Andrew pulled the collar of his trench coat higher around him. He wasn't really bothered by the cold but it was very frigid, and if he'd gone without a coat somebody would have noticed. The weather for the last week had been terrible. It hadn't snowed, but the hail, sleet, and freezing rain had been worse in some ways. The streets were covered in ice that showed no signs of melting. And for Andrew that had been very bad indeed, for he'd been unable to find anyone out after dark. For the last four nights he had wandered in search of prey, but the only people he'd seen had been traveling in groups, and even those had been few and far between. Hunger knotted his stomach and made it hard to think. Frustration and need bred depression and he found himself slipping back into old, worn patterns of thought. You're such a pathetic failure... can't even find one person to feed from in a city of thousands...

He shook himself. No. I'm not wallowing in this anymore. I'm supposed to be staying upbeat, like Jen is always telling me to. Surely tonight I'll find somebody...

Find a victim to brutalize. When you're not a pathetic failure you're a monster. You deserve all the pain you've ever felt and more.

He spun around and punched the nearest wall in frustration, trying to drive the thoughts out. A brick actually broke under the impact, but he'd also torn up his hand, and the scent of blood filled the air. He moaned. He was so hungry! He licked the blood from his hand, but though the taste was good it did nothing for his hunger.

He kept walking, hoping to find somebody. It had been more than a week since he'd last fed. It hadn't been long enough to make him lose control completely, but he felt himself teetering on the edge. If it took much longer he might end up killing someone. And then I would probably kill myself. Bad enough the way I have to hurt people to survive... Having to kill?

He turned a corner, and nearly tripped over somebody coming the other way. Without even pausing to think he pounced, knocking the stranger to the ground. His hands held the stranger's arms down as he bit in, sinking his fangs in deeply without any caution or care. The person beneath him whimpered and struggled against him, but he only tightened his grip, thinking of nothing but the taste of blood. It filled him, flooding him with intense euphoria. At last he could feed, could sate the hunger, however briefly. He took his fill and then let go of his victim, rising to his feet. He looked down...

Gods. No.

Huddled on the pavement was the slender form of a female muntjak. She curled up in a fetal ball, her arms around her knees, and sobbed, trembling. The position and the sound were both familiar. Far too familiar. No. He took a step back. Gods, what have I done? “I... I'm so sorry,” he said. She didn't move, only curling up tighter. “I...” He couldn't think of anything to say. He couldn't help her. If he touched her... she would only be more afraid, he knew. He knew all too well what she felt. Horror and guilt flooded through him and he spun around and fled.

He ran blindly through the streets, until he slipped on the ice-slicked sidewalk and fell. He lay there for a while, panting and shivering. Slowly he climbed to his feet. Gods. Logic told him that attacking the girl had been no worse than any of the other times he'd hunted and fed, but he couldn't shake off that first shock of horror at seeing her, seeing one of his own, someone almost like him, huddling there just as he had huddled, sobbing as he had sobbed. He walked slowly back to the abandoned hotel, not really aware of his surroundings, focused on guilt and horror and memory.

It had been nine months since the night he'd been raped. Most of the time he didn't think about it anymore. But now... he could remember how it had felt, to be helpless, to be a victim, to curl up in a ball and sob afterwards... He shuddered. He had done that to somebody else, had left someone else feeling that kind of fear and shame.

He climbed up the fire escape to his room. Having reached the only sanctuary he knew he dropped to the floor, kneeling as guilt overwhelmed him. He looked down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them. He dug his nails into his palms until he smelled blood. A wave of sickness washed over him. It was her blood in him, her blood that welled up from the marks on his hands. He wiped his hands off on the carpet, leaving bloody streaks behind. The wounds there closed quickly, but the sick horror didn't fade. I wish I could throw up, purge myself of her blood, get it out of me...

He got slowly to his feet. He looked down at his hands again, then in a sudden, violent motion he lifted his wrist to his mouth and bit in, tearing one long fang across it in a harsh, sharp motion that left a jagged wound behind. He shook his arm, sending blood spraying across the room. The wound started to heal so he bit in again, tearing open a second gash. He flung another spray of blood across the room, heedless of where it fell. Then he did it again, and again. But then he felt the beginnings of hunger start once more and he dropped back to the floor, sobbing in frustration. Even if he could rid himself of every drop of the girl's blood, all it would accomplish would be to make him hungry again, so he'd have to go out and attack yet another innocent.

I hate myself. I hate my life. I hate everything about it. I should just get up the courage to kill myself and wipe away my evil from the world. He curled up on the floor in silent misery and stayed there wishing he could die until at last dawn came with welcome release.