He woke up in a pool of blood. The hotel room was covered in the stuff; yellow wallpaper splattered in red, carpet soaked in the spot where the corpse lay. Sitting up slowly, he rubbed his head and yawned, groggy. “Goddammit” he muttered, looking around at the carnage. Last night was just a fast-paced blur of alcohol and death. The last thing he remembered was ripping her throat open, lapping the blood from her wound as she looked at him with terrified eyes. Everything afterwards was...fuzzy. It always was. Once the urge kicked in, it was uncontrollable. He never really could remember what it was like in the heat of the moment, but he knew it felt good. He knew he needed it.

He let his head fall into his hands, and felt the blood encrusting his mouth, the little dried streams running down his neck. His hands were shaking already, head pounding as he tried to assess the situation. Hotel rooms were always the worst places to do these things. They only ever have wallpaper, and wallpaper is impossible to get blood out of. Not to mention annoyingly light-colored carpets.. The clock on the wall read 9 am. Too early. He couldn't just vanish out the window or something.

He looked over at the body lying on the floor. She hadn't even known what was coming for her. He wondered what her last thoughts were, as he’d bitten into her jugular. She was just a girl at a bar. But there was always more to it than that. From the Prada heels she was wearing, it looked like she was well-off. Perhaps she was some trophy wife cheating on her husband. Maybe she was a big marketing exec or something like that. He didn't know. He never knew. In fact, the only ones he did know were the ones he turned. They were the special ones. He just drank from the rest. And there were hundreds of those. Dumped in the river, splattered across hotel rooms, buried in backwoods or trashed in dumpsters. Nothing left but an empty corpse.

Last year, the police had named him 'one of the most prolific serial killers of the century.' He had laughed at that. They'd found, what, 30 of his kills? They had no idea. And they had no idea how many of him there were. There were probably 300 of them in the city alone. The river was filled with their prey.

His head was pounding, vision blurry, hands shaking. He had just passed his 150 year anniversary, but he still never got used to the hangover. It was horrific. He would be vomiting blood soon, puking up the dead girl's vital fluids in some gas station toilet. The shakes would get worse, the insects would crawl up his skin to get at the salty sweat gathering on his arms and back.. The only difference between this and heroin withdrawal was that he couldn't drown in his own vomit, because he couldn't drown in anything.

Sighing heavily, he lay back on the ground and looked sideways at her bloodied face. That look of terror was still frozen in her eyes. The gaping hole in her throat oozed a little leftover blood on the carpet. Why hadn't he turned her? Why had he just murdered her? She would've been a beautiful little monster. But she wouldn't wake up now. That was the end for her.

He remembered the night when he was turned. He could still smell the mud, feel the blood flowing from his chest. There was the accident, wasn't there? It was on a dark country road, he was riding back to Boston. There were wolves out there, and the horse, spooked, hurtled forward and crashed. He was crushed underneath the beast, whimpering and begging for help. He remembered the pain coursing through him, the feeling of something broken.The inability to breathe. Knowing that he was going to die.

Sitting there, on that carpeted floor, he could still remember the feeling of the hot breath of a wolf on his face. He had closed his eyes so he didn't see the things that he knew were going to devour him, but he opened them when he heard a voice.

“Is he dying?” it asked, smooth and deep.

“What do you think, Edmund? He's breathing blood. I think he punctured a lung or something,” another one said in an annoyed Irish accent. He was starting to black out. He could barely breathe, and felt something warm dribbling from the sides of his mouth.

“God, don't be such a prick, Lennix. Is he conscious?”

“Ey! You! You awake over there?” the man called Lennix asked. He opened his eyes as well as he could, barely able to see the men as his vision blurred in and out of focus.

“His eyes are open. I don't think he's dead yet.”

“Oh, good. Darling?” Edmund asked, leaning down and touching his face. Trying to talk to the men, to tell them to get him help, he choked even more on the blood seeping into his lungs, and coughed it onto the man's face.

“Edmund,” the other man said, “We should probably drag the goddamn horse off him.”

“God, fine.” He rolled his eyes and turned away reluctantly. He could feel the weight of the animal being lifted off of his body. His dying brain wondered how they moved it so easily, but he didn't care enough to think about it.

“There we go,” Edmund said from what seemed like far above, “Now what do you propose we do to this poor chap?”

“Well,” the Irish man said, pensive. “He wouldn't be much for a meal, since he's half-dead already. And it seems wrong to leave him to die out here.”

