In a dark alleyway of a street in my town I find myself standing in front of a lifeless body fallen onto the ground. I was sure I'd just been in my home economics class earlier - a knife on my hand as I busied myself chopping up onions for stew. Yet the next thing I’ve known, my hands are full of red-tainted liquid, and it reeks of metal and rust.

That was the first time I’ve seen him.

I’ve never seen anyone - anything like him before. Two fangs showed on the sides of his mouth and the horns growing on the top of his head have barely surpassed the fangs’ length. Blood dripped down his digits and somehow I could smell the stench get stronger. It’s ominous, almost full black, and standing 6 foot tall he stood next to me. 

The second time I take notice of him is in a playground 2 blocks away from my home. I had always come there if I needed space to relax and to let go, of which I usually do so. A few steps ahead of me laid a person sitting on the swings and their breathing was halted. Rushing to go near the body, I put down a medium-sized log I picked up somewhere when I was strolling the town. 

On a lamppost beside me the 6 foot tall man stood. I could never call him a monster, because I’ve never thought of him that way. He’s smiling as if he hadn’t just killed someone, and somehow it urges me to smile as well, but I had been smiling all along after all.

I’ve always been someone who wants to be alone, but I don’t seem to mind his presence at all. He can’t seem to leave my side anymore, because I always see him whenever I’m in the dark and there’s light. Sometimes he growls and groans and I could feel his fangs and horns and dark, sharp rotten nails get longer, and I find myself questioning how I could even feel it.

One morning I caught him in the act of cooking a meal for the both of us. Its stew was something I have never tasted before, and it was as if the meat had been of a different kind. Tasty and soft and it melts in my mouth. I asked him where it had been from, and he replied with a shuddering silence then later followed up with his deep, vibrating voice, with an “I can make more, if you like.”

That day I hadn't seen my mother at all. Or the days following to that. Weeks. And months. Sometimes I wonder where she had gone, but I could honestly give out less of a care.

I have him anyways.

He’s my home. Sometimes I feel like we are one. There’s a connection. In the darkness he lurks, and the sound of his growls and the shouts and pleas of the people he kills are lullabies that put me to sleep.