I was so young the first time I heard the blood’s voice calling my name. Like a dark, beautiful, crimson mistress.
In the beginning, it was so very confusing: sure, I never was the quiet teenager, but this thing turned my existence upside down for good. The memories of the horrors I’ve done are not haunting me. Not at all. What’s more, I feel like the ghosts of my past, all the boys and girls, are keeping me company in lonesome rainy nights.
You see, I was never a fan of the big crowds, or human company, in general. The only times I accepted their presence is around big events like concerts or parties, every once in a while. Why only then? Quite easy. Their energy is radiating from every cell. Feeding me. Yet they have no idea. It’s pure elation.
But I’ll bore you with meaningless details of my ways later. Now I wish to reveal to you, my darlings, a quite..important turning point in this drab existence of mine: my first kill.
Like I said before, my beginnings in the art of massacre were quite early. Such a young naivety and curiosity was strangling my core and itching my skin. The nights were long and beautiful, and the only presences I occasionally accepted were the one of my closest friend and the one of my cat. But we’ll get into that a tad later. That night was filled just with myself.
Walking in the historical centre of my hometown back then, I went in my favorite pub, taking the seat I usually take, somewhere less visible. It allows me to watch them without the burden of being noticed. The red velvet on the walls was giving the chamber that romantic, burlesque touch and the diffuse light was not hurting my eyes. While ordering a glass of cognac, I noticed him. Sitting at the bar, alone, with thoughts flying around like halos and long blood-colored hair flowing on his shoulders, sipping absinthe. His skinny figure was enhanced by the long coat and, through his body movements, he imprinted a royal touch in many gestures. I felt drawn towards the unknown.
Taking my drink, I got next to him, at the bar, in a desire to comprehend how this stranger ticks. Soon enough, my clumsy starring was noticed as he whispered quietly through barely open lips:
‘That’s not polite, you know.’
I blushed. Turned my face to see his and couldn’t find a reply. Those black eyes were piercing through me, and my train of thoughts was derailed by the smoke coming out of his mouth.
‘Do you have any more of those? ‘ I asked.
While he took another cigarette out from the package , I got a breather. Soon enough , we were both exhaling smoke.
‘Sorry for..earlier. I just don’t know many people into absinthe.’
He smirked and then looked away, almost gazing at the walls. I soon got a reply:
‘It’s the drink of gods. I’m happy to be one of the few. I wouldn’t like to be compared
to..them.’ he said, turning his head towards the rest of the people sitting around.
I was intrigued, so we got to talk about all sorts of things: from philosophy to sex, from music to poetry, many of my thoughts were hidden in his. I found out more things about his unknown: His name was Tobias and he was an artist: poet, actor..and everything in between, great, silent, distant mind.
Hours passed us by, empty absinthe and cognac glasses got piled up on the bar, people were
coming and going, the night was darker and darker. We weren’t close to the end of our conversation. Tobias seemed like a part of me I had neglected all along: a loner, scared and scarred by society, sad, a sadist..and a masochist. Soon enough, I was surprised by the thought of: I want his brain..his mind..his beating heart. This beautiful stranger was taking over me.
The clock struck midnight.
‘My favourite moment..’ I said, silently.
He laughed..in a manic, evil way.
‘The night is young and it has just begun. Come over at my place..If you dare. I call it Wonderland.’
‘I feel brave tonight.’
‘As you wish.’ He grinned, unraveling his white little fangs.
