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Drip. . . Drip. . drip. . . Blood on marble, red on white, hot on cold. No. The blood is cold now, too. I’ve made sure of it. Drip. . . Drip. . . Splattered with it. Jarring red across my bare, white chest. . . Blood. So much blood. Red, white, life, death. . My head is spinning. Madness is clawing up from dark recesses of my heart and I haven’t a clue how to stop it. Yes. Yes I do. I stand from my hard metal chair, whisking a clear glass off the counter. Drip. . . Drip. . . Precious nectar, precious red, wasted, lost in the white abyss of the marble floor. Red on white. . . Life or death? My head’s spinning, whirling, driving me past madness. Utter oblivion. Blackness, darkness.
Until I raise the clear glass- full of red now- to my lips.
Still warm. Still hot on my ice-cold tongue. Red. . .White. . . Drip. . . Drip. . . A spasm down my spine as my heart starts up. Thud. . .Thud. . .Thud drip drip thud. . . So loud, so loud inside my head! A convulsion from the man on the table makes me realize the heartbeat is not my own. Life! Not death! Not the red on the floor! I turn, scalpel glinting in my hand.
“What are you doing awake, precious?” I ask. Have I lost it? Maybe I have. Maybe I’ve slipped again into my madness. . . Red. . . White. . . Drip, drip, drip. . . Yes, yes. I’ve lost it again. I’ve lost myself to the kill. Red. . . So much blood in him!
Another low groan. It’s his pain talking, isn’t it? His pain or his fear, I don’t care which. Life! He’s alive! Why do I care? Why haven’t I killed him? Drip. . . Thud. . . His heart is faster now, that gorgeous red spilling onto the floor. That’s all I see. Red on white. . . Like a peppermint stick. . . Flashes of color, flashes of white. Ever-present red. Gone. . Blackness. . . Drip. . .Drip. . . I cannot seem to make sense of things. That’s the first clear thought that I’ve had. When had I begun? Had I truly lost my sense of time?
Enough!
My skull will split if I don’t end this. It must. And then there would be more red. . .On the walls, ceiling. . . So much red. How much of it is mine? Is it all his? Drip. . . It’s slowing now. Less life. Less precious, abhorrent red. Why haven’t I seen his face? The body seems familiar. . . Scars, bruises. . Why, a missing rib! I’ve a missing rib. . Me! Me, me, me! It’s myself on this gurney! The red, the blood. . . Red on white. . . The marble floor white as my skin. . . No, no! End this! Drip. . . Drip. . .
I’m clawing at the walls now, the door. My nails ripping from their beds, feral snarls caught in my throat. Why does it terrify me so? I’ve seen this before. . My blood. . . Red. . . White. . . Black, blue. . . Life. . . Death. . . My head is splitting open, white hot pain shooting down my side. Drip. . . Trembling, now. Blood streaked across the steel door. Blood on metal. . . Red on silver. . . Agony. . My head rent open, blood pouring from my fingertips. . . Drip. . . Drip. . .
Stop the heart. No heart, no nightmare. . . Thud, thud. . . Still there. Yes, there but not for long. . .Red. . . Glass. Shattered cup. Cut out the heart. . . Drip. . . Drip. . . Thud. . . Drip. . .

(tick. tock. tick. tock.)
That was all he ever heard. That incessant ticking, clawing away at the inside of his head, driving him further and further toward the gaping black maw of his madness, it made Kazeielan want to gouge out his very own eardrums. He knew what to make it stop, oh he knew it well, but Kazeielan could hardly bear the thought of time with other people. Their stares made his temper rear like some horrible monster, one he rarely wished to dominate and tame.

(tick. tock. tick. tock.)
He raked a white, spidery hand through his hair in frustration, wanting to cry out and bust a hole through the wall of his penthouse. Shut up, shut up! He rested his elbows on the desk, closed his eyes tightly, a snarl in the back of his throat. Kazeielan knew he was going mad, and it was going to happen soon. Tonight, even? A sudden realization dawned on him. Could killing be considered “being around people”? He may as well give it a try, right?

