Michael didn’t belong in a city. Cities weren’t the territory assigned to him the moment he decided to pick up a knife and poke at the innards of a helpless kitten screeching in his grappling fingers. He should have been the stalker of a small town, where people were unknowing and unable to comprehend what could be walking up and down their streets when the lights went out. Bustling cities like Los Angeles weren’t as innocent; they weren’t as pure and as easily terrorized. He found that he could walk and walk and walk and go on like that for hours and still not find anything . Dust and smoke and the stench of gasoline overpowered his senses and when he felt threatened he would flash the knife, show small glimpses or pull it out and swipe at the air.
Most who had beating hearts and human blood avoided the odd sight that he presented, too frightened to create a confrontation with somebody who had a weapon, obviously used before. When they did find the courage to inch too close, he went for them in giant leaps, never yelling or growling, never saying anything as he brought the blade dangerously close to their faces, to their chests and stomachs.
The vampires weren’t frightened of him. When he circled and stared them down, unafraid and bold, they kept their eyes on his body, wary and curious. To the supernatural creatures he was something to be watched and pondered, a specimen under a microscope. They were strong, wicked, and thirsty for blood. They were the monsters that came from story books, never failing to warn its readers to behave and always check under the bed before drifting off to sleep. To them his violent intentions were not clear. They were mysteries themselves, but the boy who smelled like a human was a mystery that was unreadable. No amount of studying, no amount of poking and prodding, would permit them to see why he acted as he did.
Something about the amusement park boiled his blood, made him angry and on edge. Pressing himself further and further into the shadows, he stared down skipping children, groping teenagers and a mother ruffling the blonde hair of her son. The mother made him seethe inside. He could feel his body grow hot as he watched her bestow affection on the boy. His arm twitched, lifted so that the knife pointed down. He could have started moving, could have launched himself at the woman and the people standing all around her. He was ready to do it when he saw her. Him. It. Whatever it was.
The blade lowered back down and he held it behind it back, demanded that his legs carry him to where he wanted to go. Eyes attached themselves to him, to his blonde hair disheveled and in his eyes, to the dark t-shirt and the ripped jeans. They bore into him as he passed. The knife however, was veiled by the night, which made it hard to make out. With the blood coating the blade, it’s shine was dulled. Michael wouldn’t have cared if it wasn’t. Things like that didn’t concern him.
He stilled a few steps away from the living statue, unearthly and alive in the moonlight. The rage that he felt withered when he looked at the creature and instead of the fierce greeting of his knife, he gave a tilt of his head, a question gesture that wasn’t in need of words.