It’s the thrill that has addicted me so perfectly. The open field of possibilities at the beginning of each day, potential ripe and pungent, each choice dripping a different color of syrup like honeyed sweat. With every breath I take, I can change my world if I but pick the wildest option of those arrayed before me.

Each new face could be the evening’s entertainment. Each voice on the wind could be the one I hear tonight, gasping and groaning. Each body that shuffles past me in the press of foot traffic could be the one I pull to my chest as limbs gyrate and pulses quicken into a thunderstorm of hearts.

Ahh, the hunt, the hunt. I love it. I crave it.

Each morning, I go out among the people. I watch them. I brush their hands in passing. I smile or stare and see who smiles or stares back.

I like the aggressive ones, the ones who return my hard looks, the ones with fire in their eyes and a certain set to their jaws. They make my nights more fun. The ones who flirt back are softer, sweeter, and savoring them is like sinking my teeth into sun-ripened watermelon and letting the juice drip down my chin.

By evening, I’ve made my choice. I engage: a wink, a rough collision of shoulders, a casual conversation that lingers. I invite them to coffee, dinner, the bar, the park. We go, and as time wears on, I shrink the distance between our bodies until there’s no room left even for clothing. They never truly resist baring themselves to me.

By the moon-pale hours of early morning, I have a new experience pounding through my veins and a new body to dump somewhere inconspicuous. It’s a big city – hiding places are a dime a dozen. I know fifty holes within a mile’s walk at any given point, and after I’m done with my targets, they’re never too heavy to carry.

What I love best, though, is when they don’t die – when they pick up and stagger off, as wet with sex as they are with blood, too stubborn to fully succumb. Soon, they’ll become just like me, living for the thrill of potential, the infinite openness of each day’s choices.

Sometimes I meet them, my former victims, my new brothers and sisters. Our eyes meet and see right through the thin veneer of humanity stretched over our faces. Sometimes they smile; sometimes they stare. Sometimes they stay the night and try to kill me – I let them try, but I never let them win. We part the next morning, exhausted and gloriously sated, the taste of iron and sweat lingering on our lips.

I think those are the mornings I like best.

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