(tick. tock. tick. tock)
He stood with such force that his oak chair was knocked over. No matter, he could deal with it easily later. He slid on his boots and threw his duster on. It was rather warm, but he didn’t get cold easily even if it went sour. He let the door of his penthouse click shut, and locked it behind him, stepping into a hallway. The walls were a light cream color, pleasantly soft on his sensitive eyes. Every one or two strides- seven or nine feet- the smooth/textured striped pattern was punctuated by a frosted-glass lighting fixture. Kazeielan donned a pair of dark sunglasses that he’d thankfully had on his person when he crossed over here. Cursing his curiosity, he lightly tapped the down button next to the elevator door at the end of the hall.

(tick. tock. tick. tock.)
Out here, that ceaseless noise was quieter, even just outside his apartment. And as the doors swung open, it grew even quieter still. A young service maid stood there, her hands resting on a cart full of cleaning goods. He coked a red eyebrow as he ducked into the elevator, leaning against the south corner to give himself room as to not knock his head on the top of the tiny chamber. She was a pretty girl, he could give her that. Frankly, though, she wasn’t his type. Then again. . . He’d been searching for a kill. . . Kazeielan stilled that thought. Killing a woman was something simply too violent, even for him. He popped a piece of Swedish chocolate into his mouth as he was struggling to control himself.

(tick. . . tock. . . )
But it must have silenced that ticking! It must have. It was bearable now, only loud when her heart was between beats and her lungs between breaths- rarely did he breathe himself and just as rarely did his own heart beat. He would not kill her, but he must find a victim, and soon, before he did something even his twisted mind dare not do. She offered him a smile, and his own in return was characteristically lopsided- he had his scar to thank for that. The girl seemed about to say something when the elevator pinged and he rushed out, barely avoiding cracking his head on the doorframe.

(tick. tock. tick. tock)
Kazeielan filled his lungs with a breath of fresh air as he shoved the glass doors open and strode out onto the street. This was a strange place indeed. It didn’t even smell like home, and everything had a slightly odd color. Idly, his mind wondered if killing would be the same, and he hoped it would. But if it had changed at all, he hoped- for his sake- the better. As he walked-occasionally sliding a piece of chocolate from the pocket of his jacket to his mouth- Kazeielan stopped his eyes on every passing face, waiting for one that seemed to fit the bill for tonight.

(tick. tock. tick. tock.)
There! He had found himself the prefect man. A youth- appearing the same age as Kazeielan did outwardly, hardly over twenty. Perfect! He stopped the maniac smile growing on his face. The trick, now, was finesse.

(tick. tock. tick. tock. stop!)
Silence. In his head, there was complete and utter silence. And never had Kazeielan loved a silence as much as he did approaching the boy. It was hardly the work of a few seconds and a hefty dose of a vampire’s glamour to lure the boy to a hotel. (Posh, of course. Kazeielan refused anything <i>close</i> to squalor.) In the silence, he could think clearly. And in the darkness, he let himself lead the mortal into the back bedroom.


( I wonder if thine angelic eyes doth dream of what I plan for thee. . )
Kazeielan thought, his fingers tented as he sat in a chair at the foot of the bed, dressed to the waist now. The boy was rather pretty, he was thinking now. Such a waste . . . He shook his head. He was a killer, ruthless and aloof. So have things always been, so how they will remain. Even pretty green eyes like those of this child could not draw him from that fact. Sometimes, he loved his brutal nature. Sometimes he loathed it. Such distance it called for! Even more than that, he loathed the fear of love that was in his black little heart.

