Chronicles of (a human parasite) Rio - Darkforum.com - Dark Stories, Dark Art, Poetry, Photography, Debates and Discussions

kiakills

CHRONICLES OF A HUMAN PARASITE RIO

Prologue

Before I begin to tell you of my life, I feel there are a few details I must emphasize. First, I’d like you to get to know of my past.
My full name is Rioneous Philleto Montesquieu III of London, Rioneous’ “io” being the same as that in the word “lion”. However, due to contrary beliefs of those with minds too simple to accomplish such a feat as to pronounce this correctly, I have been given the nickname “Rio”, pronounced the same as that of the Rio Grande, though am not of Spanish decent.
I was born in England to a well-known noble family, at least at the time. Don’t bother looking my name up in any history books, though, for I am not listed.
I have two sisters and a single brother. I am the oldest of the three.
We come from a bloodline far surpassing that of your own. That’s not to say that those who read this are not a talent sort, but we far surpass the accomplishments of you mere mortals.
But aside from our unnatural abilities and extensive lives, I like to think of us as your average parasite. Picture a leach, if you will. One such creature which clings to the flesh and drains the body of blood until it is satisfied by it’s crimson filled body. Now, picture one which feeds in a similar way, but looks near identical to that by which it feeds, but with sharp, menacing teeth specially designed to pierce the flesh of humans. That is us. I believe the most recent term is “vampire”, though I am not so sure that we may be called such a thing so easily.
Are you frightened? Do you wish to leave? If so, place the book on your nightstand at allow it to gather dust. Just be sure to seal it somewhere tight, for I cannot guarantee your safety for its neglect.
Relax. Twas but a simple joke. Do not fear the novel, for it will not attack you.
As I was saying, we are of such a bloodline. But fear not for, should you encounter one of us, you shall not become one of the same. Contrary to popular belief, one such as us cannot bring one of you back as a parasite. We can only kill you, leave you with the blood to live, or not bother with feeding off you.
I’d very much like to speak to you of my awakening, but there is one more thing. Two of our kind exist. Those of which are conscious of their position in society as a menace, murderer, and parasite, and those who’s minds are lost to the bloodlust, killing uncontrollably with no conscious mind.
I am of conscious mind. My siblings, however, are not

Chapter 1

I’ll not begin my tale from the dull, uneventful years of my youth, before I discovered the reason behind my parents’ late nights and lack of appetite. You must understand, we are born as humans, but over time our body is overcome with this mythical power, and eventual we stop aging, permanently trapped in our youth.
It’s similar to that of mortal teenagers, though the symptoms are far worse, and can actually be quite painful. Had you seen the effect it had on my siblings, you would understand further, but I am not to that point yet. Before hand, let’s begin with my awakening.

