Post by EMILE AVAANT on May 1, 2011 10:16:53 GMT -5
The shadow cloaked the small figure as he darted from tree to tree, pausing to scamper up the side of a large oak, fingers digging into the bark and small feet perching on a branch. Hunger blazed from every inch of the Newborns core as he glanced into the night, having no trouble seeing. Scents assaulted him as his perfect black hair flapped gently in the midnight breeze, and he chose one he liked - human, it was.
A soft hungry growl bubbled up from his throat, his blue sweater clinging tight to him as he leapt back down, landing he took off towards the source of the smell, having no control now. It was the hunger that ruled, not him. Crossing the woodland in no more than a few moments he came to the smell, eyes landing on a tent, the occupant curled up and asleep inside. He could sense the heartbeat, the Newborn aching to feel the blood in his stomach, to sooth the pain in his throat - it felt like sandpaper but a thousand times worse.
Now he did not run but he crept, silently as death itself, to the tent. There, his head swayed gently on its neck like a snake ready to strike, laying one hand on the thin material that separated that beautiful heartbeat. And then he was through with a slash of his fingers and atop the man, biting deep into the jugular, the feeble punches and bucking of the man doing nothing against Emile. Blood sprayed around the tent as he fed, covering his clothes and skin. But the young teen didn't care - nothing else mattered right then but the crimson tide that soothed the pain.
And then Emile got off the man, who was now a lot paler. The tent looked like a murder scene, and indeed it was. He staggered outside as his real mind returned, the sense and reasoning. He'd just killed another innocent. Another person who'd never done a thing against him, like his mother and father and all those others in the two months since he'd changed.
Emile sat down outside the gash where he'd gotten inside, covered in blood and gore, and cried into his hands tearlessly. He wasn't a monster, just a frightened boy who didn't know what was going on.
A soft hungry growl bubbled up from his throat, his blue sweater clinging tight to him as he leapt back down, landing he took off towards the source of the smell, having no control now. It was the hunger that ruled, not him. Crossing the woodland in no more than a few moments he came to the smell, eyes landing on a tent, the occupant curled up and asleep inside. He could sense the heartbeat, the Newborn aching to feel the blood in his stomach, to sooth the pain in his throat - it felt like sandpaper but a thousand times worse.
Now he did not run but he crept, silently as death itself, to the tent. There, his head swayed gently on its neck like a snake ready to strike, laying one hand on the thin material that separated that beautiful heartbeat. And then he was through with a slash of his fingers and atop the man, biting deep into the jugular, the feeble punches and bucking of the man doing nothing against Emile. Blood sprayed around the tent as he fed, covering his clothes and skin. But the young teen didn't care - nothing else mattered right then but the crimson tide that soothed the pain.
And then Emile got off the man, who was now a lot paler. The tent looked like a murder scene, and indeed it was. He staggered outside as his real mind returned, the sense and reasoning. He'd just killed another innocent. Another person who'd never done a thing against him, like his mother and father and all those others in the two months since he'd changed.
Emile sat down outside the gash where he'd gotten inside, covered in blood and gore, and cried into his hands tearlessly. He wasn't a monster, just a frightened boy who didn't know what was going on.
