Tales of the Parodyverse

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jack
Thu Jul 05, 2007 at 01:42:24 pm EDT
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I hate my fangs... *some harsh language*
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                    I hate my fangs
by
Jack L. Bryson


I have fangs. They look cool I suppose, but when it comes down to it, I don’t like using them. I killed a girl last night. I just don’t want to think about it. It never happened. I’ll probably do it again, but I don’t want to think about it. I hate my fangs. I hate this fucking life.
    
I’m wearing black slacks and a white shirt. I have a leather jacket hanging over the chair in my office. It’s typical urban garb. It’s inconspicuous, and what I wear when I hunt.
I smell animals nearby. They’re too close, and there are many of them. I want to be near one of them, but I don’t want these thoughts. Fuck them. I just want to lay here under the floor of my office. Nighttime is approaching.

The window in my office is open. I can hear a cool breeze disturbing the curtains. I’m half awake, as I have been most of the day. The trap door isn’t heavy at all, but I only push it open with minimal enthusiasm. I’m sitting up now, listening to the animals.
They’re down in the street. I use to be one of them. They smell good. I want to be close to one of them. My instinct to explore is strong. I push myself out of the hole. I grab my leather jacket and leave my apartment.

There’s two black kids walking down the sidewalk. One of them holds a basketball. There’s a young woman emerging from a liquor store. An old man who looks like Santa Claus walks his Terrier past the woman. I walk up the street and make my way into downtown.
Downtown is loud. There are too many lights. A group of drunken frat boys call me “bra” as they exit a bar. I think they altered the word “bro” to sound cool. I enter the bar they just emerged from. There are a couple booths and some pool table. Many college students sit at the bar.

This is an odd kind of bar. There’s a mix of different people who probably wouldn’t hang out together during the day. I see some more frat boys by the pool tables. A couple Goths are standing in a corner, lighting cigarettes. I look over at the pool table and decide I want to play. There’s a kid with a blond buzz cut. He’s holding a cue stick. He nods in my direction.

“You want to play Nine-ball?”

“Sure, how much?”

“Twenty a game.”

“How about fifty?” He gets a cocky smirk on his face. I have to admit, the kid was good. I could sense he was infuriated when I kept making impossible shots. My vampire eyes don’t fail me. The balls are moving painfully slow. I hit them at the exact angle, knocking the six, the three, and then the eight ball in. I win two hundred bucks.

As I leave the bar I check the time and I’m surprised to see it’s only eight o’clock. I need to find food soon, but I take my time wandering. Without realizing it, I start to leave the downtown area, and I walk past petite over-priced houses. Sandwiched between these houses is a YMCA. I hear kids laughing and I move closer to investigate. There’s a window I peek into, and I see kids doing gymnastics. A thirteen-year-old Chinese girl runs across a mat, jumps and begins a series of flips. Her body twists and turns in the air. Her limbs never flail wildly. Her face is beautiful. At the end of the mat she stops and pants. Then she looks over at me. I duck away from the window.

I hide in the parking lot until her class is over. She waits in front of the YMCA. It looks as though she’s waiting for a ride. When no one is around I approach her. She’s wearing a brown jacket over her leotard. I can see faint perspiration on her brown skin. Her black hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She looks up at me.

“Were you watching me from the window?”

“Yes.”

She doesn’t say anything more. She lets me tilt her head back, and I sink my fangs into her neck. She closes her eyes and I stop. I don’t kill her. I don’t even take a gulp of blood. I only take a sip, and I turn and walk away. The hunger is killing me now, and I’m so tired. I can’t make it back to my apartment. There are a couple hedges I hide behind. I lay on the grass of some yuppy’s front lawn. When the sun comes up, it’ll burn me up. The only thing that’ll be left is a pile of ash.

    



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