Days passed after Brenna's visit without much ado, as was so oft for immortals who lived in the dark, that is, until his electronic clock relayed its alert that it was sundown on a very particular evening.
Ash approached the windows that faced the street and pulled open the heavy curtains. He looked out into the purple twilight and spied a few pedestrians huddled under the marigold glow of a streetlamp. It wasn't cold yet, summer's grip held firmly to its final weeks, rather it was that human instinct to avoid the dark as it closed in around them. He could hear their minds. They argued about the bus route. They were students in town to tour University and were lost looking for their hostel. The perfect set of victims on the most auspicious of nights. For the briefest of moments, there was temptation.
Hungry burgundy eyes ascended to the horizon where the memory of sunlight hung in an amber goodbye. A few hours from now, it would be his birthday.
One hundred years.
It wasn't that he felt old -- he didn't -- in fact, he didn't feel a day over 24. And that fact continued to bother him, because the comorbidities of eternal youth included the inability for his mind to ever reach maturity. He would be forever trapped thinking with the brain of a young man, and even if people "grew up faster" in his time, it wouldn't change the nature of biology. Just another bullet on his list of insecurities. Perhaps someday if he dies, someone will write kinder things on his headstone.
No, the thing about one hundred is that it marked a sort of "end point" for human lifespans. There was an odd unspoken goal so many people had as children to reach 'a hundred,' and when you think about it... no one really talks about anything past that point. Of course most humans never make it to 100, but those that do never make it much further. For all intents and purposes, one hundred was the end of his humanity; every year that plodded after was the gift of that sanguine kiss. Every forgotten sun and murdered soul and razor tooth on supple flesh wrote the notes of dark eternity, and someday when someone realizes the idiotic irony of allowing a creature such as him to continue on, will the mountain of bodies cease growing. Only then will this sick charade end -- the tragedy of his life and death closed in crimson curtains to an empty, silent theatre.
One hundred years, the vast majority of them spent in loathing and regret, but the fear of death -- no the fear of what lies beyond -- pushed him to keep moving forward, even if in reality it felt as though he were merely standing in a stream, watching the water rush by him. The immovable stone, the only change it bears is it's slow, constant erosion.
The water is cool.
Ashley closed his eyes. The students had gone and the warm hues of urban sunset had bloomed into velvet starless black.
Pull yourself together, Ash. You're pathetic. He went to a barstool and picked up a shirt to wear. He saw the invitation there. Brenna's put a lot of thought into this. Put away your bottomless self loathing long enough to enjoy yourself for once.
He sighed, going to the bathroom to tidy up his "shaggy" hair. For those who were less aware, he did in fact have a reflection, and that was because mirrors are no longer back by silver, and thus, do not reveal the true nature of things. What he saw were the dull eyes of a starving man. He needed to hunt before the night ended, so that he would be ready for whatever surprise Brenna had in store for him tomorrow.