Deadly Love

There are many definitions of good and evil. One thing that is known for certain is that you cannot have one without the other. For generation upon generation, century upon century, even millennia upon millennia, I have been the latter…

She stood close by, in front of me in fact, and I could taste her fear in the air. It washed through my nose and swept into my lungs, purifying them as the strong human emotion took hold of my body. For some it was sex, others gambling and the rest, marijuana, but pure human fear was my drug. And at the moment I was riding a sweet high.

When I could no longer help it I lifted my hand, extending my pale fingers towards her face. In shape and appearance they looked no different than they had when I was alive. Only the bone chilling cold melded with the hot wine of another's life source and the marble white colour of the appendages gave away my true identity.

As my hand brushed her cheek she let out a whimper, somewhere between a frightened yelp and a pleasure full snarl. My blood-soaked lips curled into a sensual smile as the sensitive pads of my fingers continued to brush along the curves of her face, the lines of her neck. With every slow caress she fed me bowl after bowl of that delicious dinner of fear. I could not help but wonder, as my hands wandered downwards, what her skin really felt like; how she would truly feel when I supped the blood from her neck as she climaxed and hwy it was I always chose women like her.

It was true that even as I ran my fingers over her hair, lightly nicking the skin at her temple with my fingernail and closing my mouth over the small dot of blood, that I couldn't actually feel the textures of her hair, the soft, silky roughness of her skin. I could only remember… and memories that head been around for that long were no longer memories, really, they were feelings.

Finally she shocked me back into reality as I realized she was pressing her body against mine and leaning onto me for support as I slowly unlatched my lips from the corner of her head.

Looking down at her I could just make out of the colour of her pale green eyes and the strong revulsion within them that she was trying vainly to mask. "You're one of them, aren't you?" she asked softly, leaning back into my chest, her words slightly muffled from within my shirt. We were never allowed to tell mortals who we were. But the rules said nothing about what to do if they guessed. So I simply nodded, taking in the way her breathing laboured slightly as my still wandering hands brushed across her breasts.

Eventually, when neither of us could stand the torture any longer, I kissed her. As I did it, I knew I was kissing her. I could feel her lips against mine and her tongue tangling with my own. But I felt no more pleasure than when I brushed my own lips against my hand. She, on the other hand, was both disgusted by the taste of dried blood on my teeth and delighted by the numerous ways my tongue danced with hers.

I, unfortunately, grew weary of it quickly and found myself grabbing her neck in one hand and, with the other, one of her breasts. My teeth sunk into her pulsing veins as a knife slices through butter. When my hand reached under her skirt to caress her as I drank, she groaned, whether it was due to pain or pleasure I do not know.

Suddenly, I stopped, and looked into her pretty face. It was much paler than it had been several minutes before, and there was a slight trickle of blood leaking from the wound on her neck. If I were to define good, she would be it, from the rosary bead she still clasped in her hand to the way she self-consciously tried to hide most of her body from me. I could have laughed. It wasn't as though I hadn't already explored every crevice of it anyways.

I loved her, I think. I loved her green eyes and dark hair. I loved how soft and delicate she was. I loved that she could die and I had the power to kill her. I loved that she feared me. I loved that she was a believer. Yes, I did love her. I still closed my mouth back onto her neck, stifling her struggling movements until, finally, there wasn't enough energy, or blood, left in her to fight me. I loved that last sip of fear she gave me before I snapped her neck. I loved all of her- and I still killed her.

That is why I am evil. For what is evil if not the ability to needlessly kill the ones you love?