How? How have I become this? He thought.
As he looked down at the pathetic thing that had once been a human, he couldn't think of a reason. I'm a monster, a monster without a soul.
He raised his arm, pointed the tip of the dagger at the things throat, and carefully slit it. Blood poured out, along his arm, splattering the pavement. It was always like this, swift, but violent and messy, yet it held a strange thrill. As the creature trembled violently as its life poured out of it, he stood, wiped the blade, and sheathed it.
I said I would never become this, never be the monster, He thought, this is HIS fault.
He looked at the corpse, for it only had seconds of life left, for one last time. It lay there, in a pool of its own blood, wasted and with a scream contorting its dying features as it tried to make a noise through its ruined larynx.
"You were young and beautiful; I have no right to take that away from you. But I need to do this to survive," he murmured, "I'm sorry" I can still taste you. Sweet, innocent, delicious.
As the body shook one last time, he turned, put on his jacket and walked down the alley, leaving behind the ruined, starved body of his human captive, alone in a dark spread of blood, wearing a once fine dress, now stained and torn, and a necklace bearing the legend "Victoria Helsing".