Eternal Thirst
What is an oath compared to an eternal thirst?
What is guilt compared to unholy bliss from the kiss of death?
Those were the recurring thoughts that flitted past his mind when the memories of his recent victims didn’t throng his already cluttered mind. This new life of his—or perdition, more like—was nothing he had hoped for. He had sworn a vow to protect and heal, not embrace and kill, but the hunger was insatiable. Maddening and impelled by this untameable urge that plunged him into his feral, baser instinct. Initially, he refused to bend to its will…until he grew unbearably parched and undertook his first hunt. How could he decline such a tantalising nourishment, though? For days, no less. His unheeding prey roamed the streets daily yet oblivious to the real predator among them. Every beating heart stored that glorious source of sustenance that coursed through the delicate vessels like a tributary awaiting a thirsty wanderer like him to drink. This was not his fault; he didn’t sign up for this.
Shaking his head, Jonathan dashed away from his latest kill with his supernatural speed and surveyed the crumpled body, drained of lifeblood, hopes and dreams in just one night, from a distance.
“Oh no! Please! Not now, I beg you! Please, I don’t want to die! No… Please…”
Much as he sought to expunge the memory, the plea of the dying vagrant remained clear and etched in his mind for good. This was the primary complication concerning his human quarry: their thoughts became incorporated in his waking memories, haunting him and on occasion, condemning his soul. If his remorse for unwittingly killing his sister in his thirst-induced mania wasn’t enough, this added further emotional burden to him. Worse still, there was no way for him to quieten his mind at times.
The shadowy alleyways in Whitechapel tonight were fortunately devoid of life, so his commute back to Pembroke Hospital was relatively tranquil. He needed that much. A soft pitter-patter of the rain droned on all over the dilapidated buildings that pressed together around him and gave rise to an eerie mist that swayed and swirled with every subtle movement of the night-breeze. Only a few fogged windows, from his casual observation, were dimly lit from within by solitary oil lamps. Others remained dark and gloomy, their inhabitants either fast asleep, dead or missing. In a queer sort of way, Jonathan felt a pang of guilt stabbing his cold, dead heart as if from a holy stake.
“What have I become?” he muttered to himself after pausing to stare at his only companion of the night, the moon overhead. The metallic taste of blood still lingered on his palate: warm, foreign yet exquisite all the same. He wouldn’t say that he relished taking a life whether it was from one of those evangelical Priwen Guards or a vagabond who clearly had no one else to turn to, but the wicked tang of that oozing red elixir of life never failed to send delicious shivers down his spine and an almost sensual tingle all over his body. He could, as he had recently figured out, rely on the scurrying vermin that were nowhere near in short supply here to assuage his thirst. That way, his conscience would not be plagued with as much contrition and riddled with a litany of dying thoughts from his kills. To be candid with himself though, this deplorable scavenging only made him feel more like a Skal. Even then there had been more than one occasion when he still adopted this alternative—albeit only temporarily—to quell his agitation. To be a humane vampire was unequivocally harder than it sounded indeed, he surmised.
Several minutes later, he finally arrived at the stone bridge leading him to his hospital, and more importantly, his modest sanctuary on the second floor. After making sure that no one was watching him, he leapt and landed in his bedchamber with finesse. His hideout was utilitarian and sterile as you would expect from a medical institution. There were files, fixtures and fittings that seemed haphazardly put together in one room, which reminded him of a makeshift office-slash-storeroom. No matter, Jonathan thought. As long as he had a roof over his head with a good reason to hibernate during the daytime, he couldn’t care less about the…aesthetics and design of his room.
Upon making his way to his dedicated workbench, he began to concoct some remedies from his collectables. Anaemia, sepsis and bronchitis…right. He remembered talking to a few people who could really do with them. The task didn’t take long at all and before he knew it, he ambled to his bed in the corner and lied down. Dawn was about to break and soon accompanying it would be the blistering sunlight, one of his many enemies now. As his languid gaze swept to the glass vials that proudly held his newly brewed medicines, the last thought that betided him was if he was curing these people because he pledged to the Hippocratic Oath or whether he just wanted a healthier victim to quench his eternal thirst the following night—like he did the tramp he fed upon tonight…