My First Kill

At what point do I turn my eyes away from a horrific sight?

It probably should have been a minute or so ago. I am feeling the outline of the severed arm searing its image into my brain. 

I am standing here, but then again, am I actually here? I am so unresponsive to what lies before me. Just yesterday I used to play video games that were absolute horror-shows; it wasn’t unusual to see a severed limb, a pile of guts, puddles of blood, brains falling out of a character’s head. I am completely still like a character from a video game left staring at a gory mess on the ground while fictional monsters stalk the zone and the player gets up to get a drink. Eventually, the player returns and turns the character away from the visceral mess on screen and moves on with the game.

Only this isn’t a game, I am not a character, monsters aren’t fictional, and I am still standing here staring at the mess.

My legs are completely unresponsive, but they aren’t the only part of me that remains still. My heart is a rock in my chest, my breathing is steady as I draw slow and measured breaths into my lungs, and my facial muscles are completely relaxed. Since my heart no longer beats, will I never feel the symptoms of fear and nervousness again?

Is this what peace feels like? There isn’t an ounce of stress or tension held in this unfamiliar body of mine. For the first time in my dreary life, I feel at ease and in complete harmony with myself.

This isn’t what I expected. After all, the blood of my housemate is on my hands… and on the walls, and pooling on the floor. I didn’t do an outstanding job; too messy. Oh well, it is only my first time, so I am sure that I will get better at murder from here.

But is it still murder if I had to drink his blood to live?

Most people would say yes. Most people would also buy a kilo of beef from a supermarket and justify it as being necessary. I think I can do the same; the only difference is that I killed my food source.

Then again, the meat industry is regulated with ethics applied to attempt a quick death for the cows. Ethics and morality went out the window when I gripped Jared’s shoulders and bit into the base of his neck. The hunger clouded my judgment, instinct took over, and I completely forgot to apply ethics. No doubt it was a painful death, but at least I made it quick, so that has to count for something. 

At the base of Jared’s neck are the two puncture holes from my fangs, but also a very obvious human bite mark. I must have really grabbed hard with my human teeth, too. No doubt Mister has something to say about that, but he stands in silence, hands folded together.

I can feel Mister’s stare burning a hole in my back. I am waiting to feel his Persuasion grip my still heart, feel his Will wrap around it and squeeze. It hurts when he does that. His blood moves through my body without need of a heartbeat, and reversing the flow whenever he uses his Persuasion hurts like a bitch.

I don’t know if Mister can read minds, but he seems to sense my intentions; it is how he trapped me. I imagine he knows I am thinking about him now. Minutes have passed since the body slumped to the floor, but no words have been spoken. 

He only said “follow your instinct” earlier; is there something else I’m supposed to do?

My instincts lead me to satiate my hunger and now, as I stare at the broken body of my housemate, self-preservation rears its ugly head.

I have to do something about the body. If he turns up dead and myself missing, that is going to spell trouble. The only part where DNA is concerned is the saliva and bite mark. I step carefully over the mess on the floor, wrap a tea towel around my hand, and grab a large kitchen knife. With one calculated swing of my arm, I carve the flesh from the base of his neck, effectively removing the bite mark, before I stab the knife deep into his shoulder. The chunk of neck flesh is slippery in my hand.

Without a heartbeat to race in my ears, I feel okay. Only the presence of Mister by the door of the apartment makes me slightly nervous. This feels like a practical exam.

I pull out my mobile from my jeans pocket and dial 000.

“Not yet,” Mister’s smooth voice says. “Burn it.”

It doesn’t take long for me to find something flammable underneath the kitchen sink. I pour it over Jared and dig his Zippo lighter from his pocket, cleaning the steel surface of my fingerprints before tossing the lighter onto the body.

While the flames take hold and ravage Jared’s clothing, I dodge around him into the kitchen to remove the smoke alarm batteries.

Five minutes pass, and the body is engulfed by the fire, and the surrounding carpet is blackened. Five minutes more and the corner of the couch is alight and quickly spreading. My keen eyes observe carefully. Mister says nothing.

When the flames are licking up the curtains and blackening the ceiling, I grab a clean jacket to hide the blood on my shirt and move toward the apartment door, avoiding looking at Mister.

“Fire! There is a fire! Everyone evacuate, FIRE!” I shout, my voice echoes through the stairwell. 

I run to my immediate neighbours, pounding my fists on their doors and launching down the stairs, running for the street. 

Outside, it is dead quiet. Looking back up at the apartment building, I see the flickering light of the fire in my apartment window. I call 000, putting on a frantic voice to report the fire while some confused tenants join me on the street. 

Mister appears beside me, beady eyes sliding down to me, long taloned finger pointing at my chest, and pale lips stretching into a thin, sly smile of approval.

The tenants are panicked, and I’m acutely aware of their hearts slamming with fear in their brittle chests. I have no heartbeat, but my body jolts, aroused by the human life surrounding me. It isn’t excitement; there is no sexual arousal, and no burning throat from my hunger. This is something different. I know if I sink my fangs into them and consume them, it will be euphoric. 

My body locks up. If I move and begin a slaughter, Mister will surely kill me himself. I wonder how long it’s taken him to act with that control. In the two weeks I’ve known him, he’s never mentioned how old he is. I haven’t even seen him feed yet.

I wonder if Mister does it in private? Maybe he has a kink and has to feed in a particular way. Maybe he only drinks the blood of animals. Wouldn’t surprise me if he’s a puppy killer. 

A low rumble comes from Mister’s chest and I glance at him to spy his smile spreading wider as he chuckles, piercing black eyes drilling into me.

“A puppy killer? Once, when I was only a fledgling. In your first kill you have surpassed even I, young Anthony. Well done. However,” he says in a low, tight voice. “When firefighters and police arrive tonight, how are you going to explain your shirt soaked in blood, poorly hidden by your jacket?”

He raises his brow, and I snap my head down to look at my clothing. I thought it was hidden enough, but he is right… I was being lazy. It is too obvious and risky.

“What is in your jacket pocket, young Anthony?”

Wary of any attention from bystanders, I keep my expression blank as my fingers prod the piece of flesh I carved from Jared’s neck with my bite mark gouged into the meat. I don’t want to look down as I suspect the worst: it might have stained my jacket.

“What do I do?” I ask.

No response.

Mister is gone, with the shadow of his amusement still hanging in the air. I am left alone, staring at my burning apartment with my housemate’s blood and flesh all over me, and emergency services on their way.

No doubt Mister is still watching, appraising me. The exam isn’t over yet.