Leaning against the smoking balcony’s guardrail, Nicholas cast his gaze upon the hapless mortals beneath him. He was once like them: alive, carefree, burden-less—but time had been cruel and his heart had grown dark like the night which he had been born into. Long ago, the people walking the street beneath him were his equal, but now they were little more than walking, talking sacks of blood just waiting to be pierced with sharpened fang until they shriveled up like the nothingness they truly were.
It was a cold, rainy Friday night in October, but that didn’t stop the masses from descending upon Five Points South. They scurried from bar to bar, laughing at nothing, and carrying on meaningless conversations like mindless drones. They were all so wrapped up in their own pathetic little lives, too busy to notice or even care that they were being hunted. Birmingham was a Vampire’s dream.
So many little play-pretties and so little time…
Being over four hundred years old, Nicholas no longer needed the blood to sustain himself. In fact, just the tiniest of sips could keep him going for months, but what had once been a need to drink had been replaced with a desire to kill. His heart now mirrored the world that he knew. It had become callous and unfeeling. The screams of the suffering were like a wondrous symphony of death and destruction to which his blackened soul could sore to new heights and dance defiantly amongst the Angels. The blissful moment that the glimmer of life in their eyes faded to a dull listless void—in that moment, he was no man, he was no Vampire. In that moment, he felt himself a God. It was the only time he felt in control. It was his calm during the never-ending storm. He was a junkie and killing was the only fix that could lay his demons to rest, even if just for a moment.