Chapter 10: Stasimon

Sometimes, I sit and wonder how old I am.

That probably doesn't mean what you think it does. It's not like I've forgotten or lost count of time. Perhaps, I'd be better off rephrasing the statement into: "I wonder how old I should consider myself." That probably would make a bit more sense.

Part of me thinks I should be considered timeless, ageless, and eternal. For all I know, it might be the case. Yes, I know. Still not making any sense, am I? Try being me for a little while. We'll see how much sense you'd make then.

Understanding things had always been the biggest problem of my existence. Half the time, I don't even know what to call stuff. The rules of this world are different for yours truly. It's the same universe, though, and I'm definitely a part of it, despite how often it feels like I'm just watching it through glass.

Glass. That's what the fox was like. I told him that, and he didn't get it. Of course, he did not. How was I supposed to explain what I do? You just don't tell someone: "Yes, I'm metaphysically taking the form of your innocence, breaking it into trillions of tiny shards, whereupon I will thrive in those fragments for the next few weeks." Especially, not while you're making love to them; you simply can't do that.

Maybe I didn't exactly "love him" love him, but the act itself was still lovemaking. I know it was a lovely experience, and naturally, he loved it, too. The sort of love isn't something I had felt in a long time, either, so I relished it so wonderfully. However, the innocence was that really got to me.

I hadn't felt true innocence like that in the longest time. Must've been decades, I figure. It might have been cropped up a few times in the meantime. Even if it did, other issues are now on the surface. Too much of the interim is overloaded with negative emotions, thus the positive ones get covered up. When you folks talk about things being "dark" in the emotional sense, let me tell you: you're not kidding.

No, before the fox, the last time I recall experiencing such unspoiled purity was my own. Except…it wasn't quite me that felt it. This leads back to what had been said before, you know, the part about wondering about aging.

My name, or is that "his name", was…well, the actual name doesn't serve an importance, in the long run; I'm not sure if it's even technically possible to claim I'm the person. "Sol" was the nickname, and that's what I liked to be called. It's what I thought of myself. And after the incident, that was one of the few things that remained in his mind, so "Sol" I remain.

I kept that name, but lost the innocence. Most of everything vanished, really. Nevertheless, I gained much, much more in return. It wasn't an even trade. If anyone had a solution for going returning to what I was before, I'd take it. Still, if that were possible, I don't know if I'd be able to survive without going mad. Things would be just too different.

Throughout the years, I've gotten used to thinking about the emotions of others as a smorgasbord for myself. Wanting to be normal doesn't mean that you'd be able to adapt to being normal. I suppose that fraction of me should be bitter about that, yet not the whole. And there's a reason for that.

I enjoy what I do.

Some folks think it's a sign of sadism. They're right, of course. I'm not going to lie and say otherwise. I hurt people, and enjoy it. Sometimes the pain is physical, but mostly it's emotional and psychological. The fact doesn't mean I want to do it, though.

Maybe that seems like a contradiction, not really. Think of it like…like eating. Hell, that's practically what "eating" is, for me. Eating is something that one needs to do. If you don't eat, you die. Plain and simple. It's a requirement, besides, eating is pleasurable. It feels good to eat. It provides the impetus to eat again.

And when you're hungry, things taste better, don't they?

When I draw off the thoughts of a person when they look at me and consider me arousing, it's synonymous to somebody cooking dinner in the room next door. When I break the spirit of an arrogant man and make him concede to my will, compare the process to a beast sinking its jaws into the prey's belly. For the victim, and from an outside viewpoint, it's horrible, by all means. But the beast has no remorse. And neither do I. It's a necessity. It just happens to be an enjoyable necessity.

So, yes, I'm a sadist, and I like it. If I'm going to be forced into the role, I might as well make the most of it, right? There's not much of a choice to the matter. It's how you get by.

Actually, that's not true. There is a choice. Emotions caused by pain and suffering aren't the only ones possible to consume. Things like love, fear, anger, glee…all of those are viable options. Some are better than others, then again, some are just easier to get.

If you think of it that way, then I am, perhaps, a bit of a hedonist, going for the easier, more satisfying route. That probably comes as no surprise, I bet.

