Part One- The Doe: Act One, Scene One

…

"Near dusk, near a path, near a brook,
we stopped, I in disquiet and dismay
for the suffering of someone I loved,
the doe in her always incipient alarm"

…

Stratford upon Avon, England

Snow has long since blanketed the tops of trees, the streets, and the body at the base of the water tower. In the fading light, the limp figure is nothing more than a shadowy dimple in the drifts of snow; unremarkable, unnoticeable, and mistakable for a corpse… until it stirs.

His eyes open, half-lidded and filled with a hazy sort of confusion. He stares blankly at the sky and blinks rapidly as a soft cascade of snowflakes drifts down lazily, ghosting his cheekbones and sticking to his eyelashes. More settle onto the frozen tracks lining his cheeks and add to the layer of ice that clings to his skin. Am I… He looks around once more, at the now-ebony sky and at the grand structure above him, then closes his eyes with a resigned sigh.

...still alive.

Flakes dust to the ground when he stands and attempts to straighten his clothing, although his efforts are in vain— the fabric is frozen stiff, just like his flaxen hair, which he discovers when he tries to run his fingers through it. Another sigh escapes his lips as he turns around and reaches out to place his hand flat against the steel of the water tower. The metal begins to groan in his grip, his fingers tightening as he lets his gaze trail up the structure. One hundred seventy-six feet, fifty meters up, yet he's still alive. Unbroken. "I shouldn't've thought any different. Fifth attempt, fail."

A fail, just like the other four attempts with silver, garlic, a gun, and sunlight. He sums up the importance of his survival: "Well, fuck." More snow tumbles to the ground as he shakes his head. "That was it. That's, uh." His voice cracks painfully. "That's all I got." He chuckles once, a sardonic sound, ignoring the new tracks that form on his cheeks. He's tried everything, everything but plunging a stake into his heart, which is not something he'd do; blood makes him squeamish. "Hah."

Even after five decades, the idea, no, reality of the oxymoron never fails to make him smirk. A vampire, sickened at the thought of blood? Tilting his chin up to the night sky, he leans back against the tower and crosses his arms, letting the grin slide from his face. A true novelty, isn't he just that, with his contradictory existence and whatnot…

But who's heard of a vampire like Alfred F. Jones before?

Fans of Dracula, The Vampire Diaries, Twilight, and other vampire-centered works will be sorely disappointed to find out that Alfred— overweight, zitty, bespectacled Alfred— is a 'creature of the dark.' Ooh, fascinating. Somewhere out there, Alfred is sure, there are vampires like the fantasy ones. He's never met any, of course, but he knows that he can't be the only vampire in the world, for that would mean a lot of disappointed fans and, well, who wants a supposedly bad-ass race to be represented by, well, a failure of said race? He is nothing like those fanged, fantastical creatures of fiction with jawlines capable of slicing paper; no one is going to present his or her neck to Alfred and wantonly beg him to, 'take me!'

Okay, time to go. That's enough wallowing for now, Alfred snorts. I'm not gonna have a top-selling novel detailing my tortured existence and epic love interest anytime soon, so I best get moving. He pushes himself away from the tower, frowning as the flurry of snow suddenly swirls around his head, peppering his vision with blinding spots of white and… grey? His limbs feel weightless, and the water tower sways dramatically, almost toppling to the ground, or is that Alfred himself who swings precariously? "Woah, that's a little…" A dull clanggg echoes around the clearing as Alfred collapses back into tower, his whole world dipping sideways.

"Uhhh, what," Alfred mumbles sluggishly, blinking rapidly to rid himself of the black dots that splatter his vision. The trees refuse to righten themselves; instead, they elect to make blurry clones of themselves and dance around. "What… what the fuuuck?" Alfred mumbles as he pushes himself back to his feet. His body won't cooperate, and the water tower becomes his much-needed crutch as the world blinks out into blackandbackagain. "Why… oh, wait."

What's it been: three, four, five weeks? That long without feeding? Well, of course, that'd be it. No wonder I can't do shit. Guess I gotta hunt.

The thought of blood immediately sets his instincts ablaze and causes desire to pulse through his body, scorching his mind until nothing matters but his hunger, his thirst. The vampire's lips peel back in a tight grimace as an itching sensation fills his mouth, white nubs fangs pushing out of his gums and past his lips. His tongue darts out to lick his canines when venom drips down from his teeth and melts the snow beneath his feet with a hiss.