“Really? He's just another one of them. It's not like he matters anyways.”

“Yeah, but we could...” the man trailed off.

“Why would we do that?”

“Well he's clearly important. I mean that was a nice horse. And he's got a bag full of papers and things right here. After all, we could use someone with pull in the Boston group.”

“We don't even know who he is. You have to know who you turn.”

“Fine, then, let's look in the bag.”

“He'll be dead by the time we find out.”

He was still conscious, somehow. And he could hear their conversation. He was scared of what these men might do to him, whoever they were. Maybe they were just a hallucination. Maybe he was dead already. He groaned, coughing up yet more blood, and drawing their attention back to him.

“Look at him,” the man named Lennix said, beckoning towards his body. “I mean, why does it matter who he is? He's gorgeous. Tell me you wouldn't want that man to live forever in your world.”

“Why do you always pull that when you want to get your way?”

“Because it works.”

“Eugh, whatever. Fine, we can turn him. I guess we have to ask first, though, don't we?” The man with the smooth voice walked back towards him and crouched down. “Listen, darling,” he said, “Oh, you’re so pretty, aren’t you. Look at that neck,” he ran his hand through his hair and smirked, “Now, we really can’t let a pretty face like yours go to waste, can we? Keep your eyes on me. I need you to listen now. I just need you, you gorgeous boy, to answer one little question for me. Oh, but you can’t talk, can you? That’s just too bad. Well, then, why don’t you be a good lad and blink once for yes, and twice for no. Okay? I just need you to answer this one little question, sweetheart.” He was drifting in and out of consciousness, but he could see the man's eyes, inches away from his face. They were glowing a cat-like yellow in the night, that much he could make out. “Listen to me,” the man, Edmund continued, “You're dying, and we are approximately two-hundred miles from anyone that can help you. You will die unless you listen to me. Lennix and I are vampires. We're immortal. If you want to live, there's really only one choice. We can turn you right now, and you'll live forever. Or you can say no and die a slow, painful death.”

He didn't know what to do. He didn't want to die. He was only 20 years old. He had a new wife in Boston. He couldn't just leave her alone like that. What were these men, these vampires? He had heard the old stories, knew that he would be cursed to eternal damnation for it. But, in the moment, he knew that if he did not agree he would die out there, in the mud and the rain, alone. And he was scared. One last time, he gathered all his strength. He could hardly keep his eyes open, but slowly, painfully, he blinked once, looking the man above him in the eye as best as he could.

“Well, then. Guess that's settled,” Edmund smiled, showing a set of sharp fangs behind his lips. He shuddered a little under the glare of the vampire. “I don't think I would've been able to stop myself even if you had said no. Your blood is driving me insane.”

“Ah, so I presume you're the one doing the honors?” Lennix said, exasperated.

“If you want to...”

“No, he's your little toy. Do with him as you will.”

“This was your idea in the first place, you know.”

“No, it wasn't. My idea was to save his life. You just want another little plaything.”

“God, you're a pain in my arse, you know that?”

“Oh, for Christ's sake! Just turn him already! He's going to be dead within minutes,” the Irishman barked. Rolling his eyes, Edmund turned back to the dying man.

“This will hurt. A lot,” he smiled.

The last thing he remembered from that night was the vampire lifting his head off the ground and the feeling of fangs sinking into his neck.

Stolen novel; please report.

Eugh, Edmund. He didn't give a shit about anything, the bastard. That's what 800 years will do to you. Eventually you see so much that you stop caring about anything but the kill. That's what happened to him. He was a soulless monster, unable to even tell what humanity was anymore.

The shaking was getting worse. He wanted blood, so badly. He needed it. But he needed to stop thinking about it, and if he didn't he had no idea what would happen. Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, he tried to remember so he could forget.

It had been dark, and his eyes snapped open to more dark. He had eyes. And he had a mouth and he had a face and organs and skin. He screamed as loudly as he could. There was a living body on that table in the dark room. He was a living body, alive and breathing, but at the same time not. He felt his mind controlling his movements but still he did not know if he was real. Whimpering, clutching his arms, he cried. Tears dribbled down his face, and he rubbed his skin to see if he was really there. He remembered everything, the crash, the men, the fangs diving into his neck. He wasn't human anymore, he knew that. That just made the tears flow faster.

