Search the Community

Friday, Feb 13th, 2008 I remember the first person I killed. It was early on, before I could control my impulses, when I was so damnably hungry that I was ready to chew my own lips bloody just to get at my own vital fluids. (That particular trick doesn't work, by the way. It's like trying to make a baby solo; the right parts just aren't there.) Claudia had gone out for a meeting with Melinda, leaving me alone in the apartment for like the third or fourth time. This was all about three years ago, now, I'd only been a vampire for about a week and a half. She'd forgotten to feed me. No, I'd forgotten to ask for food. I was so besotted with her, so besotted with the joys of undead grace and power, that I assumed I could hold back that urge gnawing at the back of my mind. You ever have to go to the bathroom but put it off because you were busy doing something really fun? It was kind of like that. Except giving myself indigestion, I was putting off the taste of a stranger's blood pouring down my throat. I can't even tell you what that's like. I really can't. You know, I tell myself that my objection to blood banks is ethical, that it's not right for someone who's already a predator to feed directly from the body of the community. And maybe that's true, but it doesn't change the fact that it's so _good_ coming straight from the flesh, a delicious, curling shot of sex and food and every single carnal appetite wrapped up into one irresistable package that just goes on and on. Anyway. My murder. Maybe I'd have come through it all right if not for that burglar. The doors were locked and I hadn't figured out how to break into mist yet, so I'd have been stuck there chewing my lip and clawing at the walls until Claudia got back if that uppity little thug hadn't forced the lock. Claudia liked me that way; she liked me hungry, needy, dependent. I'd been that way when we met, you see, except back then it was for max and zombie powder instead of blood. She'd fixed that little addiction, yessir. I'm changing the subject again? Yeah, yeah, I am. Anyway, the guy cracked the door open with a crowbar. Pretty simple stuff; I don't know it says that I hadn't thought to try that yet. I'll admit I'm not a hugely smart guy, and I wasn't as strong then as I am now. So he kicks open the door, sees me standing in the hallway with red eyes and fangs, and I see him, a walking eight pints of hot, pumping blood. God, he looked so surprised! I grabbed him by the collar and hauled him inside, jacked him up against the wall and shoved my teeth into his neck. I hadn't figured out then how to make it feel good, so he'd have been screaming before I hit his windpipe. I don't really remember it very well; when you get that hungry, all you really think about is food. It was a good thing no one else lived on that floor, I tell you what! I finished tearing his throat out about the time Claudia came home, and I remember looking down at the dead guy at my feet and thinking... _Nothing._ That's the thing. Oh, I was scared that I'd be found out, that Claudia would be angry with me or we'd have to move, but as for the man I'd just murdered? The throat I'd just torn out like a rabid, hungry dog? (OK, I did feel that: way too much flesh!) I felt _nothing_. Claudia had a lot to say; she screamed at me and beat me, like she did back then, and left me to clean up the mess while she called the disaster cleanup service the vampires own. After all, now she had a lot of work to do! I'm not like that now. I tell myself that every time I go out at night. Killing is wrong; killing as a superhero is especially wrong. I can live as what I am and not kill, even if it would be fun, even if I could get away with it scot-free, even if I was sure nothing would come of it other than a hot, sensual meal of blood and death. And I believe it, too. I don't want to kill. I don't want to be a murderer! But my world is soaked in blood. I have killed three humans and multiple vampires. I have used my fists, my teeth, my claws, and anything else I needed to get the job done. I can't think of a friend I have, outside of Avenger's friends, who hasn't killed right in front of me, or close by me, or to my knowledge. Sometimes it's casual, sometimes it's shocking, but they've all felt heart's blood on their fingers, or tasted it on their lips. When I see a pretty woman, I think of her thighs and neck as much as her breasts; when I see a tough, dangerous man I think about how easy it would be to bleed him out. I live that way every night, and every day. I stop myself today, tonight, tomorrow. I have willpower I didn't have when I was younger; I can restrain my blood lusts. I don't need to kill when I'm hungry anymore. But, see, here's the thing. The sun doesn't burn me. Fire, blessed weapons, stakes, silver; they don't hurt me more than they'd hurt anyone else. It is entirely possible that I will live forever. I can save a thousand lives; I can break the gangs of Freedom beneath my fists, I can fight a demon, a monster, a terrorist, and do it all in time to get laid at the end of the night. I can do it all. I will kill again. And again. Forever.