Alfred's pupils contract and widen until the whites of his eyes are no longer visible; they are now gaping holes of dark cobalt that glint when he lifts his chin to scent the air. He can smell spruce, snow, and—from the west— a terribly inviting scent that speaks of warmth and pleasure, only a few hundred meters north of his position.

He crouches low, then leaps into the air. A growl thunders deep in his chest as he moves. The scent of his prey strengthens along with the sounds of rushing water and hooves over rock. Shadowy blurs of crystallized bark and green whiz past in his vision, thinning out slowly until he reaches a clearing, and there he stops, at the edge of the trees, muscles wound taunt.

Near the brook: the doe.

An alluring animal: sleek, chestnut fur blanketing a delicate body, spindly legs, and a white-tufted tail that flashes hello to the world as her ears pivot and her sable nose twitches, searching for danger. She can hear none. But Alfred can hear her heart, veins, and arteries pulsing throughout her body. A drumbeat obscured by flesh, it beats in a manner that is almost promiscuous, loudest at her neck, her breakable neck filled with warm, crimson, rushing liquid so close to the surface of her paper skin. She lowers her head to the brook, sniffing at the water and allowing it to coat her nose with icy droplets.

The vampire's muscles release as the doe breathes out slowly with a small huff, making a small cloud of warmth. She blinks at it curiously, even as death is above her, and reaches out her pink tongue to lick at the condensation…

The doe crashes to the ground. Her mouth is yawned open in a silent scream as her neck is torn apart and blood soaks into the ground. Strings of flesh and muscle barely keep her head from rolling away from her body. A triumphant screech flies above the wind as the vampire clutches the body and plunges his fangs into what is left of the doe's neck, allowing the liquid to pool in his mouth and rush down his throat, slicking his insides with blood. The vampire presses the carcass into his mouth, desperate to consume the warmth of the doe before the cold snatches it away, drinking her life-force with a greedy gurgling as her bones snap beneath his fingers—

"Ughck—!" Alfred retches violently, shoving the body away. He gags and wraps his fingers around his throat as the blood threatens to rise back up his throat and to the ground. "Dammit, not today," the young vampire mutters to himself, fighting to keep the sloshing liquid in his stomach. Tears sting his eyes as he swallows rapidly in an attempt to force the gagging to stop.

It's over, it's over, it's over, he chants as his body stills, but he drops the ground and presses his forehead into the snow, allowing the rush of the brook to drown out his thoughts and send the image of cool water streaming through his mind. It washes the blood away from his hands and restores his heartbeat. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay. Alfred's hands release his throat. It's okay, he pleads again, then opens his eyes.

The doe meets his gaze. In her death, she still looks at him in innocent curiosity, with her tongue poking out of her mouth and her nostrils flaring slightly. For a moment, he imagines as if she is stretching her neck forward to lick his palm, so he reaches out a hand to feel the doe's wet nose.

With a sound like velcro separating underwater, her head detaches from the strings of flesh and lolls away from her body. Her tongue rests on a frozen patch of blood.

Alfred snatches back his hand and scrambles to his feet, nearly throwing himself across the clearing to get away from the body, away from the splintered bones, away from the gentle eyes. His chest heaves. Clutching his hand to his heart, he stares at the body of the doe and whispers, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." The doe has no answer; she only stares as ice begins to freeze over the soft flesh of her eyes.

Stupid. Every single time, stupid. Alfred shakes his head. It's a doe, just a doe. Nothing more.

"Nothing more," he says aloud, for good measure. He looks at the corpse again, then at the brook, then at the trees surrounding the clearing. "Stupid." He turns away from the scene and runs. The snow will cover the body.

And it does. Eventually.

…

"… Nothing else stirred, not a leaf,
not the air, but she startled and bolted
away from me into the crackling brush.
The part of my pain which sometimes
releases me from it fled with her, the rest,
in the rake of the late light, stayed."
-The Doe

AN: This is my contribution to the world of vampires. I wanted to make a parody of sorts to the usual vampire worlds, and this is what I have. Strap in for a melodramatic ride that might even get some plot. Cheers.