Nightfall by Kittyling "We are n'er like angels till our passion dies." --Thomas Dekker (16th century) *** He waits. How long he's been waiting, or what for, is hard to tell. There's simply the sense that, yes, the man sitting on the park bench, clothed almost entirely in black, is waiting. There's also a sense, to those keen enough to feel it, that he's been waiting for so very long. An eternity, perhaps. The picture probably would have been taken as ridiculous by anyone happening to pass through this area of the city--a young man seated casually on the far right of a splintered wooden bench, green paint chipped, faded, and more grayish than actual green in hue--but given that it's past midnight, anyone who did pass would probably be a straggler from the local bar, a homeless man, or possibly a stray dog, and none of them would take interest in a lone twenty-something humming softly, brokenly to himself and tapping his foot on the ground to the fractured tune. An empty cardboard box sits next to him, grease stains on the corners and sides and a few scattered crumbs suggesting that it's what's left of the young man's dinner. The stark contrast between the park and the city itself is almost mind-boggling during the day, but at night, the differences aren't really noticeable. Particularly on a night such as this one, when the moon is a tiny sliver in the sky, on its journey from new to waxing crescent; the pale glow provides little to no light, and the dark clouds sluggishly creeping across its surface and blotting it out as an ink spill would stain white paper are doing nothing to help that. The young man stares up at that moon, a half-smile twisting full lips, and he stops humming and nods once to himself. The tapping of his foot continues for a minute more, slowing and then reaching a stop with little to no sound, a finality or beginning to something that no one but the man is sure of. In this lighting (or lack thereof), his features all appear dark, almost bathed in a deep gray or black. But then, that's how anything is at night, and can't be considered unusual. Perhaps what's so unusual is that, when he lowers his head again and picks up the box beside him, his eyes carry a hue that's drained from the rest of the scene by darkness. It's subdued, but still intriguing and noticeable, an odd focal point for anyone who happened to meet him. Violet. Deep, exotic violet, a rich shade of burgundy at the moment, flecks of wine and dark, dark royal purple visible if examined closely enough. The lids close over that brilliant concentration of color as the man stands up, long, thick lashes brushing against his skin for a moment before he opens his eyes again. The simple movement is oddly entrancing. The moon is hidden completely now, the wisps of cloud now taking on a larger and more solid mass, still moving slowly across the infinitely black canvas of the night sky. That canvas is tinted with swirls of deepest gray tonight, clouds eliminating any trace of stars. The man watches for a moment longer, glancing once at the massive brick buildings of the city and then behind him at the scattered trees of the park. He gives his right wrist a flick, looking down at the barely discernable hands of the watch there and frowning just slightly. It should be just about time... Dark eyes travel to the alley between two buildings just before a loud crash and clanging of metal is heard, followed by the angry, frightened yowl of a cat and a woman's startled shriek. The cat streaks out of the alley as a pair of trashcans are seen clattering to the ground, contents spilling on pavement, and scampers to the left, about thirty feet in front of where the man is standing. Stepping off the grass of the park and onto the deserted road, he continues watching the alley in silence. The woman comes into view about ten seconds later, stumbling over the bits of strewn garbage and clutching her chest as if out of breath. She remains at the edge of the alley, looking anxiously out across the street at the road and then at the park; she either doesn't want to acknowledge the man's presence, or just doesn't notice him altogether. The man takes a step forward, vanishes, and reappears at her side. The woman's scream is muffled as a hand clamps over her mouth, heliotrope eyes studying her and eyebrows furrowing in concentration. "Sorry," the man mumbles, brushing a lock of bleached-blonde hair out of the trembling girl's face, "but you're not who I'm looking for." Upon removing his hand from her mouth, the man quickly receives a sharp smack across his wrist as the woman gazes at him furiously--obviously frightened, but trying to mask that. She's not one of those who can sense it--that he's been waiting for a long, long time, for something--but she does know that something about him is unnatural. Wrong. And she wants to get away, but she finds herself rooted to the spot. "Who the hell--" "Hush," the man breathes, bringing a hand up to brush across her forehead again, tracing lightly over the contours of her face and traveling down to rest firmly beneath her chin, tilting it up and slightly to the right, his other hand smoothing a little more firmly against her now exposed neck, as if examining the soft flesh. The woman's trembling, which had become more violent, nearly ceased with that movement, and only a whimper and slightly ragged breathing were signs of protest from her. "I'm sorry," came another apologetic murmur--and it seemed truly genuine, nearly sorrowful--as the man bent slightly, head descending until his lips touched the sensitive skin of her neck. A quiver, a soft kiss, a glint of iridescent white fangs and an insistent press of those canines to the throat before a clean slice and the coppery taste of blood. Moments later, the woman is dead. The clouds continue to grow thicker, weaving themselves together across the sky, as a rumble of thunder followed by a few barely-felt drops of rain signifies an approaching storm. The man walks out of the alley again, drawing his trenchcoat close around him as he begins to make his way across the road and back into the lush foliage of the park. The vampire is still waiting. return to splash page