Predation.

{Yet another overgrown 1o1, huzzah. Jotted this one down after reading two pages of Chuck Palahniuk's Fight Club, which I have decided is quite lovely and absolutely inappropriate. A whole page of step-by-step explosives creation, hell yeah! Anyway, please enjoy your crappy blog post.}

Perfect timing, perfect temperature, perfect darkness, and he's taking the bait.
His hand's cold and soft on the nape of my neck,
almost human.
And I'm sure my lips taste like a prayer, and I'm positive that he never expected to meet someone this amazing in the backhand dives of a sorry excuse for a support group.
Alcoholics are fun stuff. It was Genine's idea to introduce me back into the public with other addicts, but I'm not like these people, and neither is what's-his-name.
And what's-his-name was doing so well, too, but I can't go on like this, and neither can he.
"I love you," he whispers in my ear, and it's easy to distinguish the lie.
He still tastes like yesterday's bloodbath. I shift my weight into the brick wall behind us, and my hand moves to my pursue.
Brendan- his name is Brendan, and he tipped me off just by looking at me.
High cheekbones, big blue eyes, perfect lips that just sort of pull back into that gorgeous, cocky grin naturally.
You wouldn't be able to tell, normally. You'd probably just figure he was a model, some sort of catwalk man with the ghost of a swagger in his stride. Maybe just aptly confident.
But whoever did the job was clumsy, left a millimeter too many on his eyeteeth, and the rough look of the edge is completely evident to anyone truly looking. Fangs, obviously filed short, in an attempt to quell the desires.
And now I'm here, wondering if he had himself declawed, or if some big bad owner took him in for his little surgery.
He pulls away and looks at me. I do my best to smile back, innocent to the fact that I'm prey.
Oh, god, the irony stings. I'm pretending to be the little human prey of a monster that's about to be my prey, and it's been way too long.
"It's okay if you don't want to answer, because I mean, we've only known each other for a few weeks, but I love you. I'm sure of it."
You don't love me, Brendan, you love the hunter's high, and it's been too long for you to remember what that feels like. Unfortunately, I'm feeling it too.
"I love you, too." I murmur, and my hand slips out of my purse again. I can't do this to him, he's been doing so well, and it can't be right, it just can't be. I don't know who he killed yesterday, whose blood he tastes like, but he's good. Maybe he just slipped up.
But there are no good vampires.
He embraces me, and I have no idea how a human can't feel the power in his hold; designed to crush, a last resort.
"I'm sorry, Aze, I'm really sorry." He said my name like a mistake.
It's getting tighter, and suddenly, I can't breath.
Shit.
My hand's in my pursue, and in a matter of minutes, I pull the eight-inch silver spike out, and press it against his back. The sizzle's enough to shock him into loosening his grip, and I can slip out from between his arms, scale his back, and bury the stake where it should burn through a lung and shoot flecks through his bloodstream.
He really was sorry, I realize. Vocal patterns aren't consistent with deception. He really was apologizing.
Brendan's screaming and trying to pry the stake out. Unfortunately, the rate at which the silver flecks are running his arteries, converting most flesh to ash, the hand's starting to break off at the wrist.
"Aze," He whimpers, as his once-pristine form begins to cave beneath his clothes. "Aze, please."
And there it is, and I can feel it.
Accomplishment.
Brendan's head falls, breaking off at the neck and exploding into a smattering of grey on the asphalt. His body caves, billowing out through the sleeves of his t-shirt and the legs of his pants. I pick up the clothing, shake it off lightly, and begin to hum as I toss it into the nearby dumpster.
Ashes to ashes.
I pick up the stake, slightly blackened, and put it back in my pursue.
Dust to dust.
Genine's going to be so pissed.

{Geez, I really must have something against vampire men. I write about seven vampiric male death scenes everyday. I'm terrible.}