I Hunted a Man for His Blood and Discovered He Was the Boy I Used to Love

The rain had started again, a thin mist that clung to the streetlights like breath on glass. Penny stood across from the pub, her back pressed to the brick wall of a closed bakery, watching the door. She had been there for forty-three minutes. She knew because she had counted them, the way she counted everything now—heartbeats she didn’t have, steps she didn’t need to take, time she couldn’t feel passing.

The city moved around her like a living thing, slow and wet and unaware. A couple stumbled out of the pub, laughing too loud. A man in a navy coat lit a cigarette with shaking fingers. A woman in heels clicked past, her perfume lingering like a bruise. Penny watched them all with the same flat attention, the same hollow curiosity she’d felt for years. She didn’t hunger anymore, not in the way she had at first. Feeding was just something she did, like breathing had been once—automatic, necessary, and entirely without joy.

Then he came out.

He was alone. No umbrella. His hair was dark and plastered to his forehead, and he paused just outside the door to pull the collar of his coat up, as if that would help. He didn’t look at anyone. He didn’t check his phone. He just started walking, not fast, not slow—like someone who didn’t care if he got wet, or if he got anywhere at all.

Penny followed.

She didn’t know why. Not really. There were easier targets. A man farther back, drunker, slower. A woman arguing on her phone, distracted. But something in the way this one moved—shoulders drawn in, hands in pockets, head down like he was walking through a memory—made her step off the curb and trail him across the street.

He turned into an alley. Not a smart thing to do, but not stupid either. Just quiet. The kind of place people went when they didn’t want to be seen crying or puking or calling someone they shouldn’t. Penny slipped into the shadows behind him, silent. She could hear his heartbeat—steady, not racing. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t anything.

She moved fast. Not a blur, not like in movies. Just faster than he could react. One hand over his mouth, the other gripping the back of his neck. He stiffened, but didn’t struggle. She pressed him against the wall, her body cold against his warmth, and sank her teeth into the soft skin just below his jaw.

The first taste was always a shock. But this—this was something else. His blood hit her tongue like a match struck in a dark room. Salt and copper and something underneath it, something that made her close her eyes and see a boy’s hand moving across paper, sketching wings. She drank deeper, not meaning to, not caring. His pulse thudded against her mouth, and she felt it between her legs, a slow, involuntary clench, like her body remembering what it was to want.

She pulled back too late. He sagged slightly, dazed, his eyes unfocused. She should have left him there. She should have wiped his memory, or at least his neck. But she didn’t. She stepped away, her lips wet, her breath unnecessary but fast anyway, and walked backwards into the dark, watching him slide down the wall until he sat on the wet pavement, staring at nothing.

Back in her apartment, she stood in the shower until the water ran cold, though she couldn’t feel it. She looked at her reflection in the fogged mirror and saw nothing. But she could still taste him. Still feel the echo of his heartbeat between her thighs. She pressed her hand there, through the towel, not to finish anything—just to feel the pressure, the ghost of warmth.

She didn’t sleep. She never did. But that night, she lay on the bed with the lights off and let the memory play over and over: his throat under her mouth, his blood on her tongue, the way he hadn’t fought. The way he hadn’t been afraid.

The way she hadn’t wanted to stop.

She hadn’t meant to take so much. Just enough to quiet the ache, to fill the hollow space that never stayed full. But the moment her teeth broke skin, something shifted. The blood wasn’t just blood. It was a flood. A rush of heat and color and sound. She saw things—no, felt them. Not visions, not exactly. Sensations. Impressions. The scratch of charcoal on paper. The smell of turpentine and rain. A boy’s knees scraped on dock wood. A girl’s laugh, high and sharp, carried off by wind.

She saw his hand, small once, holding a pencil. A bird taking shape on a page. Not a perfect bird. A clumsy one. But he kept drawing. Over and over. The same wings. The same beak. The same eye. She felt the paper soften under the pressure of his hand. She felt the frustration. The want. The need to get it right.

