First Blood

I am older than most, old enough to reach that age where many of my memories blend together, become less defined, and loose the intensities they once had.  Faces lose names, names lose places, and the meanings of certain memories meander their way out some back door of my consciousness.  

It is easy, now, to lump the people I have known and know now into the soup of my consciousness; mere ingredients that lose their ability to impress as my taste buds go as well.  Words of wisdom or of levity, experiences that once might have made some sort of difference in my life have also lost their weight.  All has become bland, colorless, without joy and life.  But I have an excuse.

All of these people, and all of the words that make up their lives are but lesser creatures, things that exist far below the realms I inhabit.  I have neither the energy nor the desire to waste my time with things inconsequential-for all of these things are of little use to me now.  One does not inquire, parading down the street, how well the ants being trampled underfoot are getting along.

Somehow, the people and memories in my soup have left a void deep within, as they out of necessity disappeared, loaded with all of the meanings and importance of their lives.  They have taken, as well, the meaning and importance of my life.  I wander these streets, alone, forgotten, with only this emptiness inside as vast as the space between stars.  The emptiness has a weight mortal men will never understand, one that sucks all other concerns, all other thoughts inwards into its nothingness.  At last I’ve become the most brittle shell of someone long gone, unrecognizable to all but myself.  There are moments when the emptiness can be held at bay, but they are few and far between.  In reality, I’ve long since become a slave to my omnipotent hunger.  

    There are moments when I’m sure it will swallow all that I am and all I was as well, as it has done with everything else in my realm.  These moments are impossible to bear, especially since I know there is a cure.

    I remember the first time I tasted blood that was not my own.  It was the blood of a young woman, lithe and full of energy, bursting at the seams with the dreams of life.  I succeeded in convincing her to lower her defenses, working on primal instinct alone, and she succumbed to my will, exposing her most sensitive regions.

    Like a tiger I leapt to the attack and tore her apart.  The sensation of having animal strength and prowess overcame me for a moment, until I tasted the first drop of her vital fluid.  There was nothing more to think or say, really.  It’s warmth was that of the sun, it was pregnant with all I lacked, and filled me more completely-that one first drop-that I could ever remember being filled.

    What should one do with arguments of morality, of right and wrong, when one has felt life’s total abundance, and all its mysteries, in but the smallest of drops of a young girl’s blood?  What is there left to say or think, really, when one has felt…that?  What other uplifting memories could one rationally expect to hold onto besides this one?

    It is the ultimate irony and the most despicable of curses that whatever positive, rejuvenating effects youthful blood might have on me is but short lived.  For my lifeless life outlasts all-everything, that is, except my hunger.

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