My throat was raw from trying to hold back the sobs that welled from within my chest, occasionally escaping as a single brief mewling sound. My eyes stung and were dry. I lay there curled at the top of my bed rhythmically banging my head against the railings that constituted my headboard. Lying here in my own stench and sorrow, I knew it was time to get out and hunt again.

I stood in the shower for an age as if the water would wash away my sorrows. Of course it never could. Only one thing could even diminish them. After showering, I shaved and looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were red rimmed and a little watery, my face was slightly pale and my hair had grown shaggy and slightly unkempt. I looked a mess. Maybe I shouldn’t go out at all? Maybe I should wait until I looked better? But I knew that if I didn’t, I would end up trapped in that room forever, receding into myself slowly at first and then quicker and quicker until I was out of control with no chance of pulling out. I had seen it happen to others of my kind- they always said they could bring themselves out of that spiral, but ‘tomorrow’. It’s a cliché, but tomorrow never did come for them now. You will occasionally see them amongst the homeless, reduced to nothing more than a wild-eyed unkempt thing, shuffling along aimlessly. That’s what happens when you live forever and your despair is growing by the minute. A humans suffering is finite. Ours is not.

None of us know the cause of our malaise. We find sadness in many places and we find joy in none. But like a moth drawn towards a light, we are drawn towards the things that upset us most. You will find us reading ‘Of Mice and Men’, listening to Neil Young, and watching ‘Midnight Cowboy’. But unlike the moth, we do have our escape, even if that reprieve is only temporary. I threw on my coat and headed out the door.

I always feel self conscious when walking through crowds when I am alone. It’s as if I feel all their eyes upon me, judging me. If only they knew.

I reached the bar that I generally used as my hunting ground. It’s secluded corners and lack of jukebox made it ideal for private conversations. I ordered a Bud and leaned back against the bar in what would appear to be a confident manner. Inside I was a raging storm of hurt and self loathing, but we had long learned to mask most of our feelings when hunting you.

Women came and went, in pairs, in groups, with men, occasionally alone, but none of them had that quality I needed. Until I saw her. She entered the room with a bunch of other girls. Co-workers I guessed. They did not belong with each other. She had dark brown, almost black, eyes, a round-ish, open face, and auburn hair that was loosely gathered into a pony tail. I watched her for a while interacting with her friends. She was quiet and attentive, nodding interestedly, saving her words for when they were needed, not wasting them on trivialities. Now and then a warm smile spread across her face and her eyes creased.

I allowed her to catch me looking at her and she rewarded me with one of her warm smiles. Members of her group began to empty their glasses an one of them half stood to go to the bar. The girl I had been watching waved her down and her friend sat with little protest.  She came and stood by me at the bar.

“I’ve been watching you from our table.  You look so sad and lonely.”

I shrugged.  Something inside me was screaming at me to break down to her and cry on her shoulder, YES, YES, I AM.  But I maintained my calm exterior.  “I’ve been told that I often do.”

She smiled again.  “Are you waiting for someone?”  And I think she really cared.

“In the immediate sense, no.  I just felt like a drink.”

“Why don’t you come and join us for a bit?”

“I wouldn’t want to impose myself.”

She leaned forward conspirationally.  “To be honest, I think you’re probably best off here…”

I feigned a smile.  It was a moment before we saw the barman standing there.  “Oh, I’m sorry, can I have 2 gin and slimline tonics, 2 halves of dry cider, a medium dry white wine and…” she looked at me.

“Are you sure?”

“Would I ask if I wasn’t?”

“In that case, a Bud please.”

While she waited for the barman to return, she explained her groups’ outing. “See the blonde girl on the far side? She’s leaving. Marrying an Australian she met whilst in Mexico. A real inter-contintental love story. Hold on a minute.”

She took the other girls’ drinks to their table, I noticed that she had left her own by mine. My inner voice was starting up again. She had only left her drink because her hands were full. She was only talking to me through pity. Inside she could only feel contempt for a creature like me.

But she did come back.

We talked on into the night. As her friends went to move on, she gave them each a warm, sincere hug and said she would see them soon and got a few raised eyebrows in return. I shrugged embaressedly. Eventually the last orders bell rang and we left. Standing in that dark pub doorway, she looked up at me, “Well? Now what?”

The voice started up again. Take her back to your place. Let her see what a loser you are. For once the voice helped in my decision. “Your place? Mine’s a dump.”

Typically, it was the taxi where things began. Hands linked, lips met. During these acts of pure physicality, the voice was silent. The crippling sorrow subdued. Once in her flat, coffee gave way to love making, but the sadness remained. Eventually she fell asleep, her head on my chest. I stroked her hair and began to feel the warmth flooding into my being, driving away the pain. Her happiness entered me and for a while, at least, I was content. As the flow subsided, I slid from under her and left. I didn’t want to be there when she awoke, an empty, aged shell, drained of all joy.