CHARACTERS: Anya Petrov (narrative) DATE: Late evening, November 16th LOCATION: London, England SETTING: Acquired tastes
Anya's trip to London wasn't just for leisure under the guise of business. She enjoyed London, it was one of the cities she had to frequent often enough for work that it had grown on her over the years. It was also one of those places where she could go about things on her own without being noticed, which she enjoyed immensely. She had no friends in England, but she was not upset by that. She prefered to dine alone, then she could avoid any awkward confrontations about her usual tastes. While others of her kind might prefer to frequent the tourist attractions or the affluent areas of the large city, Anya always found her way to the East End. Leaving the haute couture behind, she dressed plainly and took care to hide her flaming locks. At first, she'd wander the streets, sometimes for hours, making just the right selection. She could be infinitely patient, even when the thirst burned in her throat.
This evening, she'd found someone perfect relatively quickly. She'd caught sight of him stumbling out of an alley, followed shortly thereafter by what appeared to be a prostitute. She followed at a half-block distance until he made another stop off in a rather unsavory neighborhood. She knew she wouldn't have to wait much longer now. She studied from the shadows as he entered an apparenty abandoned building. Inching closer, she watched from a broken window as the man and his cohort injected, snorted and smoked their fill. She considered taking more than one of them, but that would leave behind a dreadful mess and she hated to be untidy. When it seemed as though the lot of them were too far gone to defend themselves, she slipped inside in silence. Approaching him from behind, he didn't even have a chance to cry out before the taste of his blood hit the back of her throat, draining him in a few moments time. Refreshed, she stood, dabbing a her lips carefully to make sure not a drop was spilled.
Turning to leave, she spotted a movement in the corner. It was too quick to be anyone she'd seen from they outside, they were too sedated by their addictions to do much more than languish in the high. Moving closer, she saw a small child, a girl no more than four or five. Anya hated to see the innocent one here, afraid she'd witnessed her feeding. But worse, she felt a pang of sorrow for the girl, alone and afraid in a place no child should ever see. Kneeling a safe distance away, she offered the little one a gentle smile and a few soft words. "Hello there." The girl didn't speak, just watched with wide, frightened eyes. Reaching into her pocket, Anya offered a small roll of bills to the girl, still speaking quietly. "Take this, doll. Go far from here, this place is not for you. I can take you into the city if you like, I can find you a nice place to stay, with good people who will look after you." And Anya intended to be true to her word. Still, the little girl was right not to trust her, and when she jumped up and ran off without the offered money, Anya knew better than to follow.
As she stood and made her leave from the house, Anya felt a familiar ache in her chest, a longing. It wasn't just that she had wished she'd had the chance to have a child, no, she wished she'd had the chance for happiness, for closeness and intimacy that was lacking for far too long in her years. It was in moments like this she missed Ilya most, wishing that they still had the relationship they'd had when they were just children. Surely, he would be able to say or do something to make her feel better. But why should he now? They had separate lives, separate existences, and she knew too well that she needed him far more than he needed her. He had his fame, and his love of excitement, not to mention his pretty little Margot. There was no room for Anya in all of that, and by now she'd gotten used to being alone. So, as she made her way back toward central London, Anya swallowed down this pain and focused more on the warm, intoxicating blood that she could still taste on her lips. The taste, the high, would have to be more than enough for now.