And then—older. A room with no windows. A lamp burning low. The same hand, now long-fingered and stained, moving faster. Not birds anymore. Streets. Faces. Her face. Not her face now, but the one she had before. The one she’d forgotten. The one with freckles and a crooked front tooth and eyes that squinted when she laughed. She hadn’t laughed in twenty years.

She pulled back, gasping. Her mouth was full of him. Her body was alive with him. She could feel his pulse in her gums, her throat, her cunt. She was wet. Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. She felt it, slick and warm between her legs, like her body had remembered how to respond to something other than hunger. She pressed her thighs together, involuntary, and a low sound escaped her—half moan, half sob.

He was still against the wall. Not limp, not yet. His eyes were open, but not seeing. His mouth parted slightly. His breath came slow. She could still hear his heart. It wasn’t racing. It was steady. Like he was dreaming. Like he wanted her to stay.

She should have stopped sooner. She knew that. She’d taken too much. Not enough to kill, but enough to leave a mark. Enough to leave him dizzy. Enough to make him remember. She never did that. Never. She was careful. Clean. She took what she needed and left no trace. But this—this was different. This was a mess. This was a mistake.

She stepped back. Her legs felt strange. Heavy. Like they belonged to someone else. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and saw the smear of red. His blood. Her lipstick. She couldn’t tell the difference.

He slid down the wall slowly, his coat scraping brick. He didn’t speak. He didn’t look at her. He just sat there, knees up, head tilted back, eyes on the sky like he was waiting for something. For her to come back. For her to finish. For her to explain.

She didn’t. She turned and walked. Not fast. Not slow. Just away. Her boots were quiet on the wet pavement. The rain had stopped. The alley smelled like iron and piss and something else—something warm and human and alive. She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. She could still feel him inside her. Not just the blood. The rest. The boy with the pencil. The man with the cut on his neck. The one who hadn’t flinched.

The one she hadn’t wanted to stop.

She didn’t bother with the lights. The apartment was always dark, the windows covered with heavy curtains she never opened. She dropped her coat on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, still tasting him. Still feeling the ghost of his pulse in her mouth, her throat, her cunt. She pressed her thighs together again, slower this time, deliberate. The pressure sent a shiver up her spine, not from cold—she didn’t feel that anymore—but from memory. From need.

She lay back, fully clothed, and stared at the ceiling. The memory came without invitation. His throat under her mouth. The way his skin had given way, soft and warm, like paper tearing under too much pressure. The way he had exhaled—not a gasp, not a scream, just a breath, like surrender. Like he had been waiting for it. Like he wanted it.

She closed her eyes and let it play again. The taste of him. Not just blood. Something underneath it. Something older. Charcoal and rain. The way his pulse had fluttered against her tongue, fast and then slower, like he was sinking into something. Like he was letting go. She had felt it in her whole body. Not just the feeding. The wanting. The way her hips had pressed forward without thinking, the way her thighs had tightened, the way her fingers had dug into his coat like she was holding on to something she hadn’t known she’d lost.

She sat up and pulled her shirt off, then her bra. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, the blue of veins visible beneath. She touched her breast, not gently. Her fingers were cold, but her nipple hardened anyway. She pinched it, hard, and felt the echo of it between her legs. She wasn’t pretending he was doing it. She didn’t need to. He was already there, in her mouth, in her blood, in the way her body had responded like it remembered what it was to be alive.

She unbuttoned her jeans and slid her hand inside. No underwear. She never wore it anymore. Her fingers found her clit immediately, already swollen, already wet. She didn’t take her time. She didn’t want to. She rubbed in tight, fast circles, her hips lifting off the bed, her breath coming in short, useless gasps. She came fast, her back arching, her mouth open, a sound caught in her throat that might have been his name.

After, she didn’t move. Her hand stayed where it was, fingers slick, body twitching. She stared at the dark and thought of his eyes. Not the way they’d looked in the alley—dazed, unfocused—but the way they’d looked before. Quiet. Watching. Like he saw something in her she hadn’t wanted anyone to see.

She needed to know who he was. Not just the boy with the pencil. Not just the man with the cut on his neck. She needed to know what he had done to her. Why she couldn’t stop tasting him. Why she wanted to go back. Why she wanted more.