A Passionate Feast
"It wasn't supposed to be like this!" You cry in between the lunges of the shovel.
The wet dirt flings itself aside, the rain softening it as much as weighing it down.
The young man's body lies limply out of the trunk, light having long left his eyes. You sure did savor that meal, didn't you?
Oh, it was going so well. A charming date with a new beau, who was ever so kind. And maybe, if things went well, you'd have a little nibble towards the end. He wouldn't even remember, right?
But it had been oh-so-long since you had fed. You were oh-so-particular with how you did it, you surely didn't need to debase yourself. You didn't have the same monster every other vampire does, you're better than the rabble.
Those that assaulted in the alley were brutes, those that took payment were greedy bastards, the seducers were whores and the hierophants were snake-oil salesmen. You might've been a liar, but you were greater in your restraint, greater in your willpower, and so much more dignified in your subtle, occasional ways.
And yet, here you are. Hands coated in mud, eyes leaking blood like a petulant neonate, with panic and anguish polluting your thoughts.
"But wasn't it so wonderful?" A voice whispers in the darkness. It has taken many forms, the voice of your sire, your first victim, your greatest ally, even your own. But it has the same goal.
Temptation.
"It might be gauche to reminisce so soon after, but my-oh-my! From that first pin-prick, the ichor of that boy! He was oh-so-exquisite!" Even as you do not breathe, your throat hitches as the sensations bubble up once more. The hunger returns, oh-so-quickly.
It started with just that small bite of the neck, something so easily masked as merely a fetish. But, the savor and flavor of that first taste, it unhinged you. The brutality of it still exists on that limply hanging body, the left side of his throat and shoulder violently ripped from his flesh.
How your teeth tore in, how your tongue wormed along the gashes and tendons as you feasted more than even a swarm of buzzards would stomach, how you delighted in that flavor and smiled against his gore. His only fortune was that he died quickly, and yours was that you had waited to be in your own car.
"I wonder," that cruel voice whispers "Is it still warm in there?"
The tantalization begins, rumbling throughout your stomach as if it still undulated within. Your fangs nearly tremble and pulsate, as if you are about to begin salivating. But despite the echo of that deep desire, you are able to shake it off.
"Too much...I've done too much...this isn't me..." You whimper to no one but yourself.
The grave is dug enough. The smell of the still-spilled yet long-dried blood tickles your hunger once more, but disgust fills the remainder of your senses.
The body goes in, and it's quicker work to shove piles back than to take them out. Always easier to hide than to expose.
It's almost funny. As dirt covers the life you tore out with readied fangs, you can't even remember his name. One more sacrifice on the altar of your eternity, ideally never to be found again. Oh well, such is your life.
You make sure to throw the shovel aside. It's not even yours, a random family will wake up in a panic at the realization their garden shed was raided, but even that won't be linked to you.
A quiet and calming drive home returns your nerves to you, punctuated by a call to a professional, one who can get the car as clean as new.
As you clean yourself in the meanwhile, you look in the mirror, eyes still manic with energy. "Once. This will only happen once." You find your center, in spite of everything.
"You are civilized. You are in control. You are better." You are a fool, but you are also your own folly.
As you commit to your restraint once more, the beast within you grins maliciously.
None of us can truly fight who we are, Kindred least of all.
Fight all you like, stall the inevitable, preach and screech your convictions for all to hear.
The Beast shall make a liar of you all the same.
