I don't remember feeling much when I tore through his throat - relief maybe? A joy of sorts. Definitely not shock or repulsion as I felt his feeble cartilage crumple as his blood slid down my throat like a finely aged wine. A part of my mind gleefully thought of him as little more than an overly complicated juice box.
This neither helped nor hindered my killing but it was a brief distraction from the way he frantically clawed at my skin before slowly asphyxiating gracefully in my arms. As I continued to feed on his blood, I pulled the nail kit out of my rear pocket and began to extract any potential DNA he might have swiped in his struggle.
It wouldn't lead back to me of course, not when my death date was some hundred odd years before they started using DNA as evidence. There was no record of me in the living world and people would only assume some weirdo serial killer was using a poor corpse's DNA to hide himself instead of assuming the not-quite corpse was out having herself a fairly nice time.
Still, when I was done with him I'd need to grab my keys and carry on to my new apartment a few states over.
Same cycle, new feeding grounds and not a snowball's chance in hell of being caught.
The undead lifestyle suits me rather well, if I do say so myself.
And I do.
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