Poison to everything I touch. The things I've done, so ruinous.

It's raining again, or maybe it never stopped. Either way, I pull my hood over my hair and stomp away from Tybalt's mansion. I feel weak. Used up. Lets not pretend that I don't know why. I fade from view as I make my way towards the more populated part of the city. Not bothering to look up from my feet, I follow my nose, and the smell of fresh, rich, flowing blood. A shudder goes down my spine, as the scent grows stronger. I hear them. Cars full of tired Kine coming home from their night shift jobs. Wayward teenagers, prowling the streets like they own the night. I chew at my lip, near famished, creating a bloodless wound in the soft flesh. Even hidden from their sight, the humans seem to unconsciously shrink away from something monstrous that stalks among them. At that, I'm torn between glee and sorrow.

I turn my head towards an ambrosial smell, my mouth practically watering. A couple is exiting some high end restaurant, and for a moment I'm perplexed by my ravenousness. Then I see it. Nestled, sleeping in daddy's arms. All cherubic curls, tiny sneakers, and Osh Kosh B'fucking Gosh. The purest, sweetest manifestation of innocence. Every bit of what am I focuses on the child, every voice is silenced, every bit of misery is culled. I see the couple approach their car with my coveted treasure. What to do. What to do. I have to be careful, any sloppiness will certainly come back to plague me. I tear my attention from the child, focusing on each adult in turn. With little effort, I prod and tweak around in their minds, dulling their emotions into a colorless glob of nothing. The woman opens the car door and plops into the seat, not bothering to close it behind her. The man opens the back door to place the child in a car seat, and I approach. He glances up at me, stepping an inch back and knocking into the side of the car. His expression can only be described as a calm terror. I stifle a snicker and speak directly into his thoughts. "Give me that." I point a gloved hand to the still sleeping child. He falters slightly, and my lip lifts into a hungry snarl. With a shaking grasp, he hands the child to me, almost appearing relieved once it passes from his possession, to my own. I take a few steps back, clutching the sleeping parcel, and fading from his sight. I only watch a moment, as he shrugs slightly and leans against the car door.

The smell of sweet blood overpowers my thoughts, and I have to take off running at an impossible speed, just to keep from tearing my meal...and the masquerade... to shreds. I cut through a neighborhood, following my senses to an empty, abandoned house. Several thick boards block the back entrance. I pull them off, one handed, jostling the child enough so that it starts to stir. Small sounds of fear and disgruntlement begin to come from the warm mass in my arms, and my mouth drops open in hunger. So young. So innocent. Memories of the young children my maker brought me to feed on flash through my head. For once, they do nothing to dissuade me. If anything the visions entice me further. I wrap my hands around the warm bundle, holding it to my chest. It's tiny features are ambiguous to me. The child is almost unnoticeable as a living being. It's nourishment. A vessel of pure, untainted sustenance. I bring the bundle to my face, inhaling the fresh aroma of it's flesh. The sweet nectar issuing unrestrained through tiny veins. My lips meet the smooth, unflawed texture of it's skin, and my teeth are in the small throat before my fangs even fully elongate. The saccharine liquid flows unbridled into my mouth and down my gullet. The small body empties within minutes but the time trips longer through the throes of my ecstasy.  When the veins finally run dry I toss the drained corpse into onto the dirty carpet. Not a drop wasted. 

I wander the empty house, my head almost buzzing with the silence and satisfaction. Every fear and delusion is a far whisper, barely even a tickle in my consciousness. Barely even a muted groan. I glance over the walls, reading graffiti-ed messages so fresh I can smell the flavor of the Kine that wrote them. I'm fine and full and happy until my green eyed gaze passes over the cracked, yet reflective surface of a darkened window.

And I see her. The ragged, unkempt clothing, hanging off a skeletal frame. Ribs laid open and bloodless from a gender-less chest. Matted clots of pink hair surround a dark gaping maw of nothingness where my face should be. There's a strangled howling of a sick animal nearby. The pained keening of a fox with it's paw in a trap. I want to turn to see what it is, but I'm stricken by the horrific reflection that stares me down without sight. "Who are you," I cry, but the mocking response from the window answers my question. That wailing again, answering another question as I fall to my knees. "Real, or not real? Real, or not real? Real, or not real?!" As I pray, I pull my K-bar from it's spot in my boot. I drag the blade against my cheek, my chin, my forehead. I want to fix what I saw. "Real, or not real?"

It hurts, I bleed, I plead.
"Mongrel. Tommy. Tybalt. Pyotr. Law. Dad. Master. Anyone."

"Help."