Now, I was only twelve when my life went to hell. And I say this: it is the youngest recorded awakening of our time. Because the body slows it’s aging until it eventually stops completely, most begin heir awakening at the age of sixteen. Many times much older. In this way, they would stop aging in their twenties. I, however, I stopped at the age of seventeen. My true age is four hundred and three.
Bt this day by which I began my awakening was as normal as ever, at least until my parents left for what I would later come to know as a midnight hunt. Then, the woman whom my parents housed to care for me began noticing my bizarre symptoms.
I was sitting in the small corner of the library, my back to the room and my knees at my face, rocking steadily back and forth, my head just barely missing the shelves of books by which threatened to topple upon my should I do so too violently.
I can certainly understand her rushing to my side and shaking my body with such force she may have shaken my brain from my skull, but she hadn’t felt it as I had, so she could never have understood my behavior.
A stabbing feeling pierced my heart, rushing up my veins and to my nerves, this stabbing feeling violating my body with such force I thought my body may fall apart in shreds. My ears rang with the dropping of something as fragile as a feather, and felt as though I could see through the stacks of books, stone walls, and elegant canvases to the outside world, all the way to the new Americas.
But still she shook me, and I could hear the rattling of my own brain. Her voice was far louder than I thought humanly possible within my ears, and I push her as far as I can manage, which I fid to be much farther than any average twelve year old boy. She clashes with the bookshelf at the other side of the room, breaking apart her skull as the books from the shattered shelves tumble atop her like boulders.
I didn’t notice any of this at first though. I was still staring wide-eyed at the wall before me with my hands covering the fierce noises of the world. I clench my jaw so tightly I fear I may shatter the bone. I want to scream with all my might, in hopes of that somehow waking me from such a dreaded nightmare. But instead, my freshly heightened sense of smell picks of the bizarrely delectable aroma of the woman’s newly spilt blood. The pain stabs me again and again, but I feel drawn to the body. I crawled to her, my eyes locked, my mouth gaping as saliva spilt from the corners.
I grab her wrist, though I could clearly hear the steady beating had she still been alive. I hold it close to my face, just below my nose, and take in the salty scent. Somehow, the scent of that which I so often avoided drawing pulled me in, and I drowned in the hunger tearing at me from within. It was then that I realized just what it was I had to do. But to take the blood of another into my own body, I knew, was morally wrong, regardless of whether or not they are dead.
But the pain increased by the second, and I felt my body may burst should I now taste the liquid soon. So I take that wrist which I hold limp in my hand and bring it to my lips. I know the taste even before my teeth break the flesh, and when they do, my body feels instantly satisfied. I drink in all I can, her body withered and dry once I’m done. The blood was still warm, fresh from her veins although she’d died. I pull away, feeling an increasing sense of both pleasure and regret.
But my stomach instantly rejected the new fluid, and felt it return to my mouth, but it tasted bitter and foul. I allowed my body to dispose of such a thing, and the floor in that area became forever a stain of crimson.
I wipe the bitter blood from my lip. I had not before tasted something so foul. My chest began to ache again, and I braced myself against the wall, holding it as I walked through the house in search of something…. Anything to rid me of the ache. My stomach turned in knots, and the pain began ripping me from within.
I fell to the ground, no longer having the strength to overcome such torture. Felt I’d die soon anyway, so I would just lay there and await the death to overcome me.
But one of the maids was walking down the hallway at that time, carrying fresh linens to my parents’ room. I didn’t see which it was, thought, for all I could see upon her was the pale skin at her neck pulsing rapidly, begging me to drink from the veins which lay beneath. I forced myself from the floor and threw myself at her, as I did the last, and sank my sharp teeth into the skin at her neck.
She fought me at first, and I could feel the flesh of my arm being torn in ribbons by her long nails, but I ignored it, feeling nothing but the warm liquid flowing down my throat in gentle streams. Her body went limp after a while, though, and I immediately dropped her for fear of losing yet another drink to the dead.
My body relaxed almost immediately, fresh blood now rushing through my body and satisfying every painful part. I wipe a drop from my mouth, and place my stained finger in my mouth to wash away the last of my meal. I’m not sure exactly how long it was I sat there, but my parents’ arrival is what finally broke my concentration on my body’s regeneration.
I finally found my footing, and stood to face them upon arrival. They opened the door, only to find their only son son, drenched in blood and weakened with hunger. My mother rushed to me, throwing her arm around me and holding me tightly. I looked up at her, my eyes swelling with tears for what I’d just done. For the first time, I’d realized what I’d done. I’d murdered violently and inhumanely, simply to save myself. To serve that desire within my body. To ease the screaming in my mind. To stop the blood from calling to me to drain the women from their lives.
My mother pushed me from her body and forced my eyes to hers. “What happened?” she asked me, seemingly unconcerned.
“I—I killed them!” I threw my arms around her again. “I really killed them!”
My mother looked away from me, to my father. “He’s changing already?”
I didn’t understand their words. I was twelve years old, and a murderer. My parents where speaking of some form of change. But what was I to make of it? All I knew was that I was slowly changing, transforming into a monster.
My mother forces me to stand in the main hall, on my own, while they searched the house. I started crying, and fell to my knees. The last thing I wanted was for them to leave me. When they returned, my mother told me to go straight to bed.
As most children at the time, I did not hesitate to do as I was told, though I wanted so badly to question them. Regardless, I followed the staircase to the hallway and that to my bedroom. I allowed myself to fall upon the bed silently. No servants came to help ready me for the night. I thought my parents feared I’d kill again.
I remember I hadn’t slept well at all that night. All my thoughts became a blur which haunted me with nightmares, forcing me to wake just moments after my body drifted into sleep. I couldn’t take it. I tried to force my thoughts away again, though now, looking back on it, I cannot see why. It hadn’t worked the first time: why should it have later in the day?
I recall one dream in particular. It took place seventy years into the future, and yet my face was the same as it had been that night. Blood dripped from my mouth and in my arms was the withered body of my best friend, aged with time and cold from my feeding. I woke frantically, screaming violently until my mother joined me in the room and held restrained me.
I held tightly to her night slip, and remained there until my strength left me and I lost consciousness.
The nightmares continued, and I don’t recall getting more than an hour’s rest total. What time wasn’t spent trying desperately for rest, I spent crying, trying to rid myself of a shame I have yet to overcome.

The next day, I locked myself away in my room, refusing to come out for any reason. I wouldn’t even allow my father in, for I feared I may grow hungry again. I’ve already killed two people I’d lived with for most of my life, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever have ever been able to kill either of my parents, but it wasn’t near worth risking.
I don’t remember every detail of that ever so painful day, but I do recall the constant footsteps of my parents just outside my door, pacing rapidly, and occasionally growing frantic enough to strike the door. I remember ignoring them when they called for me to open it. I remember well, yet I cannot recall ever once feeling the pain of hunger on that day. Perhaps I was simply too horrified of myself. Perhaps the fear of possibly killing my parents was that overpowering. Perhaps that taste was buried so deep in my mind, and the feeling of the flesh I buried my teeth into as I drained the body, was too deeply scarred into my mouth. But I don’t remember being hungry that night. Only the nights to follow, did that hunger begin swelling within me until I gave myself over and murdered again.