Vampire Relapse

He hated himself for what he was about to do. 

The car slowly rounded the bend, its pace unhurried in the fading light of dusk. 

Clusters of wildflowers and gently swaying trees gleamed in the golden glow from the headlights. 

Tin cans clanged softly as they scraped against the pavement, and white ribbons fluttered delicately behind the vehicle in an ethereal dance on the wind  

The cooling night air held the sweet notes of late summer, and the car’s windows were rolled all the way down. An infectious beat drifted from the speakers as the car’s occupants belted out lyrics and burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter. 

He pressed his face against the crumbling asphalt where he crouched and stretched a sickly hand into the road, razor-sharp nails pointed upward. 

A tire slammed into the points an instant before the pop and hiss of protest echoed throughout the forest. The car rumbled to a stop several meters down the lane, its operators groaning with good-natured exasperation. 

“Let me check it out,” a man’s voice carried along with the delicate whisper of a kiss being pressed into skin. “Stay put my queen.” 

A breathy laugh and a woman’s voice floated over, “My knight in shining armor. Thank you, husband.” 

The door opened and slammed shut before gravel crunched under feet. Polished black dress shoes came to a stop before the ruined tire and the driver dropped into a squat to assess the damage. 

It was almost too easy. 

A tiny corner of his mind screamed at him to stop, but it was not a matter of conscience. Primal instinct tore through him and shattered any semblance of logical thought that remained. 

He stalked through the brush that lined the road and crept up silently behind the man. A quick swipe of his nails across the man’s throat and a snap of the neck was all it took. He slowly lowered the man the rest of the way to the ground and dragged the body off to the side. Rivulets of fresh, red blood flowed from the open wounds and soaked the man’s crisp white shirt. He licked his lips and savored the coppery, musky aroma before locking his jaws around the biggest lesion and drinking deeply. Warmth flowed through him as the human’s blood settled in his stomach. He drained every last drop from the carcass then slunk back towards the car where the female companion hummed quietly to herself as she waited. 

“How’s it looking?” she called out. “Need me to pop the trunk for the spare?” When her questions were met with no response, she kicked off her high heels and flipped open the door. There was a rustle of silk as she gathered her skirts and gingerly placed a bare food on the rocky terrain. 

“Don’t stress babe. We’ll figure it out,” she reassured warmly as she rounded the car in search of her partner.  

With the strength of new blood coursing through him, his movements were little more than a phantom wind. In a single fluid motion, the woman went down, and he dragged her corpse into the shadows beside her companion. 

After polishing off his second course, he carried both limp forms back to the car and aimed the steering wheel at a solid tree off the side of the road. He hauled a boulder out of a nearby ditch and dropped the weight on the gas pedal, the car instantly springing forward. It careened off the path and smashed into the sturdy trunk, its front crumpling like a soda can underfoot. He reached into the driver’s side and effortlessly plucked out the heavy stone then loped towards the back of the car and flicked open the fuel compartment. A few sharp strikes of rock against metal and the entire car burst into flame. 

He melted back into the shadows of the tree line to survey his work. Flames licked along the body of the vehicle, its inside already engulfed in a searing heat. A sharp, acrid tang filled his nostrils and thick smoke furled toward the sky; a lone pyre with a solitary mourner. Deep hues of orange and red flickered across his face as if he were standing at the gates of Hell itself. His stomach twisted into a knot as thick ropes of guilt twined themselves around his very core. Whenever the initial euphoria of fresh blood started to ebb, he was plunged into a dark pit of despair over his inability to resist. His disgustingly weak willpower. 

For years he had tried to sustain himself by hunting the worst sort of people — criminals who had committed unspeakable acts against other humans and felt no remorse — but the taste was so vulgar, the blood like lead in his stomach. He would force mouthful after mouthful until his body physically would not let him swallow again, then he’d spend the next several days trying to keep it down. More often than not, he found himself in a dark alley hurling his guts up. 

If rotten human blood was akin to food poisoning, animal blood was an allergic reaction. It was as useless and dangerous as transfusing Type A blood to a Type B patient. There seemed to be no way out of the brutal, unforgiving lifestyle his kind were forced to live. Each time he practiced restraint, he became a malnourished, rabid predator out of his mind with bloodlust and on the brink of starvation until his baser instincts took control. The harder he struggled against the darkness, the more violently it snapped back into place. 

He shook his head to clear his train of thought and reached into his pocket, carefully withdrawing a compact needle tipped in black ink. He gingerly lowered himself to the ground and rolled up his pant leg to expose the massive tattoo that stretched across his thigh. The half-drawn form of a snake — created from thousands of tiny, individual brush strokes — stared up at him, its fangs bared and forked tongue slashing toward some invisible prey. A cold-blooded killer made up of countless, seemingly insignificant marks. He gritted his teeth and pressed the tip of the needle into his flesh. Once. Twice. Perhaps it was a form of self-loathing, but he never wanted to forget. He owed his pathetic, immortal life to the humans who’d died for his benefit.  

He pocketed the tool and rolled down his pant leg, the pain already fading into a dull ache in the background. He dragged himself to his feet and brushed off the back of his pants. 

This was just another setback. Everyone falls off the wagon. He would find a way to break the cycle and end it for good. 

One way or another.