Inuyasha
Inuyasha wiped the rat's blood from around his mouth. It was not as satisfying as human blood, but it would do. There had been no food at the park, of course.
He had crouched in this alley behind a row of shops for twenty minutes now, catching and drinking, catching and drinking. They were hiding now, the rats. They knew something was up. Big cat, he thought, and smiled a thin, glittering smile.
Time to move on. He stood adn stretched, lean-muscled arms reaching skyward. He wore only a T-shirt despite the cool fall night. It was black like his jeans, and his black Nike's. He was fond of black. Shadows, he thought. Night. It satisfied him to wear black, yet his laces were red. "Blood," he had whispered that evening at the thrift store, when his fingers would not leave them alone in the bin. They tangled around his nervous hand until he had to fling them from him or buy them. He handed a dime from the gutter over to the woman with the suspicious frown and fled to this same alley to put them on.
Where would he go from here? The park? Maybe the girl that he had met earlier would have left. Or maybe not. I should go anyway, he thought, and smiled again, the same glittering smile. She was beautiful, dark like the night, but thin, as if another claimed her. A frown changed his features suddenly, then disappeared as quickly. No, she did not have the smell of that upon her.
No, he would go to that house. He had only a few blocks to walk from here. He would see what the boy was up to.
Inuyasha left the alley cautiously. It was not good to be seen at the same place often. It was an excellent hunting place; he did not want to lose it. He walked the pavement with shoulders hunched, hands in jean pockets, as if against the cold. Who knew who was watching. He would have to get a coat. The street he traveled intersected the alley that ran behind the houses on Mulberry Street. He made a right, five houses along he stopped at the end of a long backyard.
There was no lights on at the back of the house. The yard was mottled with moonlight. Inuyasha flowed from shadow to shadow, between trees and bushes, as if a shadow himself. He might be a cloud in front of the moon. He reached the rough brick of the house and crept to the oak tree at the corner, with ease he scaled the tree and flowed up to a perch on a sturdy limb. He barely made any sound from the brittle leaves that were to stuborn to drop from the twigs.
He could see into a bedroom. It was anonymous room. The walls were bare, nothing there to suggest the personality of the occupant. But there was an occupant, a huddled form on the bed. A boy that looked like he was twenty-one years old sitting with a book, reading a book with the moonlight as the light. He had a book bag lying beside him on the bed. You'll ruin your eyesite, boy, Inuyasha thought, and grinned wickedly. It was a thick book that you wouldn't think that the person would be reading it, and Inuyasha was itching to read the title. Occasionally, the person would suppress a laugh and shake his head, whisking his delicate white hair through the moonlight.
Inuyasha saw the person lying there with his eyes opened, staring into the night, still defying sleep, still smiling. There was a growl in the back of Inuyasha's throat he could barely contain. It almost choked him. He climbed down the tree before it burst from his mouth. It was not the right time or place.
Inuyasha sat in the bushes for a long while. He breathed the night, made plans, and abandoned them. No one in the house stirred. All the windows were clear; all except one window, where dark hunger beckoned.
Finally, Inuyasha heard the predawn bird cry, and he rose to his feet in a single motion. His body made no protest at the breaking of the vigil. It was as if it were only seconds ago he had crouched there to watch. Silently, he left the yard by the way he had came and, accompanied by awaking birds, made his way back to what was home this week--an abandoned elementary school on Holton Street.
He pulled aside a board and slid through a smashed window into the principal's office. The room, had lots of cobwebs and dust, had once been hell to six graders, but all it had left was a filling cabinet and a desk. Built-in shelves lined the room. A battered suitcase sat on one of the shelves.
The board was put back in place the room as bathed into black once again. This did not bother Inuyasha as he didn't need much light to see. He took down the suitcase and opened it. Inside it had a small painting in a guilt frame. It was a family group: a man, a women with a baby in her arms, and a small child. The varnish was cracked and old. Beneath the painting was soil, dark dry soil. Inuyasha ran his fingers through it and sighed. This was his sleep; the soil of his homeland. The earth he would have rested in for eternity, if he had truly died, still had the power to give him a little of that peace. It was a taste of death, perhaps that restored him. Without it he would waste away to nothing and become a shriveled thing, unable to move, unable to feed, but still unable to die. He called it an 'undead hell'.
He raised the painting to his lips and kissed it softly, then replaced it in the suitcase, closed the case, and locked the case. He needed rest, not like the comalike state of trance that sometimes took him. He could always tell when that was coming. It took a big feed; a human feed. Now he just needed a dormant period to recharge, so to speak. He shoved the suitcase in a cubbyhole underneath the desk and slid in after it. He curled, encircling the case, and wrapping his arms around it; clutching it as if it was his only treasure and possesion.
He lay there, eyes opened, staring beyond the room, beyond the school. Before he lept into a dream, he thought of the girl again briefly. He then drifted off to the stars in a light sleep.
