Even when my fangs extend and push through his skin slowly, as gently as a lover, something holds me back. He drank recently, I can tell. His blood, the blood of the person or persons from whom he drank, still holds some warmth. And it's enough to give me strength. He weakens, his struggles fading, as I'm revitalised.
And thank God, but not only do I have strength, but self-control too. I don't tear at his flesh, only taking what I need. I don't do anything but withdraw once I've drunk my fill, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand as he slumps to the floor in a mesmerised heap.
Fucking drama queen, I think. I didn't take enough to weaken you that much.
It's my turn to sneer in contempt now. He'll be lightheaded, not wiped out. A live human being might occasionally feel tipsy after donating blood, but a fellow member of the undead can take it.
They'd be mighty pissed off unless they offered themselves willingly, but they can take it.
I know I stopped before causing this nameless vampire any lasting harm. I just don't want to look at him any more. He's served his purpose, and all I can do is turn my back and walk away, knowing--- and herein lies the pun---life goes on for both of us.
See, Adam? I say to myself, to my own past.
I'm not like you at all.
Chapter 3
I LIVE, IF ONE CAN CALL IT THAT, in a sparsely-furnished basement flat that doesn't even contain a bed. There's a saying humans like to bandy about when aspiring to feats of greatness, when scorning the need for repose: "I'll sleep when I'm dead."
Well, I'm dead, and therefore able to confirm: you might sleep when you're dead, but if you're unlucky enough to get only halfway there, you'll be awake forever.
Oh, it's like breathing, really. Possible, but unnecessary, and often a waste of time. Sleep has restorative qualities, but it takes a lot to get a vampire to the stage where he needs to be restored while unconscious.
So I spend my spare time---of which I have a lot---sheltered from the daylight behind blackout blinds on every window, reading. During the night, I spend time with Alyssa; I believe the term is "socialising," a word that makes me shudder with distaste. I've never been what one could call a gregarious vampire. When I was human, maybe so, but things were different then.
Artificial light causes me no harm. I use a dim corner lamp now, just enough to cast a circle of illumination on whatever book I happen to be reading at the moment. Lately, I've favoured French novels, though translated into my mother t o ngue : The Count of Monte Cristo, Les Miserables, Les Liaisons Dangereuses.
A while back ("while" perhaps having a different meaning to someone who has the potential to live forever), I had a dalliance with a librarian.
Male. Tall, slender, a shaved head and designer stubble. We'd talked about books in between doing other things. "I prefer Russian novels," he'd said. "Everyone dies in the end. Much more true to life."
Life imitating art.
I decided not to be the one to bring his story to a close; I never did have a taste for cold- blooded murder. There are ways and means to get rid of the evidence, pass the buck onto someone else, make people forget what they think they saw, but it's all too much bother, and I'm one of those undead unfortunates cursed with a conscience.
I'm not sure he was too enamoured of the age- old, "It's not you, it's me," excuse I used. I had to underline it with, "No, really. It is me. I might kill you."
It was a lie; I don't accidentally kill anyone. I just had to make him think I might.
Being part of a couple isn't something I'm good at. I don't do relationships. With mortal humans, they inevitably ask for more. Just out of curiosity at first. The questions come. "What's it like being a vampire?" becomes "Just out of interest, have you ever transformed someone?" becomes the inevitable death-knell for our liaison, "What if I said I wanted to be a vampire too?"
The obvious solution would be to seek out one of my own kind, but no.
Just no.
I make do with Alyssa and, to a lesser degree, one or two others, who satisfy my need for human companionship and yes, yes, all right, my need for blood too. As long as they consent from a position of health and sanity, that's good enough for me.
Other needs? Well...
It's just as well I'm not epileptic and that I don't suffer from migraines. The music's loud enough as I walk into the bar, but combined with neon swirls on the wall, their light bouncing off the mirrors behind the bar, I'd be in trouble if I were prone to such illnesses.
The things I do. The things I'm driven to.
Guilt and shame crawl over my skin like insects I can't shake off. Alyssa always tells me there no need for either, but she can't possibly understand. Being a child of the eighties, she's never lived in a time when being like me was something to hide.
Hell, in a way, it brought me a death sentence.
I take a deep breath, even though I don't need to. It's habit. A way of bracing myself for the ordeal ahead.
Enough of the angst; you're a walking, talking cliché. You're a supernatural being in your still-human form and have the potential to live forever. What's the problem?
It must be written all over my face. The barman sidles over as soon as I take a seat.
"You look like a fish out of water tonight, Nathan. Mind, you look like a fish out of water every time you come here." Mark shrugs. "Makes me wonder why you bother," he adds with a cheeky grin.
"Are
