Path of the Vampire forum

It is a very serious question. Why am I following her? I’ve been asking myself that very same question, on and off, for the past however long it is that I have been following her. It’s not for a quick meal, I know that much. She says that she doesn’t sleep with men on the first date – and I have to smirk. One, because she looks at me as ‘date’ material and two, because that there is very clearly a challenge. Maybe she hasn’t intended it as a challenge, but I take it as such anyway. I will convince her, one way or another, that I am worth sleeping with. Or, not sleeping, as the case may be.

So, although I may not have been able to tell you why I was following her to begin with, I now have a very obvious goal in mind. She is a conquest, a woman who is purposefully holding herself aloof, who is refusing my advances, as subtle and gentle as they may be. I am not merely following her, I am chasing her. Those coy smiles and the glances that she tosses in my direction, she’s not saying no. She’s not telling me to stop following her. She’s not telling me to **** off. She’s not making up some excuse about a boyfriend who’s waiting for her to get home. Nothing in her body language tells me that I am not welcome, and thus I follow. Because the chase is half the fun.

I laugh, inwardly. A silent laugh that the world does not hear, that does not grace the quick and whipping crisp wind as it flicks past us. I don’t say anything to any of the ladies. Never have. The challenge that I would set myself, sometimes, would be to see who I could lure into my web, and how quickly, without even writing anything. Maybe the women I tried it on were easy. Regardless, it had worked. In the dark and smoky clubs, the heavy music in the background, I could convince a petite little thing to come home with me with just my body, with a lick of the lips and a hard stare. We are all animals at heart, and sex is an instinct, rather than an act of love. It doesn’t matter what the media might tell us. It doesn’t matter what the diehard romantics might think; sex isn’t anything special. It doesn’t forge some unbreakable bond between two people, not without the feeling there to back it up. Sex is just a bit of fun, when not used to procreate. As instinct tells us that we must do. And which I will not be doing for eternity or more.

I catch up with Grey again.

I am silent, and thoughtful, as I amble along at her side. She never questioned my silence in the café, I doubt she’ll start questioning it now.

I glance over my shoulder, in the direction from which we have come. I idly wonder how long we have been walking, and why she should live so far away from where she obviously works. Why doesn’t she catch a train? A cab? Have her own mode of transport?

She’ll get herself bitten, walking this far every night. If she hasn’t already. I don’t bother trying to find the marks on her. I know they won’t be there.

After I don’t know how long, I clear my throat again. I frown. There’s nothing I can think of to say. In this situation a month ago, I’d have said nothing. I’d have not sought any way to communicate. There’s no need.

And so I say nothing, and I continue to not follow, so much, but remain. Companionable. Silent.

"When I was a young girl, I used to think about all the different places there were to visit. I used to think about warm places, hot places, and cold places. I used to think about palaces in the dessert or underwater hotels. I used to pretend that I had all the money in the world. I used to pretend there was someone out there that was looking for me. Someone that knew I existed." After her words drifted off into the cold winds, she continued to walk beside him. They didn't touch. She didn't latch onto his arm or try to take over and huddle away from the face scraping chill of the wind. She forced herself to keep her arms to herself.

She knew he didn't want to hear any of this. Surely, he would come to think she was crazy or had odd ideals after her rambling voice continued to slap at his ears. Her mood was a quiet, if not slightly playful one. Even for being in pain, her face barely seemed to phase her words. The coolness of the night aided in her misery, tapering the blistered skin with its cold kisses. "I used to sit through school hoping that I could grow up faster. I wished and wished that I could be old enough to get a job and make some money. Any job, really. From being a waitress to a fast food restaurant worker or a store stock employee. I would think about all these kinds of jobs and wonder what interest that would bring."

She took a deep breath, filling the silence as they walked across another street and down the sidewalk. The broken, twitching neon light to the motel she stayed at the first night flickered. The sign was lit up to spell out 'V a a n c i s.' They had walked though the heart of the city, really. A sign some time ago read Honeymead.

