Don't Worry, Be Happy

He sits in the darkness upon the enclosed balcony, looking out across the city. The hustle and bustle, the neverending traffic, the plethora of people upon the sidewalks... Everyone seems to have someplace to go, someone to meet, someone with whom to share the night. The city is alive, its sounds and its lights evidence of humanity, of companionship.

Taking another sip from his mug, he looks to the north. Even the sky is full of life, evidenced by the dual lines of airplanes dipping from the thick cumulonimbus clouds on final approach, delivering untold numbers of people to join in the life which surrounds him on this night: people returning home, or arriving to see a longtime friend, or coming to explore this cove of humanity.

Yet he is very much alone on this night, and this night is just like almost every other night for eons. As "Don't Worry Be Happy" wafts from the radio in the living room behind him, as the night breeze chills his pale face with its promise of rain, as he hears the angered voice of a man yelling at an unknown driver for nearly running him over, he sips life, feeling it cascading down his throat, its warmth, its pulse radiating downward and outward at once.

A cheer reaches his ears. Clearly, the local team is winning at the arena on the other side of the city. How many people are gathered there on this night? Five thousand? Six thousand? It is probably a sold-out venue on this night, as the much-hated rival team to the south is attempting to challenge them tonight. How many other people across this city would be watching on television, or perhaps listening on the radio? Given the great advances of the Internet in recent years, how many people in other areas of the country, of the world, might be watching online? Just how many souls would be riveted to every nuance of each individual player's athleticism?

A woman's impassioned cry spills into the night. A siren rises above the cacophony.

A vision of blood.

Her blood upon him, seeping from her.

Her eyes, piercing, wide and uncomprehending.

Her fingertips pressed to the twin wounds at the side of her neck.

He shakes his head, clearing her from his mind like an image from an Etch a Sketch, erasing her from his thoughts as fate has erased him from the thoughts of those who surround him.

This world is still incomprehensible to him. The customs, the languages, the politics are all still strange, foreign, unknowable. For so long, it has been far better to remain here, in the darkness, with only a radio and the illusion of humanity's companionship for companionship.

The hunt is what has kept him bound here, to this city, to this existence -- such as it is. There is still and always a primal thrill in the stalking, the seduction

...the savoring.

Yet there is the incredible loneliness which is ever-present. At any moment of the night, he could be amongst the people -- he could even be one of the thousands at the arena, one of the hundreds upon a descending airplane, one of the dozens traversing a busy intersection -- yet be completely alone, utterly unseen, mattering naught to any other soul unless he accidentally violates someone's personal space.

How long ago was it when he realized that she would eventually learn his truth? It had been incredibly difficult to leave, yet it had to be done, for he would essentially frozen in time, and of all the people he had ever known in this excruciating after, she was the one he could not bring himself to hunt, even though she had submitted to him, heart and soul, willingly and knowingly.

...knowingly, except that she did not know his true nature, knowing only that he was only available at night, and she had not seemed to suspect.

But that was so far in the past that he could barely remember her face, her voice, her flesh. Now she was like everyone else around him: nameless, unknowable, distant.

Now, she was likely gone from this existence, and she was indeed fortunate.

A distant low rumble of thunder traverses his mind. The storm is coming. The end is near. At last, the continual loneliness will come to a cataclysmic end, for he can sense it on the wind:

His salvation is coming, drawing closer on the wind.

He tries once again to conjure up the vision of his last prey: the beautiful white dress in tatters, the silky raven hair obscuring part of her face, the painted lips barely moving as she questioned his sanity, the broken fingernail edged with her own blood. She had been a fine final companion, a fine final taste of flesh.

Taking one last sip of her from his mug, he stands, closes his eyes, and, with a deep sigh, resigns himself to the knowledge that by sunrise, he should finally be nothing but a memory to this tiny apartment he has called home for far too long. He will not worry, for he will be happy.