Date: January 16th, 2006 Eric turned on his right signal with a quick motion of his wrist, and pulled into the parking spot. Pulling out the key as he got out of the car, Eric took a moment to savor the cool fresh air he never got in the city. As he stretched a warm and familiar voice called out “Eric! Over here sweetie.†As Eric chuckled and trotted over to the voice, a second voice said to the first “’Sweetie?’ For heavens sake Heather he’s 26. You’ve got to stop embarrassing him like this.†To which the first voice replied “I’m his mother, it’s my right to embarrass him as much as I want.†“Hey I heard that!†called back Eric in a voice of mock anger. “It’s great to see you again Mom and Dad.†Said Eric as he embraced his parents. On Eric’s right was his mother Heather Micheals, a spry woman of 50 years of age, with slowly graying red hair. On Eric’s left was his father Victor Micheals, a heavyset man with graying black hair of 52 years. After a moment, Victor said, “Alright, alright, enough of this mushy stuff, there’s food to be eaten.†With a smile and nod Heather and Eric agreed it was time to go into the restaurant. Over the appetizers the discussion was mostly about the recent trends in the economy, various investments that Victor had made in the past year and the like. Mostly it was just bringing everyone up to speed about what had happened in the “unimportant†things in their life for the past couple of months, essentially a set up for the discussions that were to follow. As the courses arrived, Eric talked about his new promotion at Darts, the house he had just gotten for himself in the Riverside, and Eric evaded his mother’s questions about “that cute receptionist†she saw there last time. It was soon decided that Eric’s parents needed to see Eric’s new house to give it their seal of approval, and if they were feeling generous, to help Eric finish moving in. And so the trio whiled away the hours at Eric’s place sipping coffee, reorganizing Eric’s cabinets as soon as his back was turned, and just generally enjoying each other’s company. Before his parent’s had to set off for the night, Eric suggested that they take a quick walk around the Riverside so he could show them the neighborhood, and of course spend a little more time with them. They were maybe 20 minutes into their walk when things turned sour. A battle between the Freedom League and the Crime League had broken out and the streets soon became chaos incarnate. As the trio scrambled to get out of harms way, one of the combatants hurled a passing car at another one of the combatants; it wasn’t on target. It headed straight for Eric and his parents. Reacting quickly, Eric pushed his mother out of the way of the incoming car. As Eric moved to push his father out of the way, he felt a strong arm grip his wrist and yank sharply. With a horrid sinking feeling, Eric recognized the hand as his father’s. Eric awoke in the hospital listening to an EKG machine beeping. Groggily looking around, he saw his mother sitting next to his bed, countless tears streaming down her face, which told everything he needed to know. Ignoring the pain, Eric sat up, hugged his mother longer and harder than he ever had in his life, and wept openly with her for hours. It was on that day that Eric Micheals swore an oath to use the life that was spared by a loving father without hesitation to ensure that the so called heroes of this world would never again separate a father and son, nor ever make a loving mother cry for her loss. On this day, Malice was born.

Camera crews recorded the entire, horrible encounter. Almost all of it, anyway. Everything that was really important, everything that mattered, managed to be broadcast to the people outside. It was a lousy day. I can say that, at least, it was probably the worst one of my life and it was all my fault. Not entirely, I suppose. I can't be held completely responsible for what happens when I get cut, but I should have known better than to stick around in the first place. I should have gotten out when I could, before the panic and the stampedes settled into the crowd. But I was too into the fight, literally seeing the world with blood in my eyes. Like I said, I can't be held completely responsible, but I still should have known better. If I want to keep doing this then I'll have to figure out how to BE better. I still haven't even figured out who the guy was, the one I'd been fighting. Some pale, slim dude with a weird looking spear and a fetish for leather bondage gear. He was dressed from neck to ankles in black straps and gaudy looking pieces of dark fabric that flapped in the wind as he moved. It struck me as something half-way between some priest's cassock and a straight-jacket on steroids. Maybe something Keano Reaves would have worn in the Matrix if Neo shopped on Castro street. I don't know, it was weird, but so was the guy wearing it. He had long white hair, like some spider had taken a dump on his head, and his skin was almost as pale. His eyes were the same silver as the blade on his spear and he wasn't wearing any shoes. I noticed that because he had claws coming out of his toes. Not just long, nasty toenails but actual claws. They looked dirty yellow in color and I don't think he kept them very clean. Fortunately he didn't manage to land a blow with those otherwise I'd probably be getting tetanus shots for the rest of my life. There wasn't any explanation behind the attack, either. He didn't shout threats at me or grandstand like a proper villain should, he just claimed to be there to collect me and then we were rolling. The man used his spear like Jet-freaking-Li and it was like fighting an oversized sewing machine. I barely had time to breath while the damned thing kept darting at my head, my shoulders and my gut faster than I could think about it. 