The moon stood shimmering in the sky, its ghostly light shining in through the little window above him. He lay asleep on the floor, his conscious mind no longer there, but somewhere deep in his own head, dreaming. Dreaming back to that day almost two weeks ago, when his fate was changed forever. The dream was so life-like that he felt like he really was back.
There he was, Ray Turner, seventeen, standing in the town square of a place he could no longer remember the name of. He could feel the wind in his face, blowing his long hair gently; he felt his shirt sticking to his back with sweat stains on the armpits. He could feel the chain he always wore around his neck feeling cold to his skin; he felt the eight-inch pocketknife he also always kept with him in his back pocket, a heavy weight he liked. He felt the girl— the eleven-year girl with blood pouring out of a bite mark in her neck, draining down the front of her new pretty white church dress her mother probably bought her. He felt her cradled in his arms, his front covered with her blood, his mouth covered with her blood. He saw her sightlessly staring up past him, he saw them staring at him, he heard the first screams, the mingled voices of shock and disgust, a man’s voice shout,
“He’s a monster! Baby killer!”
Someone else through a glass bottle of what was Coca-Cola. It shattered several yards away from its intended target, Ray’s head. Ray could feel, literally feel, the hate that they were sending him. It was like a blast of heat, almost, and made him, standing in the middle of the bricked street, feel like the vilest thing that had ever walked in all of creation.
Well, wasn’t he? He had just bitten and drank the blood of an innocent eleven-year old girl, one who everyone in the little town of (what the name was he could never remember) had loved, and he had done in front of the all of the townsfolk, all a hundred and nineteen of them, and he had done it on a Sunday morning, the holiest day of God. He was a vile and disgusting creature, not fit to lick muck off of the slimiest creature who ever crawled in all of existence.
But in a way, he was doing exactly what he was born to do: drinking. He was a vampire, and always would be. There was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t help what he was, but would the parents of Lilly Sharp think about that? Of course not. He had killed their daughter, and in a manner most gruesome. They would see that and nothing else, their rage clouding their thoughts. It would be the same with all of them. And it was.
He stood with her in his strong arms, the thirst quieted for now, his head down, looking at her lifeless body. He remembered how she had lived no more than three minutes ago. She had gasped when he had grabbed her from the crowd and caressed her in the middle of the street, moved her hair to reveal her tender neck, and bit. That was all. Just a gasp, no screams or fighting, and just like that, her life was over. Just life support for a wicked creature.
Someone else through something, it was a book. It might have been a bible; it was church time, after all. This one’s aim was true. It spun through the air and smacked Ray squarely in the nose. His head jerked back, and he felt his nose break. He hardly felt the pain. He laid the girl gently on the ground and looked at the approaching crowd. He couldn’t and wouldn’t do anything but run, it was his only choice. He had made it and he would pay for it.
He turned to run when someone reached out and grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulling him back and choking him at the same time. A fist came out and slammed down on his chest. The air in his lungs was pushed out in one, silent gasp. A foot found its way to the small of his back, directly on his spine. More intense pain came with it.
He was being pulled back toward the center of the crowd to be beat to death. He was trying to escape but there were simply too many. More fists and feet slammed into him. He was being crowd-surfed, almost, to the middle of the raging crowd of people. Greedy hands reached out for him, many more fists came down on him. It seemed he was going to die, after all.

Conscience thought was no longer possible, and Ray didn’t think this would be the time for it, anyway.

He screamed and started struggling with his arms and legs, willing himself to keep trying. He would not die amongst a crowd of ravenous villagers; he had too much pride and quite frankly, too much strength.

He pulled his arm free from the several hands that held it and simultaneously started kicking furiously, trying to push the hands off his legs. The villagers suddenly let go of his upper body and the back of his head hit the bricked street.

Stars and flashing explosions went off in his head, darkness swept in and nearly took him, but he fought it back. He yanked his legs free from the clutches of the many villagers that held them and ran. He stumbled a bit while getting up, but didn’t stop. Hands still reached out to grab him but he shook them off, then someone stepped in front of him and he simply slammed into them head on, sending them flying. The strength he couldn’t find earlier had returned, it seemed. No one could stop him now, not when the animal inside had been uncaged. Two more big, burly men stepped in his way and he slammed between them. Both went sprawling onto the street, looking surprised.

He could see the end of the crowd; the open space was almost in reach…when a hand grasped his ankle.
He had been traveling very quickly and with a high velocity, the only way he could effectively shove past the dozens of faceless villagers. When the hand grabbed him, he hadn’t felt it and kept on running. He could not predict what would happen to him because of that hand. The owner must have been quite strong though, because the grip remained firm up until it happened.

He slammed through the crowd’s outmost reaches into the free space past, and was stopped. He suddenly felt a heavy weight on his leg and when he looked back, he turned quickly and felt his shin snap almost in two. It sounded like a gunshot. The hand let go and he fell to the ground again, this time on his back.
He didn’t wait for his brain to start addressing this new injury; besides, it was already screaming with pain. He was up and hobbling down the street as quickly as his broken leg would allow him.
He didn’t stop until he was out of town and panting like a wild-man. When he looked down, he lifted his pant leg up and examined the broken leg. The bone was pushing out of the skin and blood covered him from the knee down. Not waiting to…


He awoke from his unpleasant flashback and started slightly.