Sunnydale. It is a quaint little town, which I find amusing considering its origins and history. Yet, I find it amazing that the puny mortals continue to live here. They sense that something is not right in their little world of sunshine. I have been here a month and have seen it. The humans don't stay out later than 9 o'clock in the evening with the exception of the local high school crowd who waste away idle hours at a club called the Bronze. It is probably why there is such a high mortality rate among this age group.
I return to the secluded house that I am renting during my stay on the Hellmouth. I admit that I like the house; it is neither overly large nor claustrophobic. There are large windows on the east side so that I may see the spectacular sunrise every morning, like now. The house is one those cabin-like abodes that oozes "modern," yet still has that rustic appeal. Perhaps it is due to the woods that border along the west and north sides of the property and that it is built into a hillside. I believe it is described by humans as "picture perfect." I do not disagree – it is a peaceful place. I even contemplate purchasing the home after my task is complete. Perhaps I will truly retire and live out the rest of eternity here.
Once, I read in a scientific journal that the Sun will eventually go through it's cycle of being a star and implode, creating a black hole to suck this galaxy within it and cease to exist. No one would survive it. It is a day that I look forward to.
The Sun has risen and I finish my cup of coffee, black, and recall my actions last night. I remember dressing for dinner, driving the few hours to Los Angeles and stopping at a nice establishment. My intentions are to pick up someone so that I may sustain myself with their blood.
I sit at the bar and in fifteen minutes a nice gentleman sits beside me, striking up what mortals call "small talk." I let him, going along with the charade I play that evening. He is indeed a gentleman, paying for my drink, opening doors for me. I admire this; too many humans have grown arrogant and assuming. But one cannot blame them for they know nothing of what lurks in the shadows and darkness. Jonathan does not know him impending doom until it is too late.
I left him on the floor of his living room; throat slit enough to hide the puncture marks of my fangs. I took enough blood from Jonathan to sustain myself and left him to bleed to death, preparing his house to make his death look like a robbery. It is not the first time I have done this, I think as I prepare myself to sleep the day away.
This thought saddens me and yet again the irony of my situation is not lost on me. My thoughts then turn to the one who had made me the way that I am. I blame him, my bitterness and resentment rising again. Kynigos. My reason for being sent to Sunnydale… for I am to kill my maker.