Love Bite

You're getting hungry. The signs are showing.

You'd give anything for the embarrassing stomach rumbles that normal people get when they haven't eaten. Instead, you get the shakes, you get edgy, you break out in cold sweats. More like withdrawal symptoms than hunger pangs. To you, your food is a drug – more than just sustenance, harder to resist than any banquet.

Sometimes at work you have to go up to the hospital's detox wards. You see the junkies and the crankheads, coming up off their habits, weak and sick, shivering and muttering to themselves. At least, after 100 years, you've learned to control your symptoms. All part of the façade of normalcy.

You go down to the hospital's café. The girl at the counter must be new; you don't recognise her. She smiles as she hands you your coffee. She's pretty, but you can't risk it. Not now, not when you're like this.

You can't drink your coffee. It tastes wrong, even though it's exactly how you like it. It's too thin, too sweet, too hot. Thick and metallic, at 37°C – that's what you want, what you need.

No. You won't give in. It'll get easier. You don't want to be like the others. You aren't a monster.

The new girl at the counter somehow slips you her number. You fully intend to throw the little piece of paper out, but you don't seem to see any bins on the way to your locker, even though you're sure they're there.

Before you know it, you're at home, arranging to have a drink with the girl – Bethany, you learn her name is. George watches you while you're on the phone, and when you hang up he opens his mouth to lecture you, remind you of what could happen. You can't bear to listen to him – mainly because you know he's right. You leave the flat early to get away from his pointed looks which clearly say, 'don't do anything you'll regret tomorrow'.

You meet Bethany in the pub at the end of the road. You order a red wine – if you stare at it you can almost trick yourself that you've got what you want. When Bethany announces that she feels 'adventurous' and orders a Bloody Mary, you almost burst out laughing.

After only a few rounds she drags you back to her flat, despite your protests. You're trying to quit while you're ahead but she's having none of it. She sits you on the couch and pours you a drink while her iPod plays through the stereo.

When she sits next to you, the smell of her perfume is strong but not nearly strong enough. She's taken off the scarf she was wearing in the pub and you can see her pale neck, just there in front of you.

She talks a lot, about all sorts. You notice that she has a habit of flicking her hair to the side, exposing the side of her neck. She probably thinks it makes her look attractive, but to you it's like she's tempting you, all part of an elaborate suicide by proxy.

You try and focus on her eyes. You stare into them, concentrating on the innocence and humanity within the blue irises. But your gaze drifts to the delicate bloodlines in the corner of each eye. You couldn't see them a minute ago – she's moving slowly closer. Her scent is getting stronger as the distance between you dwindles.

You try and stare at the wall just behind her head and listen to the music in the background to block out your thoughts. You can hardly believe it – there's a song by Death Cab For Cutie, than one by Vampire Weekend. The irony is like something out of a bad film.

She closes the gap between you. She's hungry too, and she's coming in for the kill. You know you should leave but it's like you're pinned to the couch by her scent and your hunger.

She leans in and kisses you, and you don't resist even though you know you have to otherwise she's gone. You can't stop yourself from kissing her back, and moving your hands up to her soft, frail neck. As she unbuttons your shirt you pray that she wears a cross around her neck, because that's stopped you before, but the only necklace she has is a small 'B' on a gold chain. There's nothing to stop you, not even your own willpower. You're lost to the primal desires. A small part of you watches helplessly as you lose control, like a bystander watching a car hurtling off a cliff.
You break off from her lips, kissing along her jaw line then down to her neck. You can sense the blood flowing in waves through her jugular vein, being pushed along by her frantically-beating heart. She's too focused on your belt buckle to notice your eyes turn black.

She screams as you bite down and your fangs pierce through her skin to her throat. As the blood starts to flow and you start to feed, her scream turns to a whimper, then silence. You don't notice her body relax and crumple because your entire being is overcome by the ecstasy of the feed.

The blood flow lessens as her heart stops beating and you have to suck to continue to drink.

You break away from her and stand up, pushing her still-warm body off you. Deep red blood continues to ooze slowly from the tiny marks that you've left on her porcelain skin. You look down at her as you wipe your mouth and button your shirt. Her lipstick is smudged and her hair is tousled but she still looks beautiful, like a doll.

The stereo is still playing – an upbeat, happy song that doesn't fit the moment, but you can't make yourself go across the room to turn it off. Her blue eyes won't let you turn away even though they're now empty and lifeless.

You decide to finish her properly. She deserves a peaceful death, not an eternity plagued by the murderous hunger.

It doesn't take long to empty her veins, even though the bliss of feeding isn't as strong when mixed with self-disgust. When you lie her head back down on the couch, her face is pale under the concealer. There is no longer enough blood left in her body to spread your poison and turn her. You consider yourself merciful for giving her a real death, rather than the curse of immortality.

You wipe the blood from her neck before leaving her lying just as she fell. You know that there are others like you in the hospital and morgue who will attribute her death to internal bleeding or a heart attack. You don't have to worry about the clean-up. All you have to deal with is the guilt. Guilt at doing what you were made to do, to an innocent woman who never knew monsters existed until she took one home.

Her blood will keep you going for a good couple of weeks. But eventually the hunger will return, and you know that once again you will have to choose between your morality and your nature.

And you know that, like always, there won't really be a choice.