Lately, though, things keep coming back to that taste of innocence I got so recently. It was spectacular! Not only was it a different flavor of sustenance that I'm used to, it was more rewarding. And the person I used to be felt much happier to be feeding off of something so positive and…pure. I thought to myself: "It'd be great if I could just make do with this instead of playing with people's minds."

Then, cold reality hit me. How often would there be possible to find innocence like that, and have it so readily given? Not often enough, certainly. Besides, after I had their innocence, I'd just need to leave. Such treatment would most likely hurt them even more. Doing that would be worse than any sadism I could come up with. Right now, there's a young two-tailed fox out there. He gave himself to me and doesn't remember; I used the given strength in order to spare him the agony of heartbreak.

A paradox, I suppose. I love the suffering that people get, but I hate to have them suffer. Under most circumstances, sometimes, they deserve it.

Like that rich fucker. Damn, the gall of him! I went through so much time and effort, looking and researching to find someone who would appreciate the pleasure and attention I could give him. I deliberately found someone hard-to-please, that everything could be NICE, and give him that perfect pleasure he sought. Consequently, I could feed off that sheer bliss, and I'd be happy. We could have both gone home satisfied that night.

But no! He ruined it. He deserved the torment I caused him. And it only made things worse, because the taste was so sour, mixing with my own anger and bitterness. Some tastes just don't mix well together on the tongue. It's times like these that I really begin to despise my existence, needing to feed this way. It makes me wish that I had never been saved.

Again, we're back to the innocence, which just keeps coming up. We have also returned to the question of my age. There's a reason why these threads connect where they do. To comprehend the idea you need to understand more about me; you need to understand who, what, I am.

I am Sol. I am a genet. At the same time, I'm neither of those things. I am something fundamentally different from what I was back before my innocence was lost. Whether it was luck, or a curse, time will tell.

Sol, as he – I was, was a thirteen-year-old boy when it happened. A thirteen-year-old boy stands no chance against three grown men intent on venting their sexual frustrations. For something that's drawn to an outpouring of spiritual energy, there isn't much more intense than such a group of four people, all together in the same place. That's where it happened.

I found the young boy right on the cusp of disaster. Something about experiencing abject terror for the first time felt irresistible. Contrasting that with the violent, id-driven urges from the three men, the distinction seemed clear, and there was a choice to be made. I asked the genet child if he would like my help.

And when I heard that request for help, naturally, I accepted. I was being assaulted, and surely, I would have taken even the longest of long shots for any hope of safety. The warm feeling entered my mind and thoughts mingled together.

In that very moment I've lost my innocence.

The first who laid a hand on me got killed instantly. My memory's a bit of a haze from that point, but if there was any more of him left apart from a bloody smear on the wall, it'd be a surprise. After that, the haze changes into a blur. I only know when everything ceased, I stayed untouched, and the three men were dead. Just one of them had enough remains to constitute a body.

I could taste it for myself at last: terror. The other two to die had been utterly horrified to see the first obliterated before their eyes. The group's final moments were filled not with naught, but confusion, panic, desperation, and, finally, agony.

It was…scrumptious.

From that moment forward, we had to separate again. I had given help, and I made use of the granted power. Though, something happened, and I don't think I'll ever know what, to prevent the dissolution. My running theory was that the intensity of emotions in those few seconds, going from fearing for my life, to reveling in chaos, and the resultant joy of survival, was just too much.

And so, I now am what I am. There is no more thirteen-year-old boy, and there is no more metaphysical entity. Two have combined, with the result being different from either of the other. That is what I am.

I've tried to come up with a term for myself, but nothing really fit. If you replace "blood" with "emotion", then I'm something similar to a vampire, only…not quite. After I had become a bit more sexual, I thought of myself as an incubus of sorts. But that implies I'm after the sex.

Sure, I've got my sexual urges, but that's separate from feeding. I've got a body, and a body has needs, too.

You might be wondering, then, where the seduction shtick comes from. That part's simple: you dig, where you know there's oil.

