I. The Vampire

It was the sweet blood that rushed through his mouth that pushed him out of bed and kept him alive.

He hated himself.

He hated the fact that he knew he was nothing more than an empty shell. He passed his days reading and killing. His name was whispered quietly among people, supernatural or not. He was feared by many and adored by many more. He was mysterious. He was what his race should have been. He was everything he hated. He had no real purpose, meaning, or reason to get up the next day or open his eyes when sunlight leaked into his apartment.

He was nothing.

So he tried, tried to find an escape, something that made him feel alive. He searched everywhere. Homo sapiens did not interest him much; they were all the same, worrying over trivial aspects and trying to cope with the inconveniences of human life. Although books and knowledge were absorbing, he was not planning to spend his entire life reading. Friends were out of consideration. His height alone cut out all the suitable acquaintances he could think of. He hated the outdoors and more than anything physical thing, the sun.

Except for blood.

That was what he found. Killing and feeding on the life source of humans kept him alive. Made him feel. To ruthlessly take away the life of another, to shred another's body into pieces, to cut and bleed someone else, to listen to another's horrified screams, to feel the sweet blood rushing past his fangs – was thrilling. For that short moments of slaughter, he felt as if he were really a person.

So he killed.

But he was still empty.

However hard he tried, he could not sometimes stop for a second and feel that emptiness swamp over him, throwing him off balance. He was happy, right? He had everything he ever wanted, right? He did not need anyone or anything that would weaken him, right? He was feared and respected, right? He was no longer the victim and target of bullies, right?


Then, why was he still so miserable, so dissatisfied? Why he still wallowing and trying to figure out what his life meant? Why was he still so dissatisfied?

He never understood and he would merely shake off the unpleasant insecurity and assume his daily life of killing and reading. But he was yet to learn the real meaning of life.

He discovered it the day it rained.