Kirkland ran his hand across his beard wiping away the excess blood. He licked the knife one last time before standing up and walking back through the darkness on to the busy street at the entrance to the alley.
With the next twenty-four hours safely taken care of, he headed back to the abandoned warehouse he called home.
The next night he could feel the weakness growing. Setting up from the mattress that rested on the floor he pulled out his blade to see if any more blood remained. Feeling disappointed and frustrated he went into the city’s darkest corners to hunt for his next life source.
He despised himself for what he did on a nightly basis, but his will to live was stronger than his hatred of killing. This pull and shove of opposites left him regularly in a state of paralyzing fear. He knew he had but one choice.
With his next victim in his sights, he moved forward toward the woman, a prostitute he thought, and as he was about to grab her, he was tackled from behind.
“Jesus, I didn’t even see him coming,” she said.
“Get off of me! You don’t understand. I have to do this.” Kirkland was kicking at the undercover officer.
After six hours in his cell, he felt the energy and warmth draining from his body. Screaming at anyone who would listen to get him out, he felt he had one last option—his own blood, or what was left of it.
Ripping at his wrist with his teeth, he began to lick what little crimson liquid that flowed.
“Ok, freak show. Time for your picture session,” The guard looked in the bloodless cell and saw a lifeless and shriveled body lying on the floor.
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