I’m sitting here, writing this, as the perfect cliché. I didn’t want what has been given to me; I feel just like David Talbot. I feel as if my soul has been stolen, simply to satisfy someone else, someone unseen. My neck is still sore from that bastard wound, and for all of the times that I have said, tonight I truly despise who I am.

Look at me. My blackened eyes, hollowed out by this…living death. My skin faded, sick, plagued by scars of what is now a previous life. It seems that my only souvenirs are the beautiful, defined burns I inflicted upon myself. Compared to what she inflicted upon me, the burns were feather kisses. A crucifix, my necklace is hanging above my head as I write this, looped over a bar on my bunk bed. But I know that, no matter how hard I pray, I have been forsaken.

I can feel this incredible and undeniable surge inside of me, as if a starved being is trapped inside my skeleton. I know this to be the Thirst. And my head…my head is pounding. My maker is sat across from me, as beautiful as she ever was. Her name is not particular or special, just as mine is unimportant. But she can I tell how pale I am, so now she’s standing and leading me outside. I can see my breath materialise in front of me, as if they are the final ruins of my since-stolen soul. We’re walking towards the throbbing heart of the city. I watch her slender fingers reach in and pull out two cigarettes, which she lights on a candle sitting on top of a restaurant’s outdoor table. I feel her preternatural skin touch mine as she passes me the item which, a few hours ago, could have been my potential killer. Ironic, isn’t it.

I’m following this dark goddess into a crowded bar. The sweat, the heartbeats…they’re driving me to the brink. All this choice, compared to the compulsory offer of a few hours ago. My eyes scan wildly, and then pinpoint a target. A beautiful woman. Long dark hair, bright eyes. She’s not unlike my maker, that damned woman who seduced me and then raped me of my life. And, oh, the scent of her sickly sweet blood that I’m craving. I want her.

The next few moments pass without leaving a trace of memory. Because now I’m standing with this beautiful woman, my arms around her waist, and she’s kissing me softly. She moans into me as I kiss her lips, her jaw, her neck. I know that this is the only pleasure that my new life, or lack thereof, will bring. I press my mouth tightly against her neck, so slender, and I can feel the pulsating vein beneath my tongue as I lick her flesh. She moans again, and that pushes me over the edge. This is no longer me; I feel wild, crazed, and dig my teeth deep into her bloody flesh. What is this? Have I become so bestial? She cries out, yet moans again as I savagely swallow her. I know how she feels, that delirious rush going through every inch of her body. She’s pressing my head tighter against her neck, so I now have no choice but to satisfy myself. Finally she slumps in my arms, this beautiful woman. The lust has now faded, and I find myself consumed by anger and contempt for my self and my maker. darn her! Curse her! I only wish that there is more yet to come, otherwise how can I allow her to exist? I will not spare her if the inner darkness does not lift.

So now I’m back where I started, and I kiss the crucifix and say a silent prayer. Truth be told, I have never felt so alive. Yet I’d rather have lived a painful and callous life full of sunrises and sunsets, than this baneful farce with its singular moments of lust. My maker walks in and gazes at me with her crystalline eyes. And I can hear her whisper in my head, ’Now you know’.