this right here
this was his favorite part
when they're trembling and begging and their fear is a fever that comes off them like smoke, permeating the air around him. man or woman, child or adult, it never matters the specifics. only the fear and the blood that runs underneath the sweet stretch of skin, lava-hot and bright and his for the taking.
the hunger rises like water over his head and the pain of change is an old friend fiercely welcomed, the break of his bones and skin and the descent of his killing teeth. he shows a pretty face to the world but he likes his black eyes and rows of fangs. they are who he is, and what he is and what he is is a killer.
his face lifts as the hunger crests and then
and only then
does he strike, and she cries and stiffens and he tightens his hold like a snake as his teeth dig for the vein, and when that blood spurts across his tongue it's like the first time all over again and he drinks deeply, stopping himself at the end from taking it all, every drop, because sweet Doris needs to rest so she can build it up again, that well of life that he needs so much.
and so he lifts his head and sighs so softly, replenished and repleted, and gives the girl a lick of affection, savoring the red river that drifts down her chest.
by the time he's lifted her and thrown her back in her cell, she's gone from his mind, as consequential as an empty beer can.