I can't possibly explain what it's like to be obsessed with someone you've never met. Even if I tried, I'd sound like a stalker, and I swear I'm not. I'm just... Possessive. Of things I have yet to make mine.

There was only one day left till I did who-knows-what and became whatever creature I had trapped behind the corroded locks of my soul. Trying to remember that the pretty girl staring at me from across the room was friend, not food, became insanely difficult as the beast inside grew stronger.

I can't recall much of what occurred during the next few days. I was crouched in a corner mumbling incoherently about blood one second, and grasping at the hairpin in my throat the next. I have no memory of what events lead up to me being shanked, but if the princess's account proves true, I should thank the stars I don't remember.

She didn't tell me much, in truth all she really did was tease me for going mental, so I'll just explain what I know.

Imagine seeing nothing but darkness, hearing nothing but your voice chanting "blood" over and over again, and feeling nothing but scorching fire. Then suddenly you open your eyes, your mouth is full of a warm, metallic substance, the room reeks of death, and the aforementioned substance is spilling out of a hole in your throat, down your front, soaking into your clothing, and sticking to your icy skin. 

Close your eyes and remember what it feels like to be alive, and then smash your fingers in a book. That's what I felt like. Yummy blood, life is good, and then BAM, shanked.

When I finally managed to rip the stick out of my esophagus, everything hit me with such clarity that I'm not sure how I missed it before. The monster wasn't trying to hurt me, it was my friend. Blood tasted better than tea, and it left a feeling of carefree warmth that even copious amounts of ale could not achieve. The king was nothing but a short-lived pawn in a game of life; his tale could be cut down a few years.

And the princess... She was mine. I eyed the bite mark in her neck, ancient, beast-like instincts creeping through my chest.

Fate had made it so.

I smiled. A real, bloody smile. She sat in front of me, fear etched into her soft features, clutching a scarlet-stained kerchief to her neck, and her hair somehow managing to fall back into place.

She was perfect. Stunning despite the sickly white tint to her cheeks. On the other hand, the guard on the floor wasn't looking too hot. A part of my brain registered that I had killed him, and that I should probably feel guilty, but I felt great, so I didn't think it mattered. I blamed my nonchalance on the blood. I was drunk on another person's life; no one can possibly care about human morals when they feel so... Not dead..?