Prologue: Aberration
The sky. Violent, virulent, a purple bruise to my clouded senses. Hangs over me like a shroud. The pain is unbearable. The world is suffocating. Can’t move. Can’t think. Must feed!
With a snarl of pain and fury, the black-cloaked figure rose from a crouch and arched out his back, arms outstretched, as if begging God or the Fates or whatever passed for a deity nowadays to save him from his anguish. He would wait in vain for a response. He knew this. He was damned, after all. The nightly attacks were increasing their intensity a hundredfold and he didn’t think he would be able to fight any longer.
Searing shafts of icy fire ricocheted within him, even as he tried to deny the need that was coursing through his nonexistent veins. The miserable creature doubled over, clutching at his stomach, falling to the ground helplessly. On his knees, he turned his face to the skies again in supplication.
Rain. On my face. I can still feel? Cold, stinging. No release. No surcease. Just painpainpain…
A whimper only, now.
The shaking brutally wracked his body, and he rolled into a tight ball, as if this action would succeed in warding away the sharp needles of flame lancing through his gut. He fisted his knuckles into his eyes, gouging at the bloodshot orbs. If he made other parts of his body hurt, would the other, more relentless pain go away?
{Do you really think self-mutilation will solve anything?} The rational part of his mind, the one that was still able to reason, mocked his feeble attempts.
{Yesss.} The other part of his mind, the dangerous one, whispered sibilantly. For once, it was in agreement with its alter ego. {Jussst give in. It’s all very sssimple. Let go. Ssstop fighting. Then all the badnesss will jussst…ssslip….away…}
He was talking to himself again. He tore his consciousness desperately back from the swirling madness of self-actualized schizophrenia. But then, bereft of any distractions, the gnawing hunger flamed through him once more. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t fight. It had been so long since the last time. He was tired. He hurt.
Can’t move. Can’t think. Must feed!
He clung to the mantra with feverish despair, the words scathing his brain. It was all he could do not to throw up from sheer panic and rage. His body craved to be sated yet his conscience grimly dictated that he fight. Would he be caught up in this personal hell forever? Surely, it was better to just let go, but not in the way his mind tempted him.
{Just let go. Just die.}
But what did death have to offer him? Peace? Eternal glory in heaven? Not a possibility; he was damned, yes? And the damned are promised nothing but hate and darkness and despair. There would be no higher power willing to offer him salvation.
So he no longer owed allegiance to an inconstant, uncaring god.
Yes! Yes, I am all alone! No one to stop me, no one to care!
Acknowledging the pain was always the best way to eradicate it; only the guilt and the self-loathing kept it baying at his heels. Mitsuru Ikeda slowly raised his head, unholy light gleaming in his amethyst eyes. A feral smile clawed its way up his face and his eyebrows beetled with menace. Effortlessly, almost scornfully, he drew himself up to his full height. The night storm winds caught at his coat, making it billow out in pools of darkness.
Rain plastered his long, fair hair against his nape, across his cheeks. Glancing at his reflection in the window of a nearby parked car, Mitsuru bared his teeth. He looked like shit. Drawing back his hair with negligent hands, he fastened it into a tail with a strip of black silk he procured from his coat pocket. A persistent lock fell across his brow, giving him a rakish look. He liked what he saw.
He raised his arms up in a languid, catlike stretch. Admired the black metallic of the tight leather encasing his arms down to his wrists. Smoothed his hands down his muscled chest, similarly encased. He purred in sensual delight, the need in him no longer an enemy to battle against. It chased through his body in electric sparks, arousing him with its warmth. He welcomed it like an ardent lover.
Don’t fight. Just accept. Just be.
Still watching his reflection, Mitsuru shrugged broad shoulders more comfortably in the black trench coat. He touched the steel buckles that fastened at the wrists, checked the bandolier that housed several throwing knives and assorted sharp objects. All in order. Stamping his knee-high boots to settle the leather pants caught in them, he snarled to himself once more. But this time, it was a sound of triumph.
I can move. I can think. And now, I will feed!
With a practiced swirl of his coat, Mitsuru Ikeda discarded his burdensome angst in the alley and emerged into the heart of Los Angeles in search of sweet sustenance.