Grey struggled to find words for him. To tell him that she had to be to work early in the morning. Which, in truth, eleven o'clock wasn't terribly early. The time was coming soon, though. It was no doubt going onto three in the morning since it took them a while to amble across the city. "I don't know much about this place. I stayed here my first night when I got off the bus. It's mostly clean."

Grey would never complain. She'd never raise a fit about the roof over her head or the leaky faucets. Instead, she just stopped her moseying as they neared the motel's front office. Where the sign read 'Help Wanted' in the window and the cigarette barrel was full. Her bright blue eye stared up at him. She had tipped her face up and managed to put a smile on that right side. She had her cold fingers lifted, resting on the door handle while she opened her mouth again.

"Thank you. For... Keeping me company while I found my way back here. I appreciate that, Jesse" Killer or not, murderer or not, Jesse hadn't pulled her into a dark alley somewhere and chopped her into little pieces. As her heart fluttered in her chest, she tried to calm herself. He was a decent guy in her book. She didn't want to leave. She didn't want to end this meeting. She was so thrilled when she had seen him outside the bank. Why? Why did she even care that she set eyes on him again? There was a reason. He settled a part of her unsettled life. With a frown, she lowered her head and pulled open the door. It took every ounce of energy she had to turn away from him to ensure a roof over her head that night. It was too cold to spend it on the streets.

She started to go in, the jingle of the bells above her head sounding for the night shift clerk to pay attention.

I listen. I can’t but listen. It’s what I’ve been doing all my life; listening. People like to talk and most of the time I don’t want to hear it. I tune out. I ignore them. Sooner or later they get the point, they shut up. They go away. They dislike me after that, but I never cared. I never sought anyone’s approval and nor did I ever seek their life stories. This is different, though.

Grey isn’t telling me her life story. She’s not telling me about her woes, or her wishes. Not her current ones, anyway. She’s telling me about her past, yes, but not in the way that I am accustomed to. She tells it to me in such a way that it sounds almost like a parable. As if hidden amongst the words there’s something else, some other lesson that she is about to impart. Something for me to learn, perhaps, or something that she had learned about life, through these wishes that she had as a young girl.

Of course I know that I haven’t been looking for anyone, myself, and nor have I ever had any hope that anyone was looking for me. Broken and scarred, I have no need for such useless sentimentality, such notions of romance and fate. As if there’s always someone looking for someone else, to complete them. As if, one day, the two will collide. There’ll be sparks, and doves, and the stars will brighten. It’s all ********, isn’t it? Surely.

I’m waiting for the punchline. There is none. She doesn’t ask me to stay. She thanks me for my company. She doesn’t ask for a number. No, she’s not asking me if I’m the one who’s been searching for her. I bow, and I take a step backward. I let her escape, just for now, for the time being. Because, even though she has kept her distance and although she doesn’t strike me, yet, as the clinging type, there’s still that threat in her words. Something like the toll of a bell that falls, resonating, with the utterance of her past imaginings.

The tolling of that bell is resonant of a boat, a dock, a net. I am the fish, ignorant to my fate. And if I am not careful, I will become entangled, caught. Maybe my captor will let me go. Maybe she will put me in a tank and keep me as a pet. Or maybe she won’t capture me at all.

But I am not as helpless as a mere fish. I am not a fish. I am not a man. I know how to swim, and I have a knife to cut through the net. I have my wits, and I have my curiosity. I grin. Real bells jingle, and they are not at all threatening. I let Grey go, as if she is the fish that I have just caught and I am being merciful. I let her go into the hovel of a motel that she occupies. It’s not a home, is it? Hardly a home. But I know that she is here. And even if I come back, I know where she works.

And so, just before the door shuts, I clear my throat.

“See you tomorrow, Grey,” I say.

And then I turn around. I don’t look back as I leave, as I walk away.

There’s nothing wrong with walking away. It’s a hunting tactic. Let the prey believe that they have escaped. The chase can then be renewed, refreshed. And I look forward to the game ahead.