I kind of feel inspired to write right now... so pardon my writing if it isn't for you...
Running, that is all I seem to do. Running from the hunters, running from the daylight, running from my fears. To this day, I curse that witch that decided I was a good morsel to bite into... No matter what I do, one thing catches up with me. I started out as a hunter, and now I am the hunted. Life can't get any more shittier than it can be now... The pain in my gut. Is that fear? No. That is the hunger that I have been feeling since day one. That hunger for blood, for carnage. Normal food makes me sick to my stomach, as I have tried to eat, only to find my stomach's contents in a puddle on the floor. I've killed ten people already, draining them of the life they led. The families that suffer by my hand. The pain of them knowing that their wives or their husbands, or their lovers are not going to be around, sticks with me for the rest of my undead life. I wish I was back in the days of when I was a blacksmith. A modern day blacksmith, mind you. One that crafted authentic swords, metal objects for buildings, what have you. Anything metal. That was my passion. Eventually, the weapons my hands create, my hands use to kill the hunters that have came after me. Me, a man who was only minding his business...
The rain. The rain comes in a torrential downfall, late at night. The only friend that has aided in my escapes. Massacres have happened by my hand in the rain. Blood mixed with rain multiple times by my hand. The reports on the news call me the undead terror of the city. Many of the city's problems have been handled by me. Bullets have adorned holes in my body, and all they call me is undead terror. I have went against armies of 30, and came out with multiple injuries. They can't thank me, they only send undead hunters, ones that I have killed three times over... Speaking of which...
I check my .45 pistol. Full ammo clip, three clips in the back pocket of my overcoat. I check my knife, running my finger along the blade. Blood adorns the sharp silver, and I stick my finger in my mouth. I look around. Outcroppings of cement, trees, benches, trash cans, fencing... and flashlight beams piercing the night. Sounds of footsteps, crunching the gravel underneath. Men screaming in something that sounds Russian, but really is English. Guns being cocked back to fire rounds. The leader spots me. 'Throw down your weapons, and put your hands out.' is something I hear. Instead of throwing my gun and knife down, I put my hands out. The sentry of the group comes up and reaches out for me. Next thing that happened goes down in a matter of adrenal minutes.
I grab the sentry by the throat, crush his sarcophagus, and throw him twenty feet away from me. The two other sentries aim their guns and by the time they train them on me, I am already on top of them, mashing their rifles into their faces. The others thought that they would surround me and engage in hand to hand combat. Little did they know... One was laying on the ground, clutching at his throat, trying to stop the bloodflow, while two are trying to pull their staves out of their abdomens, and the leader is running away. I give him a two second start before I throw my blade into the back of his skull. No more arrive. The rain, as I said before, mixes with the blood. I look into the skies, the thunderous skies, and scream out. How many more have to die by my hand? Just how many more?
Running, that is all I seem to do. Running from the hunters, running from the daylight, running from my fears. To this day, I curse that witch that decided I was a good morsel to bite into... No matter what I do, one thing catches up with me. I started out as a hunter, and now I am the hunted. Life can't get any more shittier than it can be now... The pain in my gut. Is that fear? No. That is the hunger that I have been feeling since day one. That hunger for blood, for carnage. Normal food makes me sick to my stomach, as I have tried to eat, only to find my stomach's contents in a puddle on the floor. I've killed ten people already, draining them of the life they led. The families that suffer by my hand. The pain of them knowing that their wives or their husbands, or their lovers are not going to be around, sticks with me for the rest of my undead life. I wish I was back in the days of when I was a blacksmith. A modern day blacksmith, mind you. One that crafted authentic swords, metal objects for buildings, what have you. Anything metal. That was my passion. Eventually, the weapons my hands create, my hands use to kill the hunters that have came after me. Me, a man who was only minding his business...
The rain. The rain comes in a torrential downfall, late at night. The only friend that has aided in my escapes. Massacres have happened by my hand in the rain. Blood mixed with rain multiple times by my hand. The reports on the news call me the undead terror of the city. Many of the city's problems have been handled by me. Bullets have adorned holes in my body, and all they call me is undead terror. I have went against armies of 30, and came out with multiple injuries. They can't thank me, they only send undead hunters, ones that I have killed three times over... Speaking of which...
I check my .45 pistol. Full ammo clip, three clips in the back pocket of my overcoat. I check my knife, running my finger along the blade. Blood adorns the sharp silver, and I stick my finger in my mouth. I look around. Outcroppings of cement, trees, benches, trash cans, fencing... and flashlight beams piercing the night. Sounds of footsteps, crunching the gravel underneath. Men screaming in something that sounds Russian, but really is English. Guns being cocked back to fire rounds. The leader spots me. 'Throw down your weapons, and put your hands out.' is something I hear. Instead of throwing my gun and knife down, I put my hands out. The sentry of the group comes up and reaches out for me. Next thing that happened goes down in a matter of adrenal minutes.
I grab the sentry by the throat, crush his sarcophagus, and throw him twenty feet away from me. The two other sentries aim their guns and by the time they train them on me, I am already on top of them, mashing their rifles into their faces. The others thought that they would surround me and engage in hand to hand combat. Little did they know... One was laying on the ground, clutching at his throat, trying to stop the bloodflow, while two are trying to pull their staves out of their abdomens, and the leader is running away. I give him a two second start before I throw my blade into the back of his skull. No more arrive. The rain, as I said before, mixes with the blood. I look into the skies, the thunderous skies, and scream out. How many more have to die by my hand? Just how many more?
diaz:
Thank you so much for your lovely comments 