A candle was lit. Someone was walking down a set of stairs into the dark room. The light burned his eyes, and he turned away from it. A man appeared, holding the burning light. He didn't want to look but he knew who it was. He could sense it. He could smell it. “I see you're awake,” Edmund said. He didn't respond. “We heard you scream, you know. But that's understandable. It hurts, doesn't it?” he asked, smiling.

“Wh-who are you?” he asked, shaking.

“I'm Edmund. I'm the one who turned you, remember? See, you're a vampire now. We saved your life.”

“What h-happens to m-me now?” he gulped.

“Well you'll recover from the turning soon enough. And you'll need to feed. Of course, you'll be too weak to hunt on your own, so we can do it for you for a bit. You'll know what to do soon enough, most of it is just instinct.”

“What....”

“Oh, you know! Feeding. We don't always turn people into vampires when we bite them. Most of the time we just drink their blood and leave them for dead.”

He just stared into the darkness, scared of himself and what he knew he was capable of. His hands shook with terror and hunger. “So,” he said, “I- I'm a monster.”

“Well that's a bit harsh, but if you want to put it that way, I mean, yes, you are. But trust me, it's fun. See, people don't shun monsters like us. They let us in. You have everything you could ever ask for, being a vampire. I mean, really. You're immortal, you get to murder people and get away with it. You can basically do whatever you want because you're damned forever but you're not going to hell anytime soon. I'm 800 years old, for God's sake. I've been declared dead at least 30 times, and I'm still here.”

“How — how do you enjoy that?”

“Well you really have no other choice. You either relish it, or you just hate yourself and then it's not fun at all.”

“Will I – will I get to see my wife again?”

“I suppose if you want to. I mean you could probably live with her for a decade or so. But by the time they see you're not aging, you've got to fake your own death. Or turn her. I guess that's your decision. If you're going to do that, though, you've got to live mostly away from home.”

“Wh-why?”

“You can't possibly think that your wife would approve of you violently slaughtering people in your house. Besides, there are...after effects of feeding. Have you ever done opiates?”

“N-no, of course not.”

“Well that's too bad. Whatever. I suppose you'll find out for yourself.” They were silent for a moment. His eyes were adjusting to the light, but it was still shockingly bright. Someone called Edmund's name from somewhere above them. “Oh dear. I forgot, I must attend to something. Stay down here for a bit. Come up when you're feeling better,” he said, turning around and hurrying back up the stairs. Sitting on the table, he sighed. His hands twitched uncontrollably. He was hungry.

He smiled a little, sitting on that bloody hotel room floor. He remembered those early days. His first kill, a young woman outside of Salem. Blonde, nervous, walking in the woods alone. Looking for company, just like all of the other ones he murdered. The taste of her blood, the feel of his teeth in her neck. It was that first high, that rush that any drug addict knows but will only ever get once. Even the good ones, the ones done in hotel rooms and behind restaurants in the spur of the moment, they were different. But that girl, on that cloudy night outside of Salem, she was the only thing that could satiate that hunger, that yearning in his veins. He could still taste the blood that gushed from her white neck, smell it on his clothes and skin.

He had made friends with Lennix and Edmund. Lennix still had some traces of human left in him. He had been forced into that life, stranded on an island off the mainland after a boat wreck and turned by one of the covens out there. He felt bad for Lennix. He had tried to go off blood a few years before. Once he even tried to stake himself. But he always ended up giving in to the thing inside of him. He was just a normal guy, really. For Edmund, it was a choice. He wanted it from the beginning, so he could live forever and do whatever he wanted. Edmund was a monster, and he loved it. He didn’t even recognize him, his own creation, as more than just a thing to play with. In reality, all he had ever wanted in turning him was an eternal sex toy. And it wasn’t like anyone could stop him.

It was funny, thinking about it so many years later. How he had been turned. It was really just dumb luck. The regional councils always insisted that they only turn those who agreed to be turned, and even then only in the most important cases. Sometimes they were assigned to turn someone, a dying politician or someone else they wanted in the group, for the sake of political pull. After all, they had to cover up those murders somehow. Often turnings happened for vampires’ personal friends and family who agreed to it. Occasionally, it would be in the spur of the moment. That’s what happened to him. It might have been different had they not found him that night. It might even have been different had Lennix not been there. He didn’t want to think about what Edmund would’ve done to him.

His phone rang. Groggy, he looked around the room for it before realizing it was on the bed. Slowly, trying to ignore the pain growing in his stomach, he reached up and grabbed it. It was Lennix. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Lennix said. He sounded tired. “Where are you?”

