The Hunter

I walk alone, down the street and across the road, wondering on the possiblities that there is someone like me. A hunter, a wolf in sheeps clothing, maybe they blend in so well that not even their fellow wolf can tell. But that can be dangerous. That could be leathal. A young girl catches my eyes she looks at me with an pentrating gaze, now I am intreaged. As she walks by me I grab her arm, just hard enough to stop her but not startle her. She is still looking at me, I hear my heart thump against my chest, I have been waiting for so long, a year since my last and now this woman makes me feel as if she can sense my inner desire, my thurst for blood. But will it be hers? She now looks at my hand which without my consent has tightened its grip around her wrist. I urge myself to let go and appologise for my actions. Can she tell that my body is tired of waiting? Does she share my thurst? How can I tell? She looks at me as if I have insulted her but her mouth is saying hello. Her dark green eyes stare almost though me as if she is longing to get away. I realise at that moment that it is not lust I see in her eyes but fear. It doesn't take me long to swiftly move her from this busy street coaxing her into joining me for coffee, all the while the fear is there in her eyes and the lust is there in mine. We sit at an outside table in one of my favourite caffee's, she lights a cigarrette and offers one to me. I take it. This woman is a strange experience for me as I can smell the fear on her but she gives no other signs of her urge to flee. I speculate on what kind of life she may lead, her deep eye-make up is deliously dark and inposing yet her face so pale. Her blond hair runs down over her shoulders and sits neatly on her breast's. My heart is thumping again, pumping the blood of a warrior around my frail and weak body. She tells me she is a waitress at a bar close to here and that her shift will start in a few hours. Plenty of time I think. She leans closer, she has a sweet perfume on masking the delious smell of sweat. It is a hot day and hardly anyone dares to venture outside. Away from Air/Conditioning and such like. Where as I thive on the heat it is my life source. I have been like this since I can remember, one of my first memories is that of killing a rat. My mother had screamed, calling me a monster. My father had applauded my first killing. He said never to listen to my mother, she was weak. She really was weak she never stood up to father, even when he would beat her and take her as his own. She was controlled by him, and just like me he likes them that way. As I look at the girl lighting yet another cigarrette and taking in an inhail of smoke. She remined me of my mother, the way she sat there looking at me, waiting for me to make a move.