Feeding was something he never relished in doing, not for the hundreds of years he walked this Earth. Still it was a necessity, especially after such a long slumber. It didn’t help his thirst that he barely fed when he was awake. Centuries of self loathing and protest, mistakes and triumphs made him realize he had to do it whether he liked it or not and abstaining only meant he would end up hurting someone badly. So he found a victim after much stalking and lurking. He called it mercy the way in which he went about it. Finding someone close to death (which was surprisingly easy these days) and feeding until they met their maker. His lips never met skin, and these terminal patients seemed to welcome death. The darkness of night made it easy to escape, and he was fast and nimble enough to incapacitate any security he was met with. He noticed in these facilities however, there wasn’t much.
The patients in the home started to call him death itself. He supposed it was fitting. They would see him come and go, and thought he was an apparition. This night was no different, but he’d already done what he needed to. His lips were still crimson, and it dripped down his jaw and neck. He had no time to clean up because he was met with a barrage of bullets. That put the place on high alert, he didn’t have time to even make sure the victim was indeed deceased before he knocked out the guard and made his getaway. It wasn’t until he made it deep into the forest and far enough away that he pressed his back against a tree.
The pain rolled up his back, head craning back as he grimaced and let out a loud groan. The downside to feeding on already weakened blood was he didn’t get all of the benefits. His regeneration was slowed, and it showed as it took his body more time to expel the bullets. It did eventually, and he’d groan again and slide down the tree into a sitting position. There goes the point of that feed. Now he’d be burdened with the task of finding someone else.
