Every day, after sunset, if you happen to pass by the old building in town and bother to look up, you would see a lone figure, sitting on its top ledge.
Alcott sits, looking at the people below as they rush by each other in a state of hurry, dusk slowly fading into night.
Seeing, yet unseeing.
The crickets start chirping again. Birds call out, flying across the sky. And the horns of vehicles, people are going back to their home.
People. Prey. No.
Home. Haven. Where you belong.
He waits. No one knows why or the what of his waiting.
Just another nameless face that no one knows about. Or bothers to. And maybe that's the right thing to do. As far as anyone remembers, the pale boy has always been on his own, afterall.
There isn't much he remembers of his parents. Much less about how they were or would have been.
He works his own bread, or in this case, blood. Sometimes, he hates his kind. Other times, he finds himself incapable of caring, which later brings more sadness than anything.
How can you satiate your hunger when it will cause someone so much hurt? They have someone waiting for them.
At some point, he might have thought that having a friend might be quite nice. But that hope is gone. How can you watch someone you care about slowly age away and succumb to Death? That was a personal experience. Don't think about it.
A strange, yet somehow familiar scene occurs behind his ever so keen eyes. A scream. Red all around. A voice whispering, requesting him to wait-
"Stop," he whispers, looking up.
A star starts twinkling. The first one, then second, so on and so on. Their aren't many of those in the town light, but they do what they can. He starts counting them.
When you're trapped in a body frozen in time, so much so, that even old Grimmy doesn't take you with him, one starts counting the uncountable.
Tracing the rim of the liquid pouch, he releases a soft sigh. This bloodbag was from the hospital he worked at. Atleast, it's better than killing someone.
His drowsy eyes skim it as a slow frown appears on his face. Stop thinking about that.
Picking up the book beside him, he thinks, Atleast the book is good. Maybe, that will take my mind somewhere else.
That's one aspect of his life which helps him to feel. Reading books, getting in someone else's shoes.
Hmm...maybe telling those children at the childcare a good story would make them happy.
Just another way to avoid the guilt.
Stop.
Why was he here again? Vampires didn't roam around the town. They weren't here. They didn't lurk in the shadows. Why did he?
He didn't have any purpose here, but he had it less in any other place. This town, be it changed or not, was his home for as long as he could remember.
And when you have nowhere else to go, you are left stranded.
Being undead can be a bane sometimes.
No one to go to. No one would be waiting for him. And that is just as good as well. You should stay away from heartless killers.
Hmm...maybe the little Venus Flytrap would wait. It doesn't fly away like the birds.
How can your heart ache when it doesn't even beat?
And as always, he was waiting. For what, for whom? He couldn't tell, but it sure seemed worth a while.
He's going to sit there a bit longer tonight, waiting. As he does every time.
