By Oriana

Cold eyes.
Watching.
Staring.
Surveying the area
For one last stray.
There has to be one,
There always is.
One, lost and scared,
Wandering the streets at night,
Already terrified,
Even without knowing
What true dangers lurk.
A heart beating,
Softly at first,
Then louder
As the hunger grows.
All of a sudden,
There's a flash of movement,
And then its over.
The victim is quiet,
And the blood drips
From thirstquenched fangs..