I think I remember the sixth man, whose soul I took.
We were buzzed, not drunk. I wanted to have more, to take away the pain, but he took us out of the bar before I could get very far. In the middle of the night, we walked to the park with the bridge that went over the highway.
In a way, he was nice, but also too eager. I thought that he probably didn't know what he was going to do with his life, but who was I to judge? Maybe he just wanted to have a good time. Maybe, on the inside, he wasn't nice at all, and I was doing the world a favor. Probably not.
When we got to the bridge, I looked over, my arms hanging over the fence, and stared at the cars racing beneath us. If he said anything, I didn't hear it. I only heard the engines whirring by. My eyes unfocused, and when all the lights were just a blur, I became aware of the summer night's air, warm, yet my skin still felt cool. For a moment, there was some kind of peace. I could breathe clearly. If I fell backwards, it would be into his arms. If I fell forwards, the dark dream would be over.
And yet, later, I doubted even that. I was no longer human. I was a witch. A fall would not be enough to kill me anymore.
I turned around, and we smiled at each other. I remember him, probably, because his smile seemed so genuine. He seemed to recognize the value of the moment, and seeing it reflected in my eyes somehow made him happy. When I realized that, it was hard for me to look away.
Whenever I went out to drink, I told myself I was doing it to ease the hunger. It hardly ever worked, though. I think, rather, it was the hunger telling me to drink, so I could find men like him. Vulnerable boys, who had no choice but to accept the love I gave them, because it was nothing they had ever felt before, and everything they had ever wanted. When I thought of kissing them, feeling them, pleasing them, whatever feelings of guilt or sorrow I had felt from before were erased from my memory, replaced by an unquenchable thirst for life. It was supposed to be a blessing, a force to drive me to become a true witch. And yet, now, it felt like a curse.
Sometime not long after midnight, we entered his apartment. He lived alone in a one-bedroom unit. There were no decorations, nor were there any messes, just a simple place-- though it was saved from blandness by some modern looking appliances: a chic lamp, an electric kettle, and a knife holder, to name a few.
He said something about the apartment unit. He got a good deal on it. He was moving out soon though. He was trying to get a job somewhere in Sacramento. It was hard to ignore his body. I couldn't keep track of everything he was saying. I didn't really want to.
Instead, I looked him in the eyes. I touched him, and he touched me.
His hand held my arm. He drew himself closer to me, and I let him. On my neck, he kissed me.
I felt that thin needle of despair run through my blood, because there was no going back, but more than that, I felt relief, and pleasure.
Because there was no going back.
A dark sensation grew in my heart, spreading through my veins, into my mind and body, relieving me of all doubt, fear, and reason. His hand ran down my back, hastening the feeling, and I wrapped my arms around him in response. My hands went under his shirt and felt his warmth, a warmth that was no longer his.
From here, wouldn't it play out exactly as I wanted? He held me tighter, and kissed me more desperately. He could not stop, because my body had robbed him of all free will. I could not stop, because of my unyielding hunger. And so, we were both helpless in each other's arms, his fate to be shackled to mine, and mine to shackle his.
He guided me to his room, and together we fell on his bed. He continued to kiss me, stopping only for brief moments to remove my clothes, moving himself each time to taste the newly exposed flesh. He unveiled my breasts, and loved them, unknowing of the sacrifices that were made to them. He knew only what he could see, feel, and taste; his tongue slid against the left, and his hand grasped the right.
My vision blurred. The world seemed to be made up of only feelings and sounds. I heard his moans, and he heard mine. It felt good. I wanted more.
"Let me."
We stood up, and I took his shirt off. His body was sturdy, like a sculpture of muscle and bone. I was down to my underwear, though I wouldn't need to take any more off. I had him with his back against the wall, while I unzipped his pants. I could take everything from here.
"You're quick," he said.
It wasn't my first time anymore. My mouth was salivating, too. Such a slut.
His cock came out, in front of my face, and gently, I used my hands to pleasure him. My cold fingers against his warm dick, the sensation of exchange; they made my heart beat faster, and my lust grow stronger.
Still gently, I began to use my tongue. From the sound of his moans, I could tell he felt the same as I did. A lust that could not be stopped, only slowed, until we could take it no more. What I was doing now, swirling my tongue around the tip, tasting him, before the final act, it was just courtesy to me, wasn't it? I could barely hold myself back, but for his sake, I wanted his last moments to be...
