Thread: Creature of the Night (PatientOne & MetalMelissa)

Her hunger was growing, or, to put it more accurately, the edge was wearing off. The first time she'd killed it had been in a fearful, desperate rage. She'd lain still while the dark-skinned tourist rutted between her open legs, and it wasn't until he filled the condom he wore that he noticed she was crying. The next minute or so existed only as a blur in her memory. She could recall the trepidation in his voice, his asking her if she was ok, but beyond that she could remember nothing but white rage streaked with red the taste of flesh and blood in her mouth as she bit through tendons, veins, arteries and more to get to that which she craved. She didn't understand her urges and was terrified by her own wrath, but god the high was good. She almost orgasmed during her feed, and afterwards she wondered if that was normal. In the end, she decided that nothing was normal. Figures of myth and lore had stepped from the pages of fiction to transform her into something wicked, and she struggled not to embrace the evil that she had become. Such was the curse of one who nothing of what she had become. It was five days until she killed again, though the interval between those murders may well have been shorter were it not for the reports in newspapers all along Via Cappella Bianca telling of the violent act that only she knew she had been a part of. By turns it both horrified and numbed her, leaving her fearful of herself and for herself. Murder was not something she had ever deemed herself capable of, butshe realisedshe was no longer the woman she knew. Whoever she was nowor what ever she wasAurelia Kostantinovna Krupskaya was no more. On the second day she overdosed, and when she came to she found that her nose had bled profusely onto her cheek and upper lip. That small bump was enough to make it through the days that followed, but did little to fight off fears for her freedom and mortality. It did occasionally cross her mind that maybejust maybeshe was now immortal, but what use was immortality if you were serving a life sentence for homicide? She was with a client when the rage came again. He was another tourist, a British man by the name of James, and by Aurelia's standards he was very sweet. His only shortcoming was a penchant for being bitten, and when his skin broke and fresh blood came in contact with her tongue she felt the rush again, dug her teeth deep into his flesh, and provoked him into jerking away. The crazed look in her eyes elicited a sudden fear in the unfortunate fellow, but the sight of her snarling maw was worst of all. She had had days to come to terms with the elongated fangs which were now stained with his blood, but to James they were a sudden shock. He panicked, and here again her memory became blurred, clearing only to the sight of his lifeless body and the wide, dead eyes that seemed as though they would haunt her forever more. When the high wore off she paced frantically back and forth, eventually dressing and fleeing the scene, shaken to the bone by the knowledge that her DNA would already be in the possession of the Polizia di Stato , and that now she could be held accountable for two murders. Via Cappella Bianca was crawling with police the following night. It had taken almost twenty-four hours for the body to be discovered, and already journalists were throwing around the word 'Ripper,' whipping the public into a frenzy all in a bid to sell more papers. She went into hiding, feigned the same emotions as the other streetwalkers whenever she came into contact with them, and spent two of the next four days without any coke to take the edge of her paranoia. She needed something then, and in the end it was bloodnot snowthat would sate her cravings. Her third victim was a Firenze native a boy of fifteen who had decided to celebrate his birthday by losing his virginity. He'd been awfully nervous, and his timidity drew out the burgeoning predator within her. She prowled around the bed with narrowed, lustful eyes, drinking in his slender, youthful body before peeling off her clothes and stalking up the mattress between his legs. Had she not been in such a bloodlust she might have been impressed at her own restraint when she chose not to kill him after he climaxed quickly in her mouth, and if she had done one good deed since the change it was surely that she had ridden him before she sank her teeth into his neck and tore out his throat. By now, sex and killing were quickly becoming connected in the depths of her psyche, and so it was that her fourth victim was taken much like the balding man she called him in from the street, braving even the chance of been seen by another, and had him take her over and over again as she fed on him. He got off on it too, even called her a 'vampy bitch' without realising the truth of his words. She bit his neck sharply and suckled on the wound as he drove his manhood into her heated sex, their naked bodies cavorting one against the other until in the midst of orgasm she bit too hard, blacked out for a moment, and came to to the sound of him screaming. He cursed at her, called her a crazy bitch and a psychopath, and swung at her when she pounced on him. She'd felt so powerful then, and when at last he lay lifeless on the floor she didn't feel as bad as she had on the prior occasions. Aurelia had grown up with vampire stories, had seen them represented in films, and in all of the myths they were foul, vile creatures. When the newly-turned vampire had fresh blood inside her, it seemed only natural to behave in a similar manner. There were no rules anymore, no moral imperative to view murder as an act never to be engaged in. Now there was only the lust for blood, and if murder was the means by which to acquire that blood then so be it. Of course, things were not so cut-and-dry when she was sober. Parts of Aurelia came back then to object to the heinous acts that she had committed. Her power over the body in which she resided was growing weak, though, and the urge to kill in turn grew stronger. She couldn't wait the way she could a week ago, or perhaps she just didn't want to. Perhaps she was just losing her mind. The thought made her laugh, and the laugh made her wonder if this wasn't all just a way to protect her mind from snapping completely. She grew solemn. Her mind turned, her lip quivered, and she swallowed dryly. No. I need to do it again. Half in fearful resignation, half in wanton desire, she rose from the bed of another dingy whorehouse apartment building and prepared to walk the streets again. Perhaps tonight she'd really have some fun. Perhaps tonight she'd do something a little more public.