Writing Prompt #82 — Too Much of a Good Thing

Prompt: When a vampire feeds on you they rapidly whither and die, while your own youth and vitality is restored. For centuries you have sought out and allowed these vile creatures to seduce you in order to sustain your own existence and end their reigns of terror in a single night.

June 13, 1902

Oh, what an evening it was. Exciting! Thrilling! I have not had a night quite as this since the Blood Moon of seventy-six. There must have been ten, twenty of those vile, blood-sucking bastards out tonight. All of them, every last one, gone; withered. Presently they’re a pile of ash and soot that the wind blow to the river by the afternoon. Where they belong, where they have always belonged. Filthy, hideous creatures. No wonder they must only travel by night, no surprise they stay hidden in the shadows and feast of the weak willed women of the city.

It makes me nearly ill feeling them within me — coursing in my veins, my lively flesh. However, its a small price to pay to live forever.

God! My eyes are wide and my lungs are open and my heart beats against my chest just like when I was a boy at thirteen. The air is crisp and smells delightful.

Dawn is upon me and I must meet Gregory soon. Adieu.

June 20, 1902

This night and the last has been splendid. Beyond splendid. Magnificent. Nearly fifteen tonight! Fifteen! How many of these vile monsters exist in the city? How many more beyond its boundaries? Do they come on the ships? Do they hide in the docks or in the cellars of the abandoned foundries? If only I knew. If I did, I would walk to these places and allow them to drink and drink until they could no longer. I would laugh and smile and watch as they crumble to dust before my feet.

Gregory had the audacity to suggest that I am becoming too engrossed in this endeavor. That I was, “stepping too far into the darkness,” he said. What does he know, truly? He’s not an immortal, like I. He’s as mortal as any other person you see gallivanting up and down the city streets. I have removed dozens of these abominations and I will not cease until every last one of them are gone. Not only for my deceased family, but for the world.

Just giving it thought makes my blood run hot. I must go for a walk. Allow the sun and wind to wash away this frustration.

June 23, 1902

I have discovered where at least a hundred dwell. In a dilapidated bread factory near the docks. An enormous place with shattered and boarded windows. Even though it has not been in use for what seems eons, it still smells of yeast inside. Likely the tainted water. However, beneath the smell, there’s the stench of the undead, of blood, of decay. This evening I will walk into their domain and allow them to feast. I will even ask Gregory to join me. For him to see first hand what I do. For him to understand that these creatures are nothing but more than dust devils, and I am doing the work of man, of God. I will give them what they want. And, I, most importantly, will get what I want.

June 30, 1902

Seems only fitting the last entry in this dairy will be my own. Laurence, that terrible night, took me to an abandoned factory. He was thrilled. He was like a boy in a sweets shop. He was like a youth undoing a maiden’s dress for the first time. What a fool he was. What a fool I was — though I was the luckier fool of the two.

It was madness once inside. Laurence stood in the center of that enormous place and shouted for them to come. Screamed at the top of his lungs while he undid his collar and let the pale skin of his chest and neck free. He summoned them… And, they came. There were dozens, hundreds of them leaping from the scaffolding and lurching from the shadows and seemingly appearing from the darkness itself. They were upon him and I could no longer see who was who, what was what. I stood near the door we broke to gain entrance, horrified.

I pissed myself, like a babe.

Laurence was laughing, screaming, rallying them until his laughing changed to screaming, to bloodcurdling wailing. He was shouting for me to help, shouting for God to save him, shouting for his mother and father and sister who died years ago in a gang attack. Then, there was silence and the horde retreated back to the darkness and shadows, and what remained of Laurence was only his clothes, his jewelry… Not blood, not dust, not a flake of skin.

Laurence was not one who understood that too much of a good thing is awfully bad. And, unfortunately so, he did that night, that terrible, terrible night.

Read my previous prompt, “The Princess Within.”

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