Inuyasha wiped the rat's blood from around his mouth. It was not as satisfying as human blood, but it would do. There had been no food at the park, of course.
He had crouched in this alley behind a row of shops for twenty minutes now, catching and drinking, catching and drinking. They were hiding now, the rats. They knew something was up. Big cat, he thought, and smiled a thin, glittering smile.
Time to move on. He stood adn stretched, lean-muscled arms reaching skyward. He wore only a T-shirt despite the cool fall night. It was black like his jeans, and his black Nike's. He was fond of black. Shadows, he thought. Night. It satisfied him to wear black, yet his laces were red. "Blood," he had whispered that evening at the thrift store, when his fingers would not leave them alone in the bin. They tangled around his nervous hand until he had to fling them from him or buy them. He handed a dime from the gutter over to the woman with the suspicious frown and fled to this same alley to put them on.
Where would he go from here? The park? Maybe the girl that he had met earlier would have left. Or maybe not. I should go anyway, he thought, and smiled again, the same glittering smile. She was beautiful, dark like the night, but thin, as if another claimed her. A frown changed his features suddenly, then disappeared as quickly. No, she did not have the smell of that upon her.
No, he would go to that house. He had only a few blocks to walk from here. He would see what the boy was up to.
Inuyasha left the alley cautiously. It was not good to be seen at the same place often. It was an excellent hunting place; he did not want to lose it. He walked the pavement with shoulders hunched, hands in jean pockets, as if against the cold. Who knew who was watching. He would have to get a coat. The street he traveled intersected the alley that ran behind the houses on Mulberry Street. He made a right, five houses along he stopped at the end of a long backyard.
There was no lights on at the back of the house. The yard was mottled with moonlight. Inuyasha flowed from shadow to shadow, between trees and bushes, as if a shadow himself. He might be a cloud in front of the moon. He reached the rough brick of the house and crept to the oak tree at the corner, with ease he scaled the tree and flowed up to a perch on a sturdy limb. He barely made any sound from the brittle leaves that were to stuborn to drop from the twigs.
He could see into a bedroom. It was anonymous room. The walls were bare, nothing there to suggest the personality of the occupant. But there was an occupant, a huddled form on the bed. A boy that looked like he was twenty-one years old sitting with a book, reading a book with the moonlight as the light. He had a book bag lying beside him on the bed. You'll ruin your eyesite, boy, Inuyasha thought, and grinned wickedly. It was a thick book that you wouldn't think that the person would be reading it, and Inuyasha was itching to read the title. Occasionally, the person would suppress a laugh and shake his head, whisking his delicate white hair through the moonlight.
Inuyasha saw the person lying there with his eyes opened, staring into the night, still defying sleep, still smiling. There was a growl in the back of Inuyasha's throat he could barely contain. It almost choked him. He climbed down the tree before it burst from his mouth. It was not the right time or place.
Inuyasha sat in the bushes for a long while. He breathed the night, made plans, and abandoned them. No one in the house stirred. All the windows were clear; all except one window, where dark hunger beckoned.
Finally, Inuyasha heard the predawn bird cry, and he rose to his feet in a single motion. His body made no protest at the breaking of the vigil. It was as if it were only seconds ago he had crouched there to watch. Silently, he left the yard by the way he had came and, accompanied by awaking birds, made his way back to what was home this week--an abandoned elementary school on Holton Street.
He pulled aside a board and slid through a smashed window into the principal's office. The room, had lots of cobwebs and dust, had once been hell to six graders, but all it had left was a filling cabinet and a desk. Built-in shelves lined the room. A battered suitcase sat on one of the shelves.
The board was put back in place the room as bathed into black once again. This did not bother Inuyasha as he didn't need much light to see. He took down the suitcase and opened it. Inside it had a small painting in a guilt frame. It was a family group: a man, a women with a baby in her arms, and a small child. The varnish was cracked and old. Beneath the painting was soil, dark dry soil. Inuyasha ran his fingers through it and sighed. This was his sleep; the soil of his homeland. The earth he would have rested in for eternity, if he had truly died, still had the power to give him a little of that peace. It was a taste of death, perhaps that restored him. Without it he would waste away to nothing and become a shriveled thing, unable to move, unable to feed, but still unable to die. He called it an 'undead hell'.
He raised the painting to his lips and kissed it softly, then replaced it in the suitcase, closed the case, and locked the case. He needed rest, not like the comalike state of trance that sometimes took him. He could always tell when that was coming. It took a big feed; a human feed. Now he just needed a dormant period to recharge, so to speak. He shoved the suitcase in a cubbyhole underneath the desk and slid in after it. He curled, encircling the case, and wrapping his arms around it; clutching it as if it was his only treasure and possesion.
He lay there, eyes opened, staring beyond the room, beyond the school. Before he lept into a dream, he thought of the girl again briefly. He then drifted off to the stars in a light sleep.