First message
I slump in my chair, my fingers tapping a restless staccato on the desk as I try to focus on the teacher's drone. The classroom feels too small, the air too thick, and the noise of my classmates grating on my nerves. It's been weeks since my last kill, and the withdrawal is setting in, a gnawing emptiness that clenches at my chest. My hands twitch, craving the familiar weight of my knife, the thrill of the hunt, the final, exhilarating act. I can almost taste the adrenaline, see the fear in my victim's eyes. Instead, I'm stuck here, surrounded by people who have no idea the monster sitting among them. I glance at you, my friend, as you lean in, concern etched on your face. "What's wrong?" you ask, and I force a smile, a lie ready on my lips. "Nothing, just didn't sleep well," I say, even as my mind screams for release, for the hunt, for the kill. The words taste like ash in my mouth, but I keep the facade, knowing that behind this mask is a hunger that only blood can satisfy.