He kissed her fingertips and held her closer, wanting only to be with her. Slowly he kissed her neck, sending chills up her spine, but then he felt it. He felt it underneath his lips. That pulse. Tristan pushed her off of him and stood up quickly, running his fingers through his hair, and clenching his fist to his mouth, his back to her. "You should go," he said softly, after a moment of silence. 'How could she ever want a monster like me?' He asked himself. She didn't protest, but seemed disappointed. Smoothing her hair and her shirt, she got up and and put her red heels on. She walked over to him and put her hand on his bare chest and letting it slide down a little, as if to encourage him. He stopped her hand, and brushed her hair away from her neck and tried again to kiss it.
'Maybe I can do this,' he thought, as his lips pressed against her. But there it was; that pulse. Suddenly, he lost control. Inside he screamed no, but all he did was draw his lips back and pressed his teeth into her hot neck. Gently, slowly, at first, and she smiled, but as pleasure turned to pain, her face contorted with fear. He sank them in deeper. She tried to cry out in agony, all that came out though was a gurgling sound, as blood rushed into her throat. Then she went limp, a single drop of blood dripped past her lips. 'Such pretty lips,' the monster thought, but then Tristan was himself again, and he let her slip from his hands with shame. She'd trusted and loved him. He loved her, yet he'd never told her about this, he didn't trust her not to leave him. If she would have known, she'd have turned her back on him, just like everyone else in his life. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Leaning against the grey wall next to his window, he inhaled the smoke. It didn't matter, he couldn't die. Cancer...AIDS...It was all the same. He could not die. On the city streets below him, he heard the sounds of the night. A woman's shoes clicked on the sidewalk beneath his window. A man coughed in the cold night air. Horns beeped, people laughed, and in the distance he could even hear the stars. Through the thin walls he could hear an argument going on. He could extend his hearing anywhere, after all, he was a monster. Monsters can do such things.
As he drew in the last drag of his cigarette, he picked up his phone and dialed the police. Faking a frantic, confused boyfriend he stammered into the telephone, "She's...I came home...She's... Oh God, I don't even know. She's dead." The operater told him that the police would arrive shortly, he thanked her and hung up. Tears welled in his eyes. Yes, she was dead. He was not frantic though. He knew exactly what had happened. He placed her on the bed and pulled out another cigarette, but this time he sat in the corner of his bedroom. Crying, he drew in breath after breath of hot, noxious chemical air. Someone knocked at the door and he dropped the toxic addiction to the floor, stepping on it as he went to answer it.
"Hello, please come in," he said, shaking, and wiping the tears away, "She's on the bed"
The policeman gave him a sympathetic look and stepped inside, looking around. He took out a pad of paper and a pen. "Sir, do you have an allabi?" "An allabi? Oh..." he paused, "No. Well yes, but no one can verify..." he knew it was no use, however, he gave it anyway, "I was in the park"
The policeman shook his head, knowing that Tristan would be the first to be accused. Instead of saying another word, he walked over to the body and jotted down some notes.
Tristan rested his head against the wall, letting tears run down his face, "Why did it have to be her? Why did I let this happen?" Suddenly, the policeman turned to him, "She's... She's been drained of blood. It was one of those sick vampire goth freaks. I'll bet you anything it was one of them. You've seen 'em. Dress in black and chains, only come out at night. Into that sadomasicsm bullshit." Tristan pounded a fist against the wall, filled with anger. Not at those goth kids, but at himself, for letting this happen. "This is all my fault. I should have never..." his voice broke, and he let himself collapse into tears. The policeman rested a hand on his shoulder, "Don't worry, we'll catch the bastard"
But Tristan knew they wouldn't. The monster had no fingerprints. The policeman let himself out, and he sat in the corner, with another cigarette, listening to his own pulse.