RedD2Read reviewed on 5/20/2008

Helpful Score: 1

MASQUERADE

See me
the man I was
before the darkness
fell upon my soul

Know me
the monster
who hides his ugliness
in the shadows of the night

Release me
from my lonely prison
let your light drive the bitterness
from my tortured heart

Love me
free me from this half-life
this endless
masquerade

A. Ashley


MASQUERADE

Los Angeles
1993

He was a very old vampire, weary of living, weary of coming alive only in the darkness of the night.

For three hundred years he had wandered the unending road of his life alone, his existence maintained at the expense of others, until the advent of blood banks made it possible to satisfy his ever-present hunger without preying on the lives of the innocent and unsuspecting.

And yet there were times, as now, when the need to savor fresh blood taken from a living, breathing soul was overwhelming.

He stood in the dim shadows outside the Ahmanson, watching groups of happy, well-dressed people exit the theater. He listened to snatches of their conversation as they discussed the play. He had seen the show numerous times; perhaps, he thought wryly, because he could so easily sympathize with the Phantom of the Opera. Like Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber's tragic hero, he, too, was forced to live in the shadows, never to walk in the light and warmth of the sun, never able to disclose his true identity.

And so he stood on the outskirts of mortality, breathing in the fragrance of the warm-blooded creatures who passed him by. They hurried along, laughing and talking, blissfully unaware that a monster was watching. It took no effort at all to drink in the myriad smells of their humanity â" a blend of perfume and sweat, shampoo and toothpaste, face powder and deodorant. He sensed their happiness, their sorrows, their deepest fears.

He waited until the crowds had thinned, and then he began to follow one of the numerous street beggars who had been hustling the theater patrons for money and cigarettes. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of homeless men roaming the streets of Los Angeles. On any given night, you could find a dozen or so panhandlers lingering outside the Ahmanson, hoping to score a couple of dollars that would enable them to buy a bottle of cheap booze and a few hours of forgetfulness.

A faint grimace played over his lips as he moved up behind his prey.

After tonight, there would be one less beggar haunting Hope Street.

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