He opened his eyes. How long had he been in that alley? An hour? Ten? He checked his watch. It read 8 a.m. No, it can't be, he thought, must've stopped. But, as he looked up, the sun told him otherwise. Warm, glorious, golden, it shone in his eyes, blinding him, but he didn't care. He let it wash over his face. He felt himself laughing, a soft, satisfied chuckle. He pulled himself up and tossed his coat aside, never taking his eyes of the brilliant blue of the morning sky. He spun wildly around in circles, laughing loudly now, the sound of a man who had just been saved. He was positively beaming as he walked out of the alley and into the world, which seemed so much more beautiful by the light of day. He saw young children playing happily in the park across the street, a place some of the most hardened thugs wouldn't dare venture once night fell. People went about their lives, filing down the street just as they did at night, but somehow the dull sense of fear, of desperation was gone. He took it all in and refused to let it go. This was life. Salvation. Release...
...And then he burst into flames.
******
He awoke, screaming, in his own bed, enveloped in darkness. He checked his watch. It read 9 p.m. A day had passed since the alley...since the girl...since he'd been called to bear witness to another innocent death, but it seemed mere minutes. Yet another curse of eternity with a soul: not only did he have to relive those deaths he'd caused, but also the ends of those he'd been unable to save. It seemed, sometimes, that the latter outnumbered the former. At any rate, those he'd lost always seemed to wail the loudest...especially when he shut his eyes.
Once he'd regained as much of a grip on reality as his situation afforded him, he stood up. Just as every night before, he felt the familiar gnawing. It wasn't a hunger, not really. Rather, it was a pull he felt to his very core. It was as if everything he was in body and mind was unraveling one strand at a time, just as every night before. He'd give anything to feel mere hunger...He wished to God he were starving.
As he made his way through the rather large apartment -one of half a dozen he kept in the city lest he be caught at dawn with no place to go- he flipped switches here and there as various lamps flickered on. He didn't need the light -after centuries of nights, he could now see in total darkness- but sometimes doing something so mundane, so remarkably human, helped him forget what he was... if only for a moment.
He reached the immaculately white kitchen, the smallest room in the apartment, and opened the refrigerator door. Lining two of the refrigerator's three racks were several clear plastic pouches, each one filled with human blood. He took one, ripped it open with his teeth, and drained it dry. Here's to modern technology, he thought. Time was he would have fed on pigeons and rats...creatures no one would miss. Now, a simple call to Our Lady of Perpetual Mercy and an envelope of cash, and he had a fresh delivery every week. There's nothing people won't do if the price is right. And for a little extra, they won't even ask questions.
It took him a moment to realize he was still standing in the harsh yellow light spilling from the open refrigerator. The way the dark maroon, almost purple color of the blood turned to bright red here and there where the light struck it had a curious modern art feel to it, he mused. He noticed a few bottles of stout on the last shelf that he'd forgotten about. Alcohol had little effect on him now, but he always kept some around. A force of habit, he supposed, as he'd spent much of his time as a man drunk. He and his friends were regularly thrown out of one bar at dusk, moved directly on to another, and continued in much the same fashion until they'd gone through six or seven, sometimes having to stagger as far as Cork or some other neighboring town. In fact, the brand he now kept was the same he and his mates favored all those years ago, save the fact that they always drank it warm. Things never really change, though. He took a bottle, closed the refrigerator, and started toward the living room.
Set in the wall in front of the large leather sofa, where most people would put a television set, there was a fireplace. He didn't own a television set. He pushed a button on the wall and the fireplace roared to life. After losing himself in it for a moment (or an hour, he couldn't tell which), the flame gleaming in his dark eyes, he sank down into the sofa. He sipped from the bottle and tasted nothing. Suddenly very angry, he tossed it to the fire. It missed by some two feet and shattered; thick suds crept slowly down the wall.
...And then he burst into flames.
******
He awoke, screaming, in his own bed, enveloped in darkness. He checked his watch. It read 9 p.m. A day had passed since the alley...since the girl...since he'd been called to bear witness to another innocent death, but it seemed mere minutes. Yet another curse of eternity with a soul: not only did he have to relive those deaths he'd caused, but also the ends of those he'd been unable to save. It seemed, sometimes, that the latter outnumbered the former. At any rate, those he'd lost always seemed to wail the loudest...especially when he shut his eyes.
Once he'd regained as much of a grip on reality as his situation afforded him, he stood up. Just as every night before, he felt the familiar gnawing. It wasn't a hunger, not really. Rather, it was a pull he felt to his very core. It was as if everything he was in body and mind was unraveling one strand at a time, just as every night before. He'd give anything to feel mere hunger...He wished to God he were starving.
As he made his way through the rather large apartment -one of half a dozen he kept in the city lest he be caught at dawn with no place to go- he flipped switches here and there as various lamps flickered on. He didn't need the light -after centuries of nights, he could now see in total darkness- but sometimes doing something so mundane, so remarkably human, helped him forget what he was... if only for a moment.
He reached the immaculately white kitchen, the smallest room in the apartment, and opened the refrigerator door. Lining two of the refrigerator's three racks were several clear plastic pouches, each one filled with human blood. He took one, ripped it open with his teeth, and drained it dry. Here's to modern technology, he thought. Time was he would have fed on pigeons and rats...creatures no one would miss. Now, a simple call to Our Lady of Perpetual Mercy and an envelope of cash, and he had a fresh delivery every week. There's nothing people won't do if the price is right. And for a little extra, they won't even ask questions.
It took him a moment to realize he was still standing in the harsh yellow light spilling from the open refrigerator. The way the dark maroon, almost purple color of the blood turned to bright red here and there where the light struck it had a curious modern art feel to it, he mused. He noticed a few bottles of stout on the last shelf that he'd forgotten about. Alcohol had little effect on him now, but he always kept some around. A force of habit, he supposed, as he'd spent much of his time as a man drunk. He and his friends were regularly thrown out of one bar at dusk, moved directly on to another, and continued in much the same fashion until they'd gone through six or seven, sometimes having to stagger as far as Cork or some other neighboring town. In fact, the brand he now kept was the same he and his mates favored all those years ago, save the fact that they always drank it warm. Things never really change, though. He took a bottle, closed the refrigerator, and started toward the living room.
Set in the wall in front of the large leather sofa, where most people would put a television set, there was a fireplace. He didn't own a television set. He pushed a button on the wall and the fireplace roared to life. After losing himself in it for a moment (or an hour, he couldn't tell which), the flame gleaming in his dark eyes, he sank down into the sofa. He sipped from the bottle and tasted nothing. Suddenly very angry, he tossed it to the fire. It missed by some two feet and shattered; thick suds crept slowly down the wall.
