His kin called him a failure of their kind.
He himself did not share the idea though; it was just he was different from the rest.
They feasted on blood, and through blood, life.
The more brilliant the life, the better the taste.
He also feasted on blood, but through blood, ailments.
The worse the ailment, the better the taste.
They preyed and killed, savoring the glory of being at the top of the food chain.
He preyed and saved, exulting at the pride of being the closest to God.
His kin looked down on him, jeered at him. He was not ashamed; he even laughed at their ignorance. Rather than a failure, his queerness made him a unique existence.
Disdain was mutual and thus, the queer nightwalker chose to walk the night alone.
He had been watching that young man for longer than he could remember. He was but a crippled boy-turn-man who had always been plagued with poverty. By day, he toiled tirelessly at the labor market, slaving himself away at every job offered. By night, he sat by the tiny window of his chamber, relying on the dim light of the lamp post to write his work. When his fatigue won him, the young man prayed to God with his worn, silver cross, his only possession that seemed valuable, before drowning himself in dreamless sleep.
The queer nightwalker was never able to see him in daylight; he could only watch the young man as night came, closing a dark curtain all over the city. Soon, the nightwalker found himself harboring a fervent affection for the young man’s fair countenance. He loved it when the young man’s thin brows furrowed in trying to lead his hero through countless trials by the evil witch. He loved it when the young man’s curved lips shown a faint smile when his hero reached the ultimate peak of glory. But what had claimed the nightwalker’s heart was the young man’s earnest expression which seemed to cast a light on his profile whenever he prayed to his beloved Father, his silver cross clutched tightly in his lean fingers.
Tuberculosis was technically a death sentence. When the young man discovered his handkerchief stained with crimson, he knew his fate was sealed.
He did not lament this joyless existence. Rather than despair and regret, he felt a sweet peace gradually easing into his heart.
He shortened his sleep and prolonged his time of writing and praying. His drafts piled up in the small chamber while the young man slipped closer and closer into the compass of Death’s scythe.
The nightwalker watched his subject of affection with agony in his unmoving eyes. After much hesitation, he finally made up his mind.
He wore his most gentle smile when he entered the young man’s chamber, his tall, slender figure coated in the silvery moonlight. He thought to have projected an angel’s illusion; however, in the young man’s eyes, there was only a demon’s shadow.
However fair his face or sweet and comforting his words, the nightwalker could not conceal the sharp points of his fangs.
The sinful glory of his kind, his fangs thirsted for blood.
He was devil-incarnate, the young man thought, but at the same time, a savior. My only savior.
His life and his faith, which weighed more on his scale?
“Forgive me for the sin I shall commit.”
The young man mutely prayed to God as he offered the nightwalker his blood.
When the nightwalker’s fangs dug into the veins of his neck, the young man gathered all his remaining strength and stabbed him in the chest.
A silver cross. A vampire’s heart.
His eyes remained wide open even when his body was consumed in the wicked green flame. They were the last to burn to ash.
The young man clutched his bloody cross tightly in front of his chest. With his blood-smeared fingers he crossed himself.
“Forgive me. Forgive me.”
Who knew that a nightwalker’s blood could be this warm?