The Monster
By J. L. Young

I remember like it was yesterday. During the winter of 1855, construction on the clock tower was nearing completion. The newspaper headlines speak of the bell, Big Ben, with great reverence. There remains a controversy behind whether the namesake was the engineer who had overseen the tower’s construction or the heavyweight boxing champion. It could be named after them both of them for all I care.

Unlike other serial killers, I didn’t relish in infamy, playing games with detectives and reporters. My murders had a purpose. Akin to the vampires in Stoker’s novel, I had to take a life in order to prolong my own.

I wasn’t given this curse by some well-dressed creature who longed for the darkness of a coffin. No, I suffered from a deficiency. I had a thirst water could never quench. One morning, I was walking past the construction site of the famed clock tower when I caught the scent. I could have been easily attributed to the work with the freshly cast bell. Alas, a man had injured himself on the job. A frequent occurrence in that time.

Contrary to what you may believe about me, I have never taken pleasure in killing. That is but a side effect of prolonged exsanguination. I have sampled vermin, dogs, cats, and other lesser creatures without assuaging the thirst. I was miserable for about forty years trying to not be what I am. The weakness was overwhelming.

I worked in a delicatessen cutting cold cuts in the 1950s. My co-worker and I were cleaning in preparation for the next morning. In his carelessness, he had cut himself, badly. As I had a car, I offered to take him to the Emergency Room. He was found some years later. I guess I was the careless one.

Extensive research went into finding my life donors. I was a consummate detective. In time, technology had made the search easier. Come 2055, SynHaema came onto the market. It turned out to be the perfect analog. That’s when I became the CEO of the company. No longer was I the monster.