This week, Chuck has us writing about Good vs Evil... but with this piece, you gotta wonder which is which - like the story below. Is my character good or evil? There's a fine line between them, right?
I’m not a bad person.
Really, I’m not.
I was bit at a party a couple of years ago by some strange dude who never told me the fuckin’ rules and I had to do my own research on what he had turned me into – then I took my life in my own direction.
By daylight hours, I’m a quiet mail clerk at the local post office. I sort your mail. I sent off your parcels through the best courier service your money can buy; and try to keep to your budget and a lot of you think I’m a pretty decent kinda girl.
Sure I’ve got a few tattoos, I dress kinda sexy and for some reason, you men think I have a dangerous sense about me – in reality, I’m not that bad. I like to listen to good vinyl, read some cool books by Stephen King and Edgar Allan Poe and get into the O-Neg when I can (what can I say, it’s rare and it’s got a different taste).
But by night, I research those crimes the police just can’t solve. They’ve had them open for over five years and the trail’s gone cold on them; and this is where I come in. I go back to the area where the crime happened. No matter how long it’s been, I can always pick up on what’s happened there... I mean, blood is blood. It can stick around on just about anything for such a long time and no matter how much rain has been around, the only place I tend to find a lot of it is in the sewers – just where it runs away.
It’s always the places the police don’t want to go too.
That’s not where I go.
Instead, I start walking around where they lost the scent in the first place. Because you see, it’s where the crim is usually hiding out – or not far from it. Like a fire bug, they love to come back to the scene of the crime and watch the police trying to figure out what the fuck went on.
It’s a damned turn-on for them!
So, when I’m standing in the crowd outside the taped off area, I’m not looking at what the cops are doing, I’m looking around the crowd; watching for the right person – the person who did the crime, who spilled another’s blood, who thought it was their job to be a complete dick and scare the rest of the Human Beings around and... oh there he is.
His hoodie is pulled up.
His hands are fidgeting – flexing – in his jeans pockets.
He has a smirk on his face ... and...
I can smell the blood of that Human on him.
Standing next to him, I almost can’t control the urge to rip out this throat and guzzle, drink and take in his soullessness now... but it’s not right. Instead, I reach up and...
“Oh, hey, you’ve got a bug on ya.”
“What?” he turns to me, eyes jumping. He’s nervous about a nice person reaching up to his neck.
I scratch his neck just enough to draw a little blood, “There’s it’s gone. It was a tiny bug. All squished, dead.” I smile, “Well, hope they get that sick bastard.”
I turn and find him gone.
Rubbing my fingertips together, I find his blood staining them red, hold them up to my nose and inhale deeply.
I know exactly where he’s going.
Looking up, I spot a cop looking directly at me.
It’s time to leave.
Like I said, I’m not a bad person. But this is how I live, where I get my blood. And it normally takes me around three weeks to track a criminal this way.
Besides it’s the fun way of doing it.
And during this time, he came into the post office while I wasn’t there. I knew because I could smell him in the place when I was working there the next day. My colleagues were nervous as well; telling me that some ‘weird dude’ came in the day before.
I knew then it was time to strike.
It took almost all night to find his house.
It was a damned dump in the middle of nowhere; and yet, he had set it up as a trap thinking he was going to get me.
The door was unlocked – I pushed it open and walked straight in.
“You need an invite don’t you, you night walker?” he asked, a rifle levelled at me.
“Old wive’s tale.” I smiled, my hunger showing as my canines did, “You turned an ordinary family into a blood bath.”
“I got revenge.” He said.
“No. You didn’t. You murdered. Why didn’t let the courts take care of them? Or me?”
He shook his head, tears filling his eyes, “You have no idea what they did to me!”
“I don’t care right now. To me, you’re the criminal; and you’ll be punished tonight.” I smiled as his eyes widened, “And you’ll be painted all over these walls just like you painted their house... but I’ll make you suffer.”
He hesitated in pulling the trigger.
I grabbed the weapon and threw it to one side where it shot wild as he careened across the room, slammed into the wall.
His leg snapped. He screamed in pain.
As I climbed on top of him, he tried to get away from me, his leg lagging behind him, his sobs pleading with me to let him go.
But I was so hungry that night.
And he had to pay for his crime.
I’m not a bad person.
Really, I’m not.
And when I was finished with him, I left him where I usually left my finished meals....
What? You want me to tell you?