cold which bit your skin and burrowed itself in. Snow powdered the neat streets of Privet Drive. Snowflakes spiraled down in a myriad of different shapes and sizes, and in a cupboard under the stairs, a child began to shiver.
His blue fingers gripped his threadbare blanket and he wrapped it even tighter around his slight frame in a vain attempt to gain the warmth that had long left him. He couldn't remember the last time that he'd felt warm, or the last time that he'd seen light for that matter. For someone who spent his entire life in the cupboard under the stairs, Comfort was a foreign thing, food was something to be yearned for but never received and love was but a fools dream. Pain, however, was constant.
Whether it be a scrape, a cut, or something as severe as a broken bone, the boy had it in spades. His visage was littered with scars of all kinds including an odd lightning shaped one on his forehead. Each scar on his face had a bit of history, and he remembered how exactly he had gotten each of them, except for that odd one. His Aunt told him that he got that from the car crash that had killed his parents and of all the scars that he got, this was the one that he hated the most.
The lightning bolt that marred his forehead was proof that he was lucky, he was a survivor. And the boy hated it. He wished every night, when he lay in his enclosed space licking his wounds and crying bitter tears, that he had just died that horrible night. Death was the escape he yearned for, but every night, it eluded him. Leaving him gasping for breath as his broken ribs threatened to pierce his lungs. Death isn't much to ask for, is it? It was the only thing he knew was in his grasp to achieve, but then, even that last desire of his, was unattainable.
Thus, we return to the condition he's left in, one fateful Christmas Eve. As cheery Christmas carols played in the background, and as the smell of baked gingerbread men wafted in the air, the boy trembled in pain, hunger and cold. It was cruel, even in his opinion, for him to be left here, unable to move from all his wounds and weakened in hunger, as the sound of his cousins carefree laughter resounded in his room.
His relatives were happily enjoying their Christmas dinner of turkey, pudding and steak. Boy could practically see what all of them were doing. Pudgy uncle Vernon would be gorging on the rare steak. Dudley would be stuffing his face. Aunt Marge would laugh as her double chin jiggled and would order another shot of champagne, while Aunt Petunia would be watching them all with a horrible smile on her horsey face.
And boy would stay in his cupboard. But it didn't really matter to him anymore. He was used to it. He had known nothing other than this. He had nothing to compare it too. This was his life, and this was all he ever had. He knew that he deserved nothing else. He was a freak after all, a freak who could do magic, but a freak nonetheless. This was all I freak could ever hope for, Aunt Petunia told him herself.
Boy contemplated creating a fireball to warm his fingers, as he rubbed his hands briskly and blew into his rigid digits. But that would be doing magic, and magic, he knew, was evil. But if he ever wanted to create a fire ball or any other thing he could think of, he knew that he could do it. He had practiced after all, day and night, every since he had learned that he was magical from a garden snake when he was five, he had tried to master his magic, and master it he did. But ever since Dudley had caught him cause the kitchen to clean itself, he'd been beaten like he'd never been beaten before, and he'd never done magic again.
"Boy!" his aunts shrill voice suddenly permeated the air and the clatter of the numerous locks on his door being unraveled soon followed. He looked up from his vain attempts to gain warmth and stretched out from the ball he'd curled himself into. Aunt Petunia poked her head in his confined space and sneered at him. "We've finished our dinner boy. Clean up. We're going off to a Christmas Play. When you're done with your chores I want you to get back to this cupboard right away. You hear?"
"Yes, Aunt Petunia." Boy replied emotionlessly. He slipped out the door and past his Aunt as he headed towards the kitchen. The smells of a mouthwatering Christmas dinner attacked him the moment he opened the kitchen door, and his stomach rumbled loudly, oh how it hurt. But he couldn't eat, not even when there was still a quarter of the roast chicken left, not even when there was still another layer to the cake yet uneaten. Those were to be chucked in the skip, Dudley would have only the best, not leftovers. These were for the cats and dogs, never for the freak.
Boy sighed as he put all the food on one plate and went outside just in time to see the Dursley's car pulling out of the drive way. They all looked so happy, one big happy family. Family, boy thought emotionlessly, what would it be like to have a family? He tipped the food into the skip, imagining that the trash can was his mouth and he was the one eating the food. He imagined that he was biting into the juicy chicken, he imagined the hot broth sliding down his throat. He closed his eyes and tried to bring up the taste of cake to his tongue. After a minute or so,, he gave up and walked forlornly back to his little space of hell. Imagining just wasn't enough.
He didn't notice the intense black eyes that eyed him hungrily as he continued on his way home. He didn't see the man lick his fangs in anticipation as the vampire began his hunt. Boy just continued on his way, unaware of the horrendous events that would lead to many deaths.
Bloodthirsty
Review please! Tell me what you think and help me improve!