This story contains questionable religious themes of a sexual nature, as well as mild to graphic gore, and scenes of a very erotic nature. Do not read on if these are things that you may find offensive or upsetting!
It's quite sometime after midnight. The winter sun won't be surfacing for some hours yet, so I bask in the quiet blackness of late morning.
Blackness; the opaque blanket of sky, thousands of tiny pinpoint holes twinkling at me. Snow surrounds me, filling the shallow craters in this almost dilapidated school roof. There's probably a frozen chill in the air, but my cheeks melt the snow that falls on them. My limbs and other places still feel hot after... The Kill? The Feed? Let's just say dinner. He was young, maybe nineteen; drunk, delicious and dithering from the only club in town, grey shirt holding his body like a second skin, black jeans to rival the tightness. I bit into him just as he was releasing. That's the best time to do it: blood pumping freely through the extremities, making the last few minutes of life perhaps a pleasure. I shut my eyes. Blackness.
I rise abruptly like an iced zombie as if awoken by someone shaking me, and snow scatters away around me like dust. How long have I been lying here, slowly being buried? I check my watch: half seven in the morning. I run, leaping off the roof, and land perfectly on a gargoyle statue guarding the school. Sixteen to nineteen-year-old males will soon be pouring in the school gates, ready to attend mass before school starts, and I hurry to disappear before they dissipate across the grounds. I head towards the church just opposite; my secret home that isn't without duty. It's a bit like holding my own Confession - on my knees in a booth, witnessing sin. The priest always tells me he loves eighteen-year-olds the best. I avoid telling him I'm actually a hundred and ninety-nine.
I've been killing an awful lot more recently. I'm not especially hungry, either. Whether it's boredom or loneliness, it's becoming quite the hassle to cover my tracks so much. It's been near a hundred and fifty years since I've had the company of the same kind as me.
I'll converse with the men before I take from them. Sometimes I'll even fool around with the same one for a few nights, then feast on him. Am I trying to find The One? Perhaps. Maybe part of me would like the company, the relief from the loneliness of hunting alone. How would I know what to do with The One anyway? I don't think I'd have the power to Create, to let someone take my blood from me. A plasma virgin, after all these years. What a hopeless romantic I must be.
I gaze through my window, the kind of stained glass that you can see out of but can't really see in to. From the top of the turret, I can see the school clearly. I have a few minutes yet.
My "living" space is just as incredibly modest as always; bare board floors, plain brick walls. A dirty mirror hangs above the small chest, holding my few items of clothing and keepsakes. And there in the corner, my coffin, stolen from the deadhouse. The priest even boarded over the door so no one could find me here. But what a sick Father-son relationship we have.
The school bell rings and, rising, I watch as the older boys tower above those who are younger, wishing I could be one of them.
This part is the same as always until I see something new. I see a chestnut-brown mop of hair, and I feel a sudden jolt in my chest; tall but no more so than many of the others. So why does he stand out? He turns to look at his friend, and I see his beautiful face. His hazel eyes strike me, and his heavy brows make him look a little naturally concerned. My senses come to life, and I know his name. I hear those three syllables that roll off my tongue and feel delicious to say.
Nathaniel.
The clouds shift, and rays of hot sunlight tease me over the tall buildings. I recoil from the window, pulling the curtains, and launch myself into my coffin.
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