A work of Fiction

A Work of Fiction......in small parts.
 
 
 
The light of the full moon through the kitchen window is telling me that I'm hungry, and one doesn't argue with nature. She can be quite the bitch.
Man, I can hardly remember the last time. Was it last month? Or was it just last week?
I don't know. I don't think that I am starting to care anymore. I think I am starting to like it. It's sick I know.
Nothing. Go back to bed.
You have a big day ahead of you. Meetings, lunch with your sister and then picking the kids up from soccer practice. You need your sleep.
We all do these days.
I'll be in, in a few minutes. K.
Julie doesn't need to worry about me, and especially the kids. They don't have to know. They shouldn't know. They can't know and neither can she. Ever. It would kill them.
But it's just the taste, it's hard to remember or put a finger on it. It's almost like I need it. What it means I have no idea.
I mean, I've watched enough scary movies to kind of guess, but nothing like this. Not now. Ya know.
But lately, there has been a thrill in it. The chase and almost surreal hangover that lifts like the morning fog. Feeling rejuvenated. Energized. Without Gatorade or an aspirin.
More than human.
I've read somewhere that in certain areas of the world, they would consider it a delicacy. They would consider it a form of initiation, a rite of passage if you will.
The gift of immortality. The beating heart of man is nothing but a shadow of a glimpse of what he truly can become. Or so I thought. 
I just remember being blindsided. The stirring in the bushes and the low thud of, it's hard to explain. Waking up in the cold wet grass of an early morning in late August. Naked. Covered in blood. Bits of grass and hair, underneath my fingernails and in dire need of a toothpick to get whatever it was out of my teeth. Spit. Out. Like really tough beef jerky. But Jack Links doesn't make anything like that.
The news said it was a mugging that turned into murder. But he didn't look like he would have any cash. It's hard to tell these days. Spending vast amounts of money on torn jeans and the look of trying not to care. The bed head.
Who knows. No motive. No reason. No witnesses. A lifetime petty criminal. Splattered about like paint. A child's idea of a gift for mommy.
Brief remains here and there. I guess they identified him by what was left of his teeth, poor bastard.
I guess he shouldn't have been out that night.  
 
 
 
 

---

Get more out of the Web. Learn 10 hidden secrets of Windows Live. Learn Now