One Last Bite
Sharon T. Rose
For three evenings he’d watched and waited, following her nightly trek through the back alleys between her place of employment and her home. Even when weariness sucked at her steps like mud-filled puddles, she was enchanting. Tonight, he would have her.
He paused in the middle of the alley, waiting for that perfect moment. The feeble light cast by the broken lamps did not reach him in the corner between two buildings. It did not illuminate his rising anticipation. When she took her last step, he left the shadows behind.
These streets and byways were his playground, his courtyard, his hunting ground. He knew them better than those who’d been born and raised on them, though he had been here far less time. His knowledge, and their lack of it, made finely crafted moments such as this one possible.
He gave her nearly half a second to register his presence before he reached for her, tenderly bringing her into his embrace. She began to scream, to struggle, to understand that she must fight. She ought to have known. He had been here long enough, had fed often enough, to catch the limited attention of this city’s inhabitants. Subtlety, he had learned, ruined the feeding.
Her mouth opened, her eyes widened with instinctive terror. He nuzzled her neck, gently burying his teeth into her soft, fragrant skin. Her blood, spiked with the first dash of fear, flowed into his mouth. He drank greedily, savoring the build of endorphins that flavored her and the rush of hormones that deepened her taste. As life slipped from her to him, he adjusted his arms, cradling her tenderly. The bouquet was intoxicating, making his head spin for a moment.
He finished quickly, yet without haste, not losing a single drop of her. He always gave prey enough time to build a delicious panic, but not so much that their blood turned sour with too many chemicals. This was the only subtlety he appreciated or sought; the delicate balance of flavors found in a mouthful carefully prepared. The prey so often devoured their brackish food, never appreciating it. He appreciated every meal.
He laid her on the pavement, stroking her shining hair into place and caressing her pale, thin lips. He made certain her clothes were neat and straight. Other prey would find her in the morning, and their fear would season his next banquet. Running his tongue around the inside of his mouth as he stood, he savored the last echoes of her. Sated for the night, he turned to leave the alley.
Movement caught the corner of his eye. He turned to glance back, and his chest tightened. His gut lurched as his feet rooted to the pavement. In the place he had just stood by her side, was a shape he had seen only once before in his long existence. He remembered that night, when his once-eternal companion had bolted, only to fall before it. He could never return to that distant place, even after so much time.
There was no grace in its form, no elegance to its movements. It wafted without advancing, defining and defying the lamplight. The sight of it leached the pleasure he’d just had out of him and left him shaking. It did not reach for him, yet he could feel its tendrils wrapping around him. Though it remained in place, it nibbled on his essence. With no direct contact, it stroked old wounds of loss and helplessness.
He fled knowing that he could outrun neither death nor memory. The shadow reached after him, swallowing him before he reached the end of the alley. The echoes of his anguish drifted into the night, settling like dust on the cobwebs of imagination.
On the pavement, the young woman stirred and opened her eyes. She ran her tongue over her full, red lips, smiled in contentment, and rose to her feet. As she strode forward, long shadows flickered on the pavement behind her.
Sharon Rose grew up in the military, which did its level best to turn her into a highly trained and functional contributor to Society. Being of the independent sort, Sharon rebelled and ran away to live under a rock, where she still resides. After frittering away some years with college degrees and corporate jobs in an attempt to amuse herself, she finally overthrew the last vestiges of her upbringing and became a Writer. Having attained this exalted state, she nevertheless persists in seeking new forms of diversion, primarily by reading online comics, weblit, spamming her various social feeds, and ignoring responsibilities. Sharon write serial fiction and posts it online three times weekly. To participate in her lifestyle of choice, please utilize the following resources:
http://lilyfields.digitalnovelists.com
