“He who fights monsters should look into it that
he himself does not become a monster.
When you gaze long into the Abyss,
the Abyss also gazes into you.”

- Friedrich Nietzsche

***

Chapter One

I cannot recall what caused the clarion bell to sound alarms through my psyche, but at once, it was as though the haze shrouding the world around me began to lift. Time froze and for a moment, an epiphany struck in all its horrible glory.

I had completely and utterly screwed up.

Blood covered my hands. I gazed down at the knife I held, both staring at it and failing to see it all at once. All I could think at that moment was that she committed the initial mistake and this was all some twisted cause and effect playing out before me. My mind struggled to compose facts, piecing together disjointed thoughts in a mosaic I focused hard on deciphering with wide eyes and furrowed brow. It left me naked before my own scrutiny, lost within the unpleasant reminder my life seemed little more than one calamity after the next. Only, this event trumped all others which preceded it.

Lifting my gaze from the weapon poised in my palm, I spied them lying there. Two people, a man and a woman. And both of them were dead.

My knees gave out; I slid down the bedroom wall. Settling on the floor with the knife dropping from my grip, I brought both hands to my head and started rocking back and forth. I walked in on her, this was true. She looked at me and screamed; yes, yes, I recalled this as well. It was when the other person shot out of bed that my memories seemed to shatter like a pane of plate glass. I struggled to replay the events, my head throbbing and the sensation of the knife’s hilt still fresh on my skin.

The knife. I fetched it from the kitchen. Oh God, what had I done?

Curling up as though a boy frightened of his own shadow, I winced as the dam of shock buckled under the weight of too many images crowding in at once. Too many images, such as her calling out, “No, Peter! This isn’t what you think!” and me spitting out the words, “You selfish whore, what did you do? What did you do?!” An involuntary laugh floated past my lips when I remembered the bastard she was fondling not more than thirty seconds prior. He fell to the floor, tripping over his own jeans and barely came to a stand by the time I rushed upon him.

Tears formed in my eyes. Hysterics burst forth from my lips. Neither of the actions lent themselves toward any hope I yet possessed my right mind, but did nothing to make me feel justified in what I did next either. Rather, I plunged deeper into the abyss while crimson stained the black and white movie playing my mind.

He was my first victim. I did not pause to ask his name. I gave no warning of what I meant to do. Instead, I charged forward with the kitchen knife and sank it deep into his stomach. He bent over and when I kicked his head upward, I paused to stare at his neck, beholding a sight strange and delicious. One swipe across his throat and he screamed no longer after that.

My senses should have come screaming back when he hit the ground, begging me to realize what on earth I was doing, but my lover of two years – the woman I felt was my soul mate – gazed at me with glassy eyes and her tears were not for me. This only enraged me further. I grabbed her by her necklace, snapping the gold chain and pendant from her throat. Plunging the dagger into her chest, I held it there, as though removing it would cause her black heart to rejuvenate. We stared each other in the eyes. The instrument of her death slipped from her body as she crumpled to my feet.

I wished she had fallen to kiss my feet, but there would be no pleas for forgiveness anymore. No, two dead bodies laid before me and lifetime of remorse loomed on the horizon. “I have to get out of here,” I whispered, swiping at my cheeks. My fingers left tribal war paint smudges and my clothing bore conspicuous blood stains, but I didn’t care. In fact, I was amazed when my weak knees supported my weight and allowed me to pick myself back up.

I stumbled down the hallway to her front door. The thought traced across my mind that her neighbors might have heard the screams emanating from the apartment, but I remained apathetic toward it. They might be gathered outside, a lynch mob with pitchforks and torches to carry off the monster I had become, but I welcomed it, to be honest. When I swung open the door, however, I saw nothing more than an empty corridor. So, I trudged forward, not knowing where I intended to go, yet realizing I could not stay there.

The images assailed me again.

