It's kind of dark. Standing by a dumpster,I kick a few small rocks across the black
pavement. I'm shivering because it is November second. I have no coat, I have no gun, and I
have no mother.
There was a moon, and there was a wind. There was a moan over the hill. Under the dark
siloutte of a short tree another one has joined our flock. The familar scream remembers when I
was brought into the darkness nearly one hundred and thirty years ago. The world has changed,
and so have I. Mortal friends have came and gone, but I live on. I walk nights over the hills.
In and out of the alleys I live this miserable excuse for a life, trapped in the body of a
nineteen year old. My pale, young face hardly shows my difiance of time. Only my eyes hint at
what's inside. They hint of things so dark -so ugly, that I am sometimes ashamed to look into a
mortal's eyes. Every time I do, the animal instinct overcomes me, and then the victim can chose
his fate. He can join or he can die.
My tatered coat is damp with dew, as is my long, dark locks of hair, which blends into the
coat so well that it is hard to tell where one stops and the other starts in the faint light
of that November moon.
"Lord Belkin. . .have you kept your promise?" It is Patricia Pandora. She is a young,
beautiful lady with dark hair and eyes. Every one feared and respected her, for she had more
power than most.
"I have been fasting as you requested. The rats have kept me up until now, but I don't
think I can make it much longer."
"It will not be much longer, Belkin." She turns and walks away. Her figure tops the hill
to find who has broken The Code, for this is the week of fasting. No new children were
to be brought into the fold during the week of The Rising. From the cries I heard, though,
someone could not resist. Patricia is looking into that matter even now.
At dusk I awake. There is that urge again. There is that animalistic hunger for human
blood, but I try and shake it off. I go to the cracked, once white but now, over time,
dingy yellow porcelain sink in the corner. Rusty water gurgles through the pipes and
finially spurts out of them. I splash my face a few times and wet my hair back. Today I
don't awake to the nagging guilt that sometimes meets me when I am alone, because last night
I abstained from feasting on any mortals. I cringe because I know I can't go much longer
without doing something that I'll regret.
Closing the door to the abandoned warehouse where I sometimes sleep, I slip into the alley.
The sky is a deep purple and soon will be black. Patricia occupies my thoughts. The old
cathedral down on Main is often where she can be found, and, though I hardly go there, I must
speak with her.
The heavy wooden doors squeek open and purple rays of the dying sun filter through the dust
both through the doors and large stained glass windows. My shadows is cast before me on the
old hardwood floor. The sound of my breathing and cold footsteps resonate. I never have
liked this place because it always smells of stale incense and old sweat. I glance around at
all the sacred relics.
She gets up. Candles are lit before her and now the smell of a freshly lit match masks
the incense for a while.
"Well, well, well. . .when did you decide to go and get religion?" Her voice flows like
water -so does her hair.
"I needed to speak with you. About last night, who was it?" I look into her face and see
the disappointment, not in me but in whoever broke The Code.
"It was Trent," she said.
I somehow wasn't surprised. Trent was the darkest of us all, and he had more power than
almost anyone. He always went to far; he was the type that had to see just how far one could
push the limits. -Another thing about Trent, he was the one that drug me into this wretched life
some one hundred and thirty years ago.
"So. . .what can we do?" Nothing could be done. Nothing. It was foolish to think that
either Patricia or I could make a difference. As guilty as we feel when we feed, it is the way
we are. We fight it, but most just don't care.
"We can't do much. Trent said he thinks that choosing to fast this week was a bad idea."
"The week doesn't matter. I know him like a father, and he wouldn't comply any week."
At this, I turned and started walking away. Patricia turned and kneeled like she was when I came
in.
"Belkin, one more thing," she paused and then, "you might want to watch your back
tonight. I'm afraid Trent has really went over the edge this time. He might get violent."
"There shall be no violence. Not this week. . ." I open the door and walk out, half
doubting what I just said.
Hours past. I spent most of that night trying to catch rats. At dawn I went to bed
feeling unsatisfied. My spine tingled and ached. My eyes burned. The shaking was getting
worse. Withdrawl is almost as ugly as the feeding. The feeding. . . the worse thing about
the feeding is the excitment that comes from it. The satisfaction and the rush that one gets
while selfishly meeting all their filthy desires is what makes me sick after they are met. That
is the reason Patricia and I thought up The Week of the Rising. Now, because it has been so long
since I've had human blood, withdrawl has really sat in. I sat up in my bed half the day,
finally laying down around noon. Tossing and turning and nightmares were my company until dusk
came again.
