To Be Hunted

I have looked into the eyes of an animal. I have become lost in the feral gaze of a wild feline who has hunted me and now claims me as her prey. Her nails have torn into my flesh, blood flowing freely. Her teeth have penetrated me, the sharp points of her canines breaking through my skin releasing parts of my soul. I am lost to her. And I am content.

Even now, I can still feel her heat, the glowing warmth radiating off of her silken body. I can still hear her breath, rasping, flowing hard from her lips. I can still see the predatory sheen of lust and desire as she drops off into a ferocious frenzy. I can feel her claws digging into the skin of my chest, fingers hooked and splayed wide. I can feel the pain as her nails draw furrows of blood from my skin as she rakes them down my body. I can hear the gasp escape my throat as she begins to devour my essence, claiming me. I can feel myself drift away as her mouth closes upon me, her bite, the sweetest of tortures. She drains me again and again, making my essence, my very soul, her own.

I walk the night, searching for my meals. I hunt the unwary, seeking sustenance. I am the Stalker of Souls, the Hunter of Life. My very essence, my core being, is that of a predator. I am a creature of darkness, a living vampire, a Moroi. I am death as it comes in the night. Yet, even death personified can be hunted. Even the predator can become the prey. For every power, there is one stronger, one meant to oppose it. I have found that power. The key to my lock, the groove to my notch, she is the other side of the coin that I am. A flick of the wrist sends us skyward, flipping end over end, spinning inexorably skyward. What side will prevail when we land, which side will point dominantly up? I do not know, nor do I care. All that matters is that the coin is complete, the groove and notch joined together, the key has opened the lock. And the predator is now the prey.

I will never grow weary of the hunt. I will never tire of the endless search for souls to harvest. My essence dictates that I will always have a need to slake my thirst. I will always hunger for the subtle taste of life as it flows into my soul. Yet, I do grow tired of the repetition. I grow weary from the tedium of the hunt. Even the most discerning palette will one day grow to despise the taste of filet mignon if that is the only food they ever eat. One day they will throw down their cutlery, slam their fists on the table and SCREAM for change. But, oh, what delicious carnage it would be, if in the course of the meal, there was a chance that the bovine that gave of itself so the diner could feast were to attack. Fury built upon anger, ire coupled with angst, the rampaging bull would trample and gore our insipid connoisseur in glorious retribution for his cannibalistic delights. Only then, could we truly appreciate the term �Mad Cow Disease�. To have several tons of irate beef tearing through a dining room, scattering furniture and fine china in its furious rampage, would be a vision of complete and utter carnage. She comes for me now. And the prey is now the predator.

I sit quietly. I have found peace within myself. I have assuaged the anger and torment that has wrought my soul with such pain and angst. I feed now out of purpose, not out of retribution. The creature of darkness has been satiated, its fury is now spent. Yet, is it truly gone? Will there ever be peace within my soul? Daily, I fight a rising tide of anger that threatens to once again consume me. Words that need not be spoken are said. Promises turn to threats and complaints turn to incessant badgering. The cauldron is seething with potential fury, ready to boil and bubble over at any moment. The circle is vicious and will never end, so I must accept that it will always be there. Yet through it all, I scream out in joy, not anger. I exalt the pleasure, not the pain. I am now hunted, and I am overjoyed at the feelings it brings me.

My soul sings with the delicious torment that wracks my body. She plays my body like a classical violin, building a symphony of pain. I cry out for more and more, screaming from the pleasure as my body writhes in agony. I have become a slave to her ministrations. She feasts on my essence, making it her own, melding it into hers. I am her prey. Yet, when the day ends, when the feast is complete, when the sun settles into its cradle and brings forth the night, she is mine as much as I am hers. We are one. Both predator and prey.