To have been standing there for hours is not fun at all. It's a cold night and the field isn't very nice, with tall and yellow corns ready to be harvested.
But for Xavier Clarke, it isn't even a bother.
He has been standing there, alone, for hours. Letting the cold air swept through his slim body, letting every gust bites his white, pale nape. Clarke stands there, not even shivers. He keeps staring at the yellowish plants with his dark eyes, black and cold as beads of rock.
Nobody notices him.
Clarke was once a beauty with tanned skin. A beauty with warm, happy eyes, before he turned to a pale, dark-eyed young man.
But since that day, he had his body sacrificed, planted into a big stake, letting it pierced his toned stomach. He had all of that red, thick liquid flow out of his body, from all leak it can use to get out-- eyes, nostrils, finger and toenails, mouth, and even the wound itself. He had his intestines frozen and his heart stopped beating.
Clarke closed his eyes, feeling the pain crawls through his body again. He loves pain, any kind of it. The pain he had when he saw his parents got killed by himself. The pain when he watched his fiancée killed herself. The pain of husbands whose wife left them because of the mysterious obsession of Xavier Clarke.
But this one, this kind of pain, is what he hated the most.
Who was him? Who was Xavier Clarke, 300 years ago?
Clarke was a fine young man, adored by ladies anywhere. He's wonderful, handsome and educated, but somehow lonely. Hatred grew in his heart toward his busy parents, toward the customs he must follow as a member of royal family.
That was when, he was taken away. By those people, wearing capes and holding a cross--somehow different. It looks flipped down.
Xavier Clarke was dead, on that day. It was what public knew. But Clarke was still alive till today, roaming the night to eat people's soul. To manipulate their minds, to make them got obsessed and addicted of him.
Clarke started to touch his stomach, tracing the scar created by that big stake, clothed by his shirt. A small, cold smile appear on his haggard face. He turned, walking away from the corn field.
Vampires aren't just those ghoulish creature who sucks blood from their victims. Clarke doesn't. He eats, he always does. But it's not blood. What he searched for is soul--specifically, the victim's sense of logic, their minds, their feeling.
That's Xavier Clarke. I'm just telling you for your sake, because he's still out there, roaming the earth, as a psychic vampire, creature of the night.