“Some hotel room with a corpse.”

“What hotel?”

“I think it's the Hilton on 39th, why?”

“Edmund's in the hospital.”

“What the fuck?”

“Apparently he decided to get hammered last night, and he gave himself alcohol poisoning. He's not gonna die, obviously, but he's sure as hell not in a good way.”

“How the fuck does he keep doing that?”

“He is immortal.”

“Goddammit. I hate that we have to do this all the time.”

“I know.”

“How does a vampire even do that?”

“Last time this happened he told me he drank six bottles of vodka in two hours.”

“That's insane. Did the hospital mention anything about his pulse yet?”

“No, thank god. I'm sure they stopped caring after the last time he came in.”

“That's good, at least. Fine. Meet me in the alley behind the hotel in ten.”

“Kay. See ya.” He hung up the phone and looked down at his clothes. His face and shirt were covered in blood. The white button-down was soaked in the stuff. The worst part was never knowing if the blood was all gone. For vampires, there’s always the chance someone will see a spot you missed, since you can't see your reflection. Sighing, he shakily walked into the bathroom and grabbed a towel. He could hardly keep hold of it as he wet it under the sink water. Slowly, he wiped the blood dried on his neck and mouth. His breath came in short gasps, and his vision blurred. “Fuck!” slipped from his mouth as the towel fell from his hands and onto the floor. His stomach churned and he closed his eyes. He reached down and picked up the towel, setting it back on the counter and slowly unbuttoning his bloodied shirt. He ripped one off as he tried to pull it from the buttonhole, cursing again. It was getting worse. He gasped for breath and stopped, leaning on the counter for support as blood trickled from his mouth. His whole body was racked with tremors, practically convulsing. “Goddammit!”

The blood came out fast, pouring from his mouth and into the sink. He doubled over, retching into the basin, eyes watering, skin sweating. Finally it stopped. Slowly, breathing hard, he looked up at the empty, blood-splattered mirror. There was nothing there. He would be fine, he knew. He was done with the vomiting, at least. Though it took effort, he was eventually able to take his shirt off and wipe as much blood as he could from his body. He stood up straight, trying to keep himself composed. Walked out of the bathroom. Unlocked the hotel room door. Walked outside, keeping the Do Not Disturb sign on the knob, and making sure it was locked. He took the elevator down. It was empty, which he was grateful for. The lobby, too, when he reached it, had only a couple guests and a concierge waiting. They didn't notice him. Breathe in, breathe out. He was almost there. Almost to safety. If he was lucky, they wouldn't find her corpse for another few hours. But it wouldn't matter anyways. He'd used a fake name, and there was no image of him on the security cameras.

He shielded his eyes from the sun, circled the building to the alley in the back. Lennix was there, waiting in the car, sunglasses on. He got inside and they began driving.

“So,” Lennix asked, smirking, “long night?”

“I guess so.”

“Who was she?”

“Just some girl at a bar.”

“Aren’t they always.”

“Lennix?”

“Yeah, mate?”

“What is this?”

“This?”

“What are we doing? Why do we do this?”

“Because we have to.”

“But we had a choice.”

“Some of us did. We weren't all that lucky.”

“But why do we keep doing it?”

“I don't know.”

“Well for Christ’s sake, there has to be some reason.”

“Do you think I have any goddamn idea why we do this? I’ve lived for 500 years and I still have no fucking clue.”

“Well clearly you hate it. Why the fuck doesn’t everyone else? It sucks.”

“If you’re talking about Edmund...”

“Yeah, like, how does he do it? It’s like he couldn’t give a shit about anything else. He can deal with it. He doesn’t try to kill himself. He fucks whoever he wants, murders indiscriminately and loves it.”

“Yeah. He’s a psychopath. And from what I’ve heard, that’s the way he was before he died.”

“I just feel like such an idiot sometimes.” His hands continued to twitch in his lap.

“It’s probably just the DTs talking. I wouldn’t worry too much about it if I were you,” Lennix said dismissively.

“Whatever.”

Sighing, he looked down at his feet to avoid the sun. Maybe Edmund was right, so many years ago, when he told him to live it up. Maybe it was time to stop worrying about everything and start living. It wasn’t like he could do anything to stop it anyways. Smirking a little, he opened the glove compartment and pulled out a hip flask engraved with the words “fuck my liver.” As the car sped through the Boston streets, he lifted it to his lips and drank.