The Vampire's Station

His jeans were loose. Dark enough, and of a cheap enough material, that they didn't seem ill-fitting. Shabby chique, perhaps. The discolouration on one knee certainly cried shabby....

She allowed herself a smirk, imagining what might have caused the marks on his knee. A gentleman, perhaps, who only went down on one knee for the deed.... but we digress.

Above his waist, his shirt billowed slightly, betraying the curves of a comfortable man in the twentieth century. The buttons sat easily in their holes yet the ripples of the shirt's material showed the expansion of his body. Perhaps a diet of meat, or over-indulgence of carbohydrates. Maybe he lived on take-aways and cup noodles. Or, perchance, he just enjoyed too many salads at once.

The colours of his shirt remained rich, despite single threads going at the shoulders betraying its used state. It was clear that this was some of his finest clothing, worn to impress, and yet even that was… disappointing.

Contrary to the habit of his shirt, his shoes were near pristine. Only a slight scuffing of dirt, pollution or muck marred the sheer whites of his soles. At the toe, however, a diseased yellow had taken over the eggshell. This man scuffed his feet, clearly. That, or he had a habit of kicking walls. She wouldn't be too surprised if that were the case, given his sort; the lonely commuters on the cheap transport in the early AM.

Musing, she raised her gaze to his upper torso. His face was of little consequence. The neck was what she desired. Surrounding those sumptuous expanses were prickles of facial hair, inexpertly groomed and chasing each other in discordant directions.

He could do with trimming the neckbeard, she thought, briefly taking in his bloodshot eyes and dour face.

It was nearing midnight on a Saturday; those who travelled at this time were usually out of their wits with alcohol. They often had a bitter taste, marked with despair, regret, and the beginnings of substance abuse. She'd tasted it before and wrinkled her ivory nose, but this time she was desperate, and he was alone.

In fact, the carriage was all but empty. Her analysis had taken longer than expected, giving ample time for other exhausted commuters to disembark. Silence ruled the carriage, only splintered by the slurred mumbling of a grimy older gentleman sat towards the front of the tram. She doubted he would be cognisant enough to notice her plans.

“Hey, handsome,” she said, projecting alluring pheromones towards her chosen individual. He gave no indication of what voice he would respond best to; authoritative mistress, childish submissive? Undecided, she had gone for her usual lusty timbre, husky and commanding.

He glanced up, startled, eyes briefly unfocused as he battled his blood alcohol content for control. “Me?” he said.

“Yes, you.” She forced a smile. “Wanna get off at the next stop, come back to my place?” She nudged her lily-white breasts, elevating them further, almost pushing them in the man’s face. As expected, his eyes widened, one hand reaching out unconsciously.

“Ah ah ah. Not yet,” she scolded, tossing her hair over one shoulder and stalking to the carriage doors. “We’ve got to get out of here first.”

Like a dutiful, stupid puppy, the man followed.

Heterosexual men are so easy to claim, she thought, rolling her eyes.

Flashing the inebriated victim another smile, she pushed to open the doors as the tram screeched to a halt. She liked this station; its curtains of trees made good cover for her night-time escapades. Plus, its rural situation meant that barely anyone ever got on or off here. She could stand for hours, watching the trams go past, waiting until there was a tasty looking morsel delivered inside the carriage. If there was nothing, she could simply get on and off, on and off, a bizarre ritualistic journey that any ordinary commuter would raise an eyebrow at.

“It’s just a short walk,” she said encouragingly, silently praying that the man didn’t stumble too much as he walked. His lurching gait on the tram could have been put down to its movement over the rails, after all. Fortunately, he was coherent enough to find the exit, staying a step or two behind her at all times. Taking advantage of this fact, she wiggled her rear seductively, feeling like a bee attempting to communicate.

The things I do for a simple snack.