If you can try to, imagine that you're a confused being with untested magical abilities, and the body of a thirteen-year-old boy (I say that like it's so easy, I know). Part of you is still getting over the fact that you just killed three people, and part of you is confused as to why it's thinking in the terms of "I" and not "we".

The first instinct is to flee. Your second is to hide. You tap into some part of your mind that you didn't know you had, and change yourself; somehow, you change yourself. You want to feel safer, and stronger, and so thirteen becomes twenty. Now, that takes a lot of juice from you. Luckily, you've overstuffed yourself at the previous meal, so you've got enough to go around.

But now, you're hungry again.

Part of you thinks it is thirteen years old. Part of you knows that you're something far more ancient. Neither is correct. Your mind needs the emotions of others, but you are bound by flesh. Walls, once nothing, are now hindrances. Water, once life, is just wetness.

However, you're physical. You can affect things. Remember that part of you still believes you're thirteen. And what do thirteen-year-olds do when they want someone to notice them?

That's right! They cause trouble! You go out there, and spark mayhem and chaos wherever you can! Like some fiery impish creature you wreak havoc, and delight in the confusion among people, because that confusion is your lunch. Your magics let you do things that folks can't believe, and stupefaction tastes an awful lot like candy at that age.

There's a problem to that, about reaping your harvest by causing problems for the "mortals", since you suddenly realize that you're one of the mortals, as well. Even if that explosion you set off with your mind doesn't kill anybody, eventually, people are going to recognize you're the key factor in all of these unexplained incidents. You can't run forever. Even if you could, you couldn't feed. There has to be another way.

So you decide to try a different tactic. Instead of perturbing the masses at a distance, you try to get really strong emotions from single people, up close and personal. When your survival depends on having supernatural empathy, you discover something pretty quickly.

People like sex. They really, really like sex. They think about it all the time, really. And they especially think about it when you do the right things. You've got something to work with. Now you need a mirror.

You stand in front of the said mirror, and look at yourself. It's time to look your best. Not just "the" best, mind – "your" best. So you alter a few things here and there, and go with what you've seen works. After all, part of you has been around for a very long time, and they're not joking when they call it the World's Oldest Profession.

Now, you just need your modus operandi. You need to know how to hone in on your targets and get what you want, without failure. Women are emotional creatures, yes, but that sort of emotion is drawn out in a more long-lasting sense. You can't make time commitments like that. You need all of your emotion coming at you in raw, unbounded bursts.

Men: when it comes to the release of id, power tripping, and selfish gratification, they're your jackpot. That's what you want, and you know how to get them. You've given yourself the perfect face, perfect curves, and perfect ass. Dress yourself up like prey, to hide the fact that you're the predator. Men are going to want you.

Your first victim is a hawk. Why not? He's a burly chunk of masculine energy. He'll be good for you. So you provoke him. You wear tight leather pants and a chain collar, and you make yourself very, very available. You swish that awesomely seductive tail of yours to make sure that his attention is right there on your ass, where you want it, and where he wants it.

He takes the bait. You smile. The dance has begun. You can flirt night-flawlessly, because you're the next best thing to an outright mind reader. Of course, he never realizes this, because one: you're just that good, and two: you're too sexy for him to care even if he noticed.

You "let" him buy you a drink. He doesn't usually do that sort of thing, but you throw a few suggestions in to the back of his brain to make him do it. That way, more eyes are on you, and the rest of his patrons in the establishment get a bit jealous. Jealousy, you discover, makes a wonderful horse d'oeuvre. That morsel of emotion fuels your power. You make that hawk your bitch before you're even anywhere near a bedroom.

The best part is, birdie doesn't even know he's your bitch. He's still dripping and oozing with disgusting self-confidence that you can slurp off here and there. And he's horny. Even without sensing emotions, you know that his cock is straining hard in those pants. He wants your ass so badly he'll do anything to do it.

And so you make him.

You tease him for hours and hours, and even after you're alone together, you drag it on. He's dying to just blow his wad, but you force him to sit in agony, as you don't quite put out. Finally, he starts getting frustrated. Better reel the sucker in, now, because otherwise, he'll decide to leave, and the energy you blow on forcing him to stay will be more than you get from the meal itself.