I went through the same routine of awaking at dusk and washing my face, slipping into the
alley, and walking around. Tonight, though, I had a bad feeling. I went back into the warehouse
and played the piano a bit. Moonlight Sonata almost steadied my shaking. After a while, though,
even playing the piano didn't help. Frustrated, I banged the keys and got up. I walked to the
dusty window to look out at the moon and the passing cars. This was the end. If I keep living
I know I'll only bring other's into this pit that I have found. I had tried, but I might as well
give up. I had tried many times, but I can't change what I am. You know, I guess I'm a leopard
and those are my spots, but it's too much. I had two choices. I could be like Trent. I could
not care about anything. I could be selfish and let the whole world go to blackness. Let the
whole world burn, Trent wouldn't care. Could I ever hold the wealth of hate that Trent holds?
Could I grow so cold and gray? Then, there was the alternitive. I shudder to think of it, but
I was a failure. It would be better for everyone. It would be better for the mortals, and it
would be better for my kind. Trent would be glad that no one would be harping about abstaining
from feeding. I ran my fingers through my hair, looked down, and closed my eyes. I banged my
head against the window. Another look down at the traffic and I was better for the moment, but
I was hungry and had to get back on the streets.
It was in an alley much like the one I was in when the story opened that I heard Trent's
voice. Like sheep recoginize thier owner's voice, I recognized mine. I heard his crazy talking
and knew that he was about to indulge again. I was half tempted to join him. I take that back,
I was more that half tempted, I was tempted beyond belief, but I gnashed my teeth and shook my
head. I bit my fingers. This was going to be hard, but I had to confront him. He couldn't keep
doing this. He couldn't keep bringing more people into this cold, lonely darkness that I knew
all too well. There is no escape from it. There is no escape from this life and there is no
escape from my convictions. There was no escaping what I was about to do.
I leaped onto the dumpster. Jumping had always been one of my strong points, and I
planned to use it now like never before. The landing had been semi-quiet, and Trent was so
involved with moving in on his unexpecting victim that he hadn't heard me. I crepted nearer to
get a bit of a better look.
This victim was an old, drunken man. He was homeless, of course -probabally an
alley-sleeper. He had a mangey white beard and tattered clothes. I could smell the alcohol
over the odors coming from the dumpster that I was perched on. The old man staggered around
and kept asking drunkenly, "What do you want?"
Trent was about to make his move when something inside of me made me shout out, "Stop it,
Trent Surreach!"
Trent turned toward me, his black eyes gazing. The old man more or less fell against the
brick wall of the alley. I motioned for him to run. He finally scampered away, falling a few
times in the process.
"If it isn't Belkin Starcross, the rat-eater. Caught any good rats lately, Belky?"
I jumped down from my perch. "This has got to stop, my brother. This feeding about has
got to stop."
"We are more evolved than the mortals. They are merely a source of food for us.
Survival of the fittest, oh me brother."
"More evolved! More evolved! You were a mortal yourself at one time. You know they
have something we lack."
"I lack nothing," Trent growled.
"Mortals have happiness. Mortals have death. Those are two things that we don't have.
Are you happy, Trent?"
"Happy? Am I happy? I wasn't happy as a mortal. As for death, well, death isn't such
a hard word anyway." And at that he swung at me.
Brothers weren't to raise a hand against one another. We were supposed to stick
together, like in packs. Masters were supposed to train up those that they had brought into the
darkness, not take swings at them. In a way, though, this was my fault. I was not to go against
my elders. I wasn't to question our ways. I definetley wasn't supposed to oppose the one who
brought me into this world, but I felt so much contempt now that all my animal instincts took
control.
"You. . ." I started to say, but words were not suited for now. I lunged toward him.
He gave me a quick punch to the stomach and then bit my neck. I gasped and was pushed against
the wall. His footsteps echoed off those cold, damp walls as he disappeared into the darkness.
Years have gone by. I walked back to the warehouse that night, utterly defeated.
I stopped trying to make a difference. The underground population is too big for me to matter.
I haven't seen Patricia in years. Man, I wonder where she is. . . being all alone is worse than
I ever imagined, but it has to be this way. I still feed on rodents when I can. I have only fed
on mortals about three times since that night I confronted Trent. Ironically, one of those three
was the old man that was in the alley. I didn't follow The Code then. I left those poor victims
where I found them. Now they're one of us, but I refuse to take responsiblity. Here I sit
nights, typing or playing the piano, wondering when I'll indulge again -wondering if I'll ever
feel normal. Sometimes I just wish that I could turn cold and join the others. Maybe someday
I will. . .
