The First

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic


Vampires don't turn others. Nor are they good-looking.

Submitted: March 24, 2018

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Submitted: March 24, 2018

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The First

The first hatched under a clouded, crescent moon. As it instinctively pealed the membrane from its purple, swollen skin, it stretched its limbs and arched its hunched back. Its left, blood-crusted eye gained focus and it blinked until its surroundings became sharp. Its teeth were long, but not fangs. Its nails were long, but not claws. Its hair was long, colourless. It looked human, but its birth confirmed it was not. It knew what it was. It knew what it would do.

Stepping from the disintegrating cocoon it felt the winter wind on its flesh. It caught the tang of blood in the air and it knew it must feed before long. It tracked the scent from its hidden birth place in the hills, down the valley and towards a town. It faltered along the outlying streets, and as the buildings amassed on either side it stood in the shadows watching the people huddle into their coats and scarves, scuttling between fairy-lit shops. It was the run up to Christmas, something it was yet to know. It studied their clothing and it was aware it was naked. It needed to blend in. Instinct was its blessing. A man was coming towards it, alternately lighting up and then disappearing into darkness as he made his way along the street in the pools of lamp light. It held its breath and when the man was within reach struck.

It dragged the man into its inky hiding place. The man squirmed against his attacker, grasping at sinew and hair to no avail. It sank its nails into the man's flesh, pinning him down. It sank its teeth into his wrist, drinking the blood as it flowed warm and thick. When it had fed it stripped the man of his clothes. Proud of its disguise, scarf shrouding its head, it stepped out into the street and made its way to the centre of town. The man would not turn. The man would stay there until found. It had absorbed the man. His memories. His thoughts. He they became part of its knowledge, knowledge it would need to survive.

Dishevelled looking, slow moving and sated, it shuffled into the town square. It sat on a bench, reeking of recent death, and those nearby hurried on to their destinations, scarves pulled up round their noses. He mimicked them. A wind-blown paper cup collided with its feet. It picked it up, examining  it closely, turning it in its hands then holding it away at arm’s length, curious. A women hurried past, tossing a coin into the proffered container. It picked it out, puzzled. It would learn the habits of these creatures. And it would use them. It would blend in. It knew what it was. It knew what it would do.


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