The hawk brings you to the bed. You let him tear those leather pants off of you, and he lubes that fat cock of his up. It's nice-looking, you think, but yours is pretty. He wraps his hefty arms around your slightly feminine frame, and he throws you on your back onto the bed, and now, he has his prize.

But you have your prize, too. If you weren't dependant on drinking his lust, it'd be almost worth it just for the look on his face alone, as he finally gets to shove his dick into you. He holds you by the ankles, and spreads your legs wide. You've never done this before, but still, you're a pro. You're the best goddamn fuck he's ever had, and his pleasure is the sweetest thing you've tasted, you realize, since you killed a room full of people in self-defense a few years ago. Now, you know that your plan works. This is the way to go.

You beg the guy to slam your tight little ass harder. It turns him on. He spreads you a bit wider, and that hot, slippery cock keeps hitting nice and deep inside of you. Coincidentally, you don't even need to fake the whimpering noises as he pumps you full of his cock incessantly. You realize, shamelessly, that you get your own pleasure from that. Unfortunately, that's an emotion that doesn't go on your plate. It's okay, though, because you're coming up on the end of the main course, and dessert is next. The thirteen-year-old inside of you that never died – he fucking loves dessert.

The hawk pulls out, and you're already devouring the rush of his orgasm before his fat tip even begins to spurt. He shoots his load all over you. The strange, new sensation of wet stickiness spraying your fur is nice, but it's nothing compared to the feeling of an unadulterated male climax vented specifically at you.

Fortune smiles upon you. You get a bit of an after dinner drink as you slowly sip down birdie-boy's twisted sense of pride over the fact that he just came all over you. He's so fucking smug. He thinks he's hot shit. He thinks that he just made you his bitch.

Oh, how wrong he is. He just spent all night playing right along with whatever you wanted him to, like an overgrown action figure. Now, it's your turn to be the cocky little motherfucker. You've earned it.

Tomorrow night? Do it all again. Change it up a bit. Maybe go with someone who wants you to play "pet", and munch down his elation when you let him jizz all over your pretty face.

They say: "Third time's a charm." And before night number three is over, you know you're addicted. You could turn back, maybe, but that would take effort.

Besides, most addictions are bad for you, and down the line, they'll probably kill you, but this addiction keeps you alive.

This is why I have no remorse about what I am. I enjoy what I need to do in order to survive. Am I still a sadist? Yes. People get over the pain, eventually. It's up to me to cause new turmoil in the minds of people so that I can continue to exist. Survival of the fittest has never, ever implied fairness.

The rules are different for me. They always will be. Not even magic can change that. I don't need to, though. Like I said, I have no remorse about what I am. I can't help what I am. I just am. But that doesn't mean I'm not remorseful about what I've done.

I've made people suffer. I liked doing it, too. I've brought proud men to their knees; I've broken the will of stalwart folk. There have been times where I've lied through my teeth and harnessed the reigns of mind and soul to trick someone, just so that I could eat their fucking surprise when they realize that I was on top of them instead of them being on top of me. And one time, many, many years ago, I killed a group of three people.

I don't regret that, though, either. I'll never regret that. They were scum among scum, and they deserved to die, probably more slowly than I let them. Sometimes, I wish for the power to bring them back to life, just to kill them again. Sure, I could devour their suffering anew, but the real reason I'd do it would just be to feel MY pleasure when I get to do it.

Maybe I'm not exactly sure about the times I've felt innocence since I changed. But I do know that I've never cried since becoming what I am, except for one time.

Somewhere out there, there's a college sophomore. He's probably got a bright future ahead of him. Powers willing, he'll make some lucky person very happy someday. His strength of character is amazing; he's a bit shy, but he'll get over it.

This lovely young man gave me his innocence. And while I was drunk with rapture from that, I could taste for one moment, just one fleeting moment, that somewhere, deep down inside, he was hoping that someday he'd fall in love with me. I couldn't let him experience the suffering of having to learn that it could never come to be. So I took those moments away from him, leaving him ignorant, and sparing the pain.

But I still think that's the worst thing I've ever done.