I awoke about six hours ago. I knew what had happened. I remember pain, and slipping in and out of consciousness. I remember days of this. I went out and hunted. I discovered that the car lot where I'd been raped and eaten was a crime scene; "someone" had broken into one of the cars, and it was full of blood and cum.

As you can imagine, this was highly amusing to me.

Now I stand before a mirror, remembering all of this misery. I wonder if it would be wise to hunt down the bastard that pressed this existence on me. It isn't terrible, but. . .

I don't feel anything much for killing the man that tried to jump me. He tasted foul, but I don't feel a bit bad. And I know he was drained. I made sure.

I lick my lips. I wrinkle my nose. I close my eyes, then open them. I move each finger separately. I smell the air.

I smell oil. I smell salt water. I smell people. I smell a woman's lapdog in her purse. I smell a man's paper-cut, leaking out of his generic latex band-aid. I smell the fire from the piston of a passing car's engine. I smell my brother.

What?

I turn around. This is not possible.

I can hear almost as well as I can smell. He didn't come in.

I move through the rooms of my apartment silently, zoning in on the scent.

I finally find the source. I feel foolish. He left yet another hat at my place. I should give it to him—wait.

I put the hat on my head. I look I the mirror again. I've never been good at wearing hats. This one is all right. I look around. It is time for me to leave. I need to purchase something to sleep in. It is getting late; I can almost see the sun.

* * *

I stand. It is dusk. I have an hour to prepare my self for the evening. I am hungry, and I believe it is time to leave New Jersey. I have wanted to leave this wretched state my entire life, and now that I am faced with immortality, I can't sit here any longer.

I put on a black button-up. I slide into a pair of black jeans that used to seem ridiculously tight. I don my sweet brother's hat. I step into a pair of dress shoes and make my way to the used car lot. I've left a letter to my brother, and one for my good friend Matt. They will never understand, I pray. I hope Mikey doesn't mind me taking his hat. Or Matt his belt.

I steal the most likely looking car, a gray Jetta. I steal some license plates off a similar model. I pull up next to a nightclub.

The music is painfully loud, the smells make it hard to focus. I wonder why it is so easy for me to control myself.

I choose a boy with blue hair, here with his boyfriend. As soon as his boyfriend leaves him alone, I slide into a seat next to him at his table. I smile charmingly.

He is easy to fool. I do not need to force him. He follows me up some stairs; there are bedrooms. I know this; this is my usual spot. It is his first time here.

I kill him silently. His screams pass as cries of ecstasy.

I wonder again as to the identity of my murderer. I would like to meet him someday. Perhaps he will touch me the way he did before. I do not know. I likely never will.

I leave. I purchase curtains. I put them in my car. I drive all night.

I drive into the woods at daybreak. I close my curtains. I climb into my coffin, which lies across the back seat and trunk. I need a bigger car.

* * *

It is late in the evening. I have sated myself upon a woman camping by herself.

I smirk. Ah, the dangers of being alone in this world.

Okay, so I'm posting this damn thing as I find it, so. . . keep in mind that it was written about two years ago, so I'm guessing the crazy homones were why it's so. . .sex-centred, yeah? I dunno. . . I like it, but I should probably edit the hell out of it.

'Cuz I haven't been doing that.

Also! I know there's people reading this, so please review. I would really, really like some feedback.

And if you don't, Gerard WILL come to your house and drink all your blood.

muahaha