Years ago, she had destroyed all of the street lamps in the area, subsequently killing any council employees who were sent to fix them. As a result her home was bathed in darkness, shadows protectively looming over its secrets. Trees hugged the ramshackle walls, further smothering her abode in mystery.

“Looks… nice,” the man said. The night air seemed to have sobered him up a little, and he seemed nervous. She could smell his increasing sweat. “Bit dark, though.”

“I like doing things in the dark,” she said sweetly, flicking her dark gaze up and down his body, settling on his face. She let the eye contact linger, parting her lips slightly as if she couldn’t wait to kiss this fool. Baited, he leaned forwards, unbalanced enough that she was able to easily shove him through the gaping maw of the house.

“Whoa, easy there,” he chuckled, righting himself against the wall. “I’m not a fan of doing things too rough, I’ll be honest.”

“Oh, that’s no problem,” she replied, a genuine grin sneaking over her face. She could hear how his heartbeat had increased as the midnight interior overwhelmed him, robbing him of his sight. She didn’t need lights, of course. Not only had she lived in this shack for a century, her night vision was spectacular. Everything was outlined in shades of grey, including the anxious specimen in front of her. He was just inside the hallway, a door to his right, a wall to his back. She could move him into the living room, get him comfortable, but she was starving.

“Could we get a light?” he asked.

Somehow, despite his fear, he still held a trace of arousal. She resisted the urge to tut.

“I told you I like doing things in the dark,” she snapped back. Terror made them taste sweeter, in her opinion, and the more pants-wettingly petrified this man was, the less alcohol she would be able to taste.

“Right, okay,” he said, voice audibly quavering. “I’ll just get my phone out, put the torch on, ‘cause I kind of need to see what I’m doing.” He laughed shakily, attempting to bolster his own courage. She could see his hand tremble as he reached for his pocket, head blindly looking towards his waist as if that would help him. With his neck upturned, his pulse thumping below soft skin, he was a sumptuous dessert. A rich, boozy, vulnerable dessert.

She sprang, jaw dislocating, leading with her vicious canines. He had heard her move, startled, and she almost missed her target as he took a step back.

“I’m not big on hickeys,” he said apologetically.

Snarling, she rounded on him again, her mouth salivating, begging for its prize.

“Ah, got my phone, here we go. What the-?”

It was rude to interrupt someone as they were speaking, she was well aware, but the delicious sound of his throat being torn was far better than the nasal, querulous pitch of his surprise. Within seconds he was unconscious, deflating in her arms. She went down with him, hunching over his corpse and lapping hungrily at the opening she had made. Some blood hit between her eyes, the artery she had struck pumping furiously. It was like a hose, and she a dog on a hot summer’s day, snapping at the jet stream delightedly.

She drank her fill, noting gleefully that there was a sticky pool still forming under the victim’s head. He was ripe enough for leftovers! Crawling to the mostly-unused kitchen, she fished out some tin foil from under the sink, debating whether or not to grab a tupperware. Dicing the victims took so much energy, and she had gone out that night because she wanted an easy kill, not something that took preparation. Plus, if she cut him up, she’d need to buy tomato sauce or something…. human.

Shuddering, she returned to the hallway, licking warm droplets of blood from her hands and chin. Her jaw clicked a little as it resettled in place.

Wrapping the corpse’s head with a protective layer of foil was more fiddly than usual. She was continuously distracted, noting with irritation that the alcohol in his blood was getting to her.

Focus.

Drink?

Focus!

Eventually he was wrapped, his head mimicking a roast chicken. The tattered remains of his neck and shoulder were covered individually in an attempt to keep the precious nectar inside, to stop it from coagulating and thickening.

Though if it did, she’d just make soup.

Once her task was done she threw herself onto the sofa, flicking on the television. There was never anything good on at this time of night. Ah well. A tinny laugh track would have to provide the soundscape for her snooze.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she lay back, welcomed into the darkness of sleep like she was an old friend. A vampire is entirely familiar with eternal slumber, after all.