I couldn’t control my muscles, couldn’t stop myself from launching forward at him, bearing my fangs and letting out an animalistic growl. We crashed into the alley behind us, his screams echoing through the passage way. With anger I couldn’t explain, I hit him, my hand connecting so hard with his face, it drew blood.
That was too much for me, and my body moved before my mind thought. I sunk my fangs into his neck, and once I started, I couldn’t stop. It was like I was famished, and this man was a buffet. I drank until his body was dry.
Drawing back when there was no more blood, I began to shake again. His body lay, drained, in front of me, so obviously dead that I knew there was no point in calling 9-1-1. Tears began to fall down my face, coming in great gasps, and I couldn’t hold back. I felt sadness and fear wash over me in ways I never felt before. I was cold, the rain soaking through my clothes, and while the external pain of earlier had passed, the tightness in my chest was growing unbearable.
The man’s hand still gripped my cell phone, and I reached out slowly, taking it. The battery was dying, although there was probably enough juice left for one call.
When I moved to Hollywood five years ago, I hadn’t left my home on good terms. My family thought trying to be an actor was the stupidest move I could make. It was a pipedream full of bad morals and worse behavior, and if I left, I left without their blessing. Over the last five years, the angry phone calls from home became shorter, and then stopped coming. They hadn’t changed their minds. They didn’t approve, so contact was cut.
And as the glamorous shiny world of fast friends and faster lovers surrounded me, my friends back home eventually drifted out of my life as well. They weren’t replaced. No, Hollywood wasn’t a place of a tight brotherhood where you shared things. You shared drinks, and women, and strip clubs. You flashed your money around as fast as you could, and bragged, but there wasn’t any friendship.
I brought the phone to my ear, listening to it ring overseas. There was still one person who hadn’t abandoned me; one person, who through it all had told me to follow my dream and listened when I talked. One person who believed every word out of my mouth and gave me the best advice I could have ever received.
“Hello?” came a voice over the phone, gruff with age. That’s when I lost it; the tears turning to sobs and hysterics. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t breathe. I was acting like a child instead of a man. “Hello? Who’s there? Liam?”
I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself for a few moments.
“Grandpa? I need your help. Can I come over?”
I heard a pause over the phone line, and a million questions catch in his throat. But he asked none of them.
“Of course, my boy. Tell me when your plane gets in.”
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
At first, Peter didn’t believe me. Anyone who did right off the bat probably needed help themselves. But it only took one night, one night where he stayed in the room and watched the horrible transformation, to believe every word that tumbled out of my mouth from then on.
Peter took pity on me and allowed me to escape Hollywood; offering me a job as a teacher at the Academy for the rest of the term. I could still be immersed in acting, and yet stay out of Hollywood.
We found out that alcohol stunned the cravings, as it stunned most of your bodies other senses. And, before we figured out that I needed to be tied up every night if I didn’t want to kill anybody, I found Porsche.
I had stumbled upon a redneck high school party in the woods, a bunch of poor kids with beer kegs and bad wine. Drinking from one of them could easily be explained away as an accident. Kids will do stupid things and no one is ever sober enough to remember.