I saw the look in her eyes as our gazes locked, her brain not yet dead from the lack of life-giving oxygen cycling through her veins. “Peter… I’m sorry.” That miserable bitch. Why did she say she was sorry? Why did she rob me of a pure lover’s vengeance by staining my actions with her repentance?

My walk became a run.

I saw the scowl of hate I shot her in return. “Burn in hell,” I muttered. How could I say that? Did I not realize what I had just done? Even if her love for me was cast aside with capricious ease, mine for her was still strong and in seconds, I destroyed the one thing I cared for the most.

Hysteria threatened to claim me. I dashed for the door to the outside and slammed into it, knocking myself into the night air and recoiling when the cold of January rushed headlong into me. Once again, the idea of being lost – vulnerable – struck me.

I continued running toward the street, trying to escape the guilt pounding heavy through my head. The mob crowd might not have been following me, but my conscience was gaining and its feet moved swifter than mine. I passed through upscale apartment buildings, through a park, and ran until I came to a patch of Philadelphia asphalt and darted down it without caring one iota for the traffic.

One car swerved, then another, but I did not remain on the street long. I turned down an alleyway and continued running from the pain wishing to tear me limb from limb. Its footsteps closed in. I felt its breath prickle my skin. I sensed its presence enveloping me, but nothing prepared me for the abrupt way my sprint came to a halt.

It was as though my conscience became personified and obtained corporeal form; or, so I thought at the time. Ignorance converging with my own frenzied panicking prevented me from understanding what took hold of me when a set of hands grabbed me, followed by another. I struggled against the grip, screaming, “I was going to marry her! It isn’t my fault! Oh God, why did she do this to me? Why did she make me kill her?!” The hands kept firm hold of me, however, until my attackers silenced my rant with a swift smack against my throat. Suddenly, I realized I wasn’t being held back by my conscience at all.

The second clue was much more painful.

I felt a tongue slide against my neck milliseconds before a set of sharp teeth pierced my skin. Hollering as an afterthought, I gasped through the pain, trembling while blood ran down my chest and intermingled with the sweat which came from running. The lips pressed against my flesh drew inward, a sickening sucking noise resonating in my ears while the hands around me tightened. I felt an overwhelming urge to sleep wash over me and did not have the energy to fight it. A chill sent shivers through my entire body.

My eyes fluttered shut. My head bobbed. I could not see the face of my attacker, but had little desire to anyway as my pulse became faint and my knees threatened to buckle again. Whoever held me prevented me from falling over while my brain commenced the same shut down which must have transpired when Lydia fell to my feet. I whispered her name – Lydia – as though remembering it for the first time through all the chaos. It formed all the apology my dying breaths could manage. I did not have the chance to add any further words of remorse.

Instead, the cool flesh of somebody’s wrist touched my lips. It silenced me and focused my fleeting attention toward a viscous liquid which ran past my parted lips. The moment I tasted their blood upon my tongue, a foreign premonition stirred my senses, the same way seeing the slit throat of Lydia’s newfound lover had while I yet remained in the throes of homicidal rage. A female voice spoke in a soothing manner. “Drink,” she said. “Take it in, Peter. Because tonight, we will fulfill your destiny.”

I drew inward once, heeding the woman’s command. The strength which had escaped me returned enough for me to drink again. I wanted it without knowing why. In fact, I became more and more ravenous with each mouthful of blood and did not realize I’d grabbed hold of her arm until a violent pulse of pain forced my fingers to tighten, my mouth lifting from her wrist so I could cry out in agony. Before I figured out what was happening to me, another wave of fatigue throttled back with all its sound and fury.

My legs finally gave out. My body slumped into a set of arms. The world drifted from my consciousness while voices spoke around me in a dissonant manner. My breaths became shallow and ceased altogether and soon I drifted off to sleep.

Little did I know, as my heart stopped its rhythmic beating, that the blood I drank belonged to a vampire. I had just lived my final night as a mortal.

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