(Pity I cannot spare thee, O, gentle Dante.)
Kazeielan stood and turned silently to his coat, easing a long, slender case out of a pocket. He leaned against the counter, delicately cradling the dark, polished wooden case in his hands as one a fragile piece of precious glass. As he balanced it on one hand, his spidery fingers flicked the hasp of the lock and gently pushed back the lid. Lying within a claret velvet mold, a scalpel glittered murderously. Temptingly. He trailed the tips of his fingers along the glossy whitewood handle, willing himself not to tease it from its mold and use it. Silence was reigning supreme in his mind, and it was there that he sought peace and clarity, not in the delusions of his twisted heart. “For now, you are spared, child. Make use of it.” The scalpel was returned to his coat and he put yet another piece of chocolate to his tongue. Kazeielan undressed again, slinking back to the bed. He wanted peace for as long as he could have it.

‘Twas barely morning when I woke. I sat up in my bed and looked ‘round, chuckling a little to myself. Foolish of me to have been so worried. After all, with a preternatural body such as this, what had I to fear? I ran a hand through my black locks, tousled they had been. I was not yet used to my cold, marble flesh, and, frankly, I am not yet. I had not had chance to grow accustomed to the fact I had no reason to breathe. Inhuman. Ay, I had always been immortal, but I had also always been alive. ‘Tis quite a bit to acclimatize to, my friend, quite a bit indeed. I rolled out of bed and passed through the sunlight beams that fell across the plush carpet easily. It had no effect on me- I found ‘twas so for all those he Turned. Odd, but Immortality is often so. Surely I knew that. Why, many a time had I been victim of lynching, and of the guillotine, nearly as often as I had been the executioner. Alas, sweet guillotine, the kiss of thy blade did not kill me first! Haha! A piteous story if ever I have the chance to tell it.

I stumbled into the bathroom, still plagued by half-sleep, and leant into the immense bathtub. I ne’er had a qualm about spending my immense fortune- scarcely do I think any Immortal does. Why, we have not the hearts of men, only the hearts of beasts. Well, this I believe to be true of myself. Moreso now because of this damnèd vampire curse. Ay, a curse! Forever I had already known I would live, and now it hath became forever with an abhorrent lust for blood! ‘Twas self-hated I felt most often, and ‘twas self-hatred I grew used to. ‘Twas loneliness that I knew most often, ay, but self-hatred was now dominant. Indeed, I’d asked for this- why, even begged may be the word I ought use. Now, though, ‘twas hatred for myself and mine stupidity.

The water ran freely from the spout as blood may from a severed vein, and my eyes watched with only mild interest. Indeed, the facets of light as they glanced on the silvery liquid were enthralling, but it was not the sort of enthralling I desired. It was not the sort at all. I tell thee now that self-hatred and loneliness are the most loathsome combination of emotions a man could feel. They crept in at me from all sides, like monsters of a fairy-tale. Ones that Queen Mab herself might plague upon the worst of men, and indeed I did not even wish them upon mine greatest enemy. But mine greatest enemy was myself, and I had never wished these emotions upon myself. I slid out of my trousers and into the steaming, frothing water. It felt like the most caressing of lover’s touches on these worn and aching muscles. Constant pain is mine curse as well, if not from these emotions than from this body. ‘Tis the curse of an executioner, I s’pose. Even still, it is quite vexing after centuries of having to endure it.

The steam roiled up o’er my face with a burst of warmth like a hot fog. Warmth was oft something I missed as well. A beautiful thing, like a youth’s fleeting beauty. Ay, I knew what age did to most; save a few. Aloysius, Alexander, Romius, Xander, Kazeielan, Garnett. . . Each was Immortal, just as myself, but all of us so very different. Aloysius the Martyr, Alexander the Great, Romius the Hot-Blooded, Xander the Savior, Kazeielan the Malevolent, Garnett the Innocent. And, I, Augustine the Cunning. Haha! What great children of an idle brain those nicknames were! All save Alexander’s, of course. That had always been his- no doubt that it will. I missed them often. Clever trickster I may be, but I have a mind not at all unlike the Martyr’s. Indeed, I gamble, drink, such things are of great enjoyment of me. Then my mind is not free to wander where it wish. Often I wonder if I can be more like Kazeielan, or Romius, but I am not.. I am Augustine the Cunning, Augustine the Trickster. . . Augustine the Lonely.