smoothly, if not tidily. I’ve read that the average human body holds about six quarts of blood, and that sounds about right. Depending on how hungry I am, I can hold maybe three of those quarts. In leaner times, or in more convenient times if I had a lot of equipment, I might try to pound, squeeze, or suck the last drops out and store them. But this wasn’t one of those times.
This was a dine-and-dash of a whole different sort.
He was malleable and unconscious in under a minute. He was dead in twice that long.
When I finished I sat back and panted, because it’s exhausting and exhilarating, taking a meal like that after it’s been a while. It’s also a bit disorienting—like afterglow, and there I go again with the sexual metaphors. Am I being too obvious? Well then, fine. It
is
sort of like sex. The biting, the fluids, the sucking, the feelings of bliss and elation (for me, if not the victim) … it’s such an easy comparison to make that naughty-minded writers have been doing it for hundreds of years.
So I was down there still, catching my breath, and up above I heard the pattering steps of little girl feet, joined by older boy feet. Domino. I hadn’t heard him come inside and up the stairs, but that’s no surprise. I wouldn’t have heard an air horn up my ass while I was feeding.
Their voices hummed quietly. She was explaining, he was listening,then he was swearing, and she was trying to calm him down. He was getting mad, and she was getting patient; he was talking about all the things he would’ve done if he’d been there, and she was telling him that it was okay because I’d taken care of it.
I didn’t need to hear the exact words. I could infer.
Guilt followed. He never should’ve left her here alone—no, sometimes he had to, and that was okay, and he shouldn’t feel bad about it, blah blah blah. Pepper’s got far more patience than I do. If I’d been up there, I would’ve popped him in the mouth.
But I wasn’t up there, I was down in the basement with the slowly cooling husk of my latest meal. It was like a bad one-night stand. I was finished with him, and I didn’t want anything more to do with him. Ten minutes before he’d been irresistible. Now he was a mess that needed cleaning up.
I stood and my legs were shaky, but my buzz was losing the worst of its befuddling powers and I found the light switch by the door without any trouble. I can see all right in the dark, yes, but like everybody else I see better with a little illumination. One bald lightbulb like the one upstairs gave me plenty of glow to see by; in fact, for a moment it was almost too much. I let my eyes adjust and then came back over to the battered fellow who was lying on my floor, mucking up the dust with his excess seepage.
I sat on my heels down beside him and began to poke my fingers around in his clothes.
Most of what he was wearing came from Banana Republic. Odd. I’d figured it for military surplus.
I lifted his shirt and found a cheesy tribal tattoo across his belly. Unimpressed by this show of flash-art individuality, I went digging through his pants and remained unimpressed by what I found there, too. By which I mean I found his wallet, and there wasn’t much in it—thirty-four bucks and a condom, with a driver’s license that identified him as Trevor Graham.
I immediately felt better about killing him. I’ve never known a Trevor who wasn’t a total douchebag. It’s just one of those names that goes so nicely with selfish, arrogant, malicious behavior—and really, what did I know about this guy? Nothing, except that his name was Trevor and he’d been nabbed in the midst of breaking-and-entering. That was plenty.
The score was Raylene: 1/Trevors of the world: 0.
This is not to say that I feel the need to justify my choices in victims—far from it. No, I’m only being practical. Here in the real world, where I do my best to remain unnoticed, it’s simply illogical to run around killing small
This was a dine-and-dash of a whole different sort.
He was malleable and unconscious in under a minute. He was dead in twice that long.
When I finished I sat back and panted, because it’s exhausting and exhilarating, taking a meal like that after it’s been a while. It’s also a bit disorienting—like afterglow, and there I go again with the sexual metaphors. Am I being too obvious? Well then, fine. It
is
sort of like sex. The biting, the fluids, the sucking, the feelings of bliss and elation (for me, if not the victim) … it’s such an easy comparison to make that naughty-minded writers have been doing it for hundreds of years.
So I was down there still, catching my breath, and up above I heard the pattering steps of little girl feet, joined by older boy feet. Domino. I hadn’t heard him come inside and up the stairs, but that’s no surprise. I wouldn’t have heard an air horn up my ass while I was feeding.
Their voices hummed quietly. She was explaining, he was listening,then he was swearing, and she was trying to calm him down. He was getting mad, and she was getting patient; he was talking about all the things he would’ve done if he’d been there, and she was telling him that it was okay because I’d taken care of it.
I didn’t need to hear the exact words. I could infer.
Guilt followed. He never should’ve left her here alone—no, sometimes he had to, and that was okay, and he shouldn’t feel bad about it, blah blah blah. Pepper’s got far more patience than I do. If I’d been up there, I would’ve popped him in the mouth.
But I wasn’t up there, I was down in the basement with the slowly cooling husk of my latest meal. It was like a bad one-night stand. I was finished with him, and I didn’t want anything more to do with him. Ten minutes before he’d been irresistible. Now he was a mess that needed cleaning up.
I stood and my legs were shaky, but my buzz was losing the worst of its befuddling powers and I found the light switch by the door without any trouble. I can see all right in the dark, yes, but like everybody else I see better with a little illumination. One bald lightbulb like the one upstairs gave me plenty of glow to see by; in fact, for a moment it was almost too much. I let my eyes adjust and then came back over to the battered fellow who was lying on my floor, mucking up the dust with his excess seepage.
I sat on my heels down beside him and began to poke my fingers around in his clothes.
Most of what he was wearing came from Banana Republic. Odd. I’d figured it for military surplus.
I lifted his shirt and found a cheesy tribal tattoo across his belly. Unimpressed by this show of flash-art individuality, I went digging through his pants and remained unimpressed by what I found there, too. By which I mean I found his wallet, and there wasn’t much in it—thirty-four bucks and a condom, with a driver’s license that identified him as Trevor Graham.
I immediately felt better about killing him. I’ve never known a Trevor who wasn’t a total douchebag. It’s just one of those names that goes so nicely with selfish, arrogant, malicious behavior—and really, what did I know about this guy? Nothing, except that his name was Trevor and he’d been nabbed in the midst of breaking-and-entering. That was plenty.
The score was Raylene: 1/Trevors of the world: 0.
This is not to say that I feel the need to justify my choices in victims—far from it. No, I’m only being practical. Here in the real world, where I do my best to remain unnoticed, it’s simply illogical to run around killing small
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