The sprinkle of rain fell in a light mist, blanketing the city and all in it, so that one could be saturated without actually feeling the individual drops. City lights reflected off the humidity, creating a sort of twinkling cloud in the night sky and blotting out the stars.
Out in the park, however, there were no manufactured lights to cramp the sky; the mist of rain fell still -- but it was pure, unpolluted. The brighter stars gleamed like diamonds floating just beyond the edges of one's imagination. It was a warm evening, so the faint, continuous buzz of cool mist was more soothing than a hindrance to the vast populace.
James Rasmussen sat on the bench overlooking the water, as he had for some twelve or more hours; he'd been there at daybreak, high noon, and as the sun retired and the moon became king. He'd watched, mindless, as first the birds, then the deer and the squirrels, and finally different birds wandered by on their simplistic lives. For those the world widely believed weren't sentient, they seemed to be doing better than the apex races; they seemed happy, content with their lives. What qualities did they possess that allowed them to enjoy this world? What was missing?
He'd long been concealed by the night and a perfect, immovable silence. Earlier, he'd breathed to taste the fresh air brought on with the rain; to taste the same air as these happy little ephemeral beings -- but like all things, it'd come to annoy him for reasons he couldn't begin to fathom, and he'd since subsided even breath. Without making even a sound, the various denizens that wandered the night had traveled sometimes within dozens of feet of him; he'd not yet been noticed -- hadn't cared to be bothered, either. If he had wanted to hunt, though, it would've been pitifully easy.
Instead, he'd sat and thought for hours; he'd wondered why it was that, despite all his probing and searching and imploring, he couldn't find any reasons for...Anything. Beings were born and existed for a while and then died; they left almost no impact on the world. Even the most influential, greatest people were remembered for little more than hundreds of years. Why should one spend their time making money, or finding "love", or doing anything when death was the final, immutable outcome?
And at last he realized what the difference may be between him and the deer or the fish or the birds or even the humans: he had too much time. Eternity ticked before him; the clock was meaningless, unimportant. It was a concept that wholly frightened him. How could he possibly stand forever when a second, a minute, an hour felt like an impossibly long burden? He was, frankly, unable to live but too scared to die.
The young vampire was awakened from his reverie by a nearby outburst; he heard the had slam of something striking water with force; ducks quacked angrily but subsided, and a voice proclaimed their hatred of "here"; whether here was this park, this city, or this life, he didn't know -- but the young man, whomever they were, seemed to be on a similar wavelength.
James stood quietly, moving towards the source of the outburst. "Throwing rocks at wildlife won't help," James called quietly as he stepped down towards the bank. "Not unless they're the ones who've wronged you. It doesn't work like that; I've tried."
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