'Almost faster than I could even see it, but fortunately I don't worry about thinking too much when some joker tries to spill my guts on the ground. We started out on some rooftop but it didn't take long to spill the fight out across a couple of neighborhoods. I was just watching the city from up there, wondering how I was really going to get my career started, when he came out of nowhere. I swear the shadows just vomited the freak up, spit him right at my head. He sure as hell didn't come up the fire escape and I doubt he dropped out of a hot-air balloon. No idea what other options there were, though. Maybe he's just really quiet when he wants to be, but he made enough noise during the fight. Before long, we were falling on top of the ice arena. That's where things really started to go downhill. We both landed there after jumping off the edge of a nearby building, but I can't remember right now if he was chasing me or it was the other way around. Things were pretty chaotic right about then, and like I said, thinking's not my strong point. Not when I'm seriously ticked off, anyway. I watched him skewer a few exhaust fans trying to fill me full of holes before we both headed into the building. In retrospect, I really shouldn't have let that happen and not just because of the innocent bystanders. The bastard loved the shadows, really faded into them like he lived there. While we were in the sun it was a lot easier to spot him, but once he had some cover it was like fighting a dozen guys all armed to the teeth. I thought I was done for, but somehow we managed to find our way to the catwalk that runs over the ice rink for the lighting and sound systems. From there it was only a short time before we were falling onto the ice itself. Of course, it had to be a Saturday and the whole rink was packed with kids and parents. 'Looked like a sunday-school outing or something, and apparently the press wanted to do one of those crappy human interest stories at the same time. At least one camera and a reporter dying to make her big break. Almost literally, given what came next... See, after we hit the ice I noticed how badly I was bleeding. I'm not sure how much you've been following the Hellblog, but when I bleed my blood burns. That's burns as in bursts into flames, not burns as in I'm a freaking poet. I might be hot-blooded as well as hot-headed, but you could burn start a forest fire just from me cutting myself while shaving. Real nasty looking stuff, all smoky and it smells like brimstone and hot copper. As I lay on the ice after the fall, figuring out what my next move was, I watched as little rivulets of my own blood etched scars into the ice. Thick, black vapors came off of it and started drifting towards the crowd. They'd been pretty close when we dropped, I'm surprised we didn't land on anyone, and a lot of people got some really good whiffs of the stuff. I could see the fear just erupt in their eyes, it's happened before. The fire from my blood isn't really the bad part. Granted, I don't want to be standing in a pool of gas when it happens, but for the most part it's not that hot. Dry wood, paper and cloth might catch on fire, but I won't be melting holes in steel doors any time soon. Hell, I couldn't even slag a chain-link fence with the stuff, but then again fences don't have lungs. People do. And when people inhale the fumes from my blood, it does very bad things to their mind. It triggers some kind of fear response, a bad one. I've never found out if they start seeing images of their worst fears or if it just activates their 'fight or flight' response, but that doesn't really matter when you have half a dozen standing next to you getting ready to hit the panic button. It didn't stop there, either. Apparently we did take out the air-conditioning before we left the roof because nothing was moving the air around to clean the fumes away. They hung a little longer than I'm used to seeing and that just gave more people a chance to freak out. The more who sucked the crap in, the more chaotic it got. And the more chaotic it got, the more people panicked regardless of whether they'd been affected by my blood or not. Don't forget, there were kids in the crowd. Apparently a lot of parents even forgot that because that's mainly who managed to get trampled in the stampede. Parents, visitors, kids practicing hockey and kids just wanting a morning out with their friends all rushed the exits at once and nobody waited until the way was clear, first. It was a mess, literally a bloody disaster and it all played out just fine for the cameras. I don't know how many times the coverage was ran that night, or the week or two that followed, but by the end even I was sick of seeing it. Hopefully they won't really remember it all by the time I'm ready to make my name known. That was before any of them had ever heard of Hellbound, but I'm not sure I'll be able to keep them from remembering who's blood had been on the ice that night. Eventually, I was able to put the punk down that started it. I ran him through with his own damn spear, took it away and put it through his gut. Ripped it up and down once or twice, too, just for good measure. He'd done a lot of damage that night; to me and to the people in the ice arena. I wanted to kill him two or three times over again after all of that, but unfortunately he only died once. Dissolved back into the smoke and shadows that apparently sent him after me, too. Just faded away, turned into puffs of vapor and was gone. Weird bastard, he was. And I never even got his name.