Colder At The Edge

The lake smelt fetid, tainting the beautiful atmosphere created by the cloudless, moonless night. I stepped into the water, frigid about my ankles. The lake was always colder at the edge. I continued walking amongst the shallows, before reaching the possum that had lost its way. I had seen it fall from an overhanging branch only minutes ago, during a tussel with a neighbouring possum. It struggled for a moment, but quickly drowned. Now it lay here in front of me. I reached down and drew it out of the water. I quickly tore a patch of skin off and began sucking what little blood I could out of the creature. Even this shortly after death, I could feel the blood beginning to coagulate. It did not feel like I was feeding. It felt like I was drinking death. Unfortunatly, this was what I had been forced into. Running low on blood at home, and unable to purchase blood from the butcher due to punishment, I was forced to scurry up what I could.

I turned, tossing the creature back into the shallows, and walked towards shore. Two headlights appeared at the top of the hill leading to the lake. I quickly fled into the nearby bushes. A group of teenagers pulled up and began preparing fishing rods, laughing, teasing. One of the younger ones, Matt, was the target of most of there foul language. I could see, even in that light, that this boy didn't want to be there. He was the younger brother of one of the other people there. I assumed he was there out of obligation. I could have left then, gone home, but I watched curious.

I'll feel guilty for that for the rest of my life. Jack showed up, wondering what was keeping me. Matt walked off into the bushes, just for a walk, to escape the verbal siege. Jack couldn't resist the oppurtunity. I wish I had the courage to stand up to him, or alert the humans. I didn't. Jack followed the child off into the bushes. I followed too, whispering pleas to Jack. He shushed me, as Matt began returning, walking in our direction. I could hear him mumbling to himself, as he kicked small rocks along the floor. Jack stealthily approached, and hid behind a tree in Matts path. My mind began screaming at me, pleading me to help the boy. I put my own safety first; Jack never liked missing a meal. He shot out from the tree, and plunged a heavily serrated knife into Matts throat, cutting off his vocal chords. The knife was ripped out, and Jack immediatley placed his lips over the wound. It was done with such skill, it horrfied me. It still haunts me. Although very rarely, I still see Matts face in my dreams. From sadness, to shock, to a blank expression.

It was useless arguing with Jack, I should have let him go. Matt wouldn't remain in my memory. Or had I left after my feed... I could have saved him.