I started off as a child, as most things do. I remember my first kill. An injured bird, unable to get away. I held it in my hands, felt its fear. It invigorated me. I squeezed it, hard, but my small hands were inadequate to the job.

I stared at it, as I squeezed. The sounds it made. Squeeks and shrieks, trills and whistles, all heightened by the panic of being subdued, nearly crushed. This was my music.

I held its life in my hands, but it wasn’t enough. I needed more. I wanted it all. I used the only other tools I had, my teeth. This worked surprisingly well. I severed the little head with only a small amount of pressure, but a large amount of pleasure. Not much blood in a bird. I spat the head out in one direction and threw the body in the other. A small trickle of blood oozed down the corner of my mouth. My first red stripe.

This was the beginning of who I became, who I chose to be. I stalked. I killed. I drank. Then I would start sucking on a fresh candy cane. The coppery taste of blood mixed with the effervescence of peppermint is absolutely sublime. This sufficed to keep me alive for countless centuries, the killing blood, not the yummy peppermint. I aged, but at a much slower rate than the mortals I hid among.

The winter season became a favorite for the use of peppermint, so the holiday season became my favorite. And the deliciously magical sticks of sweet wonder became my weapon.

I had been sucking on a new stick, twirling it in and out of my mouth, my tongue cupping the shaft as it slowly thrusted. And then I tasted blood, my blood. The tip of the crystal stick had worn down to a lethal point. I jabbed my tongue again, feeling a new sensation blossom into my repertoire. It was that very moment that I realized I had never before tasted my own blood. It was so unlike the creatures of the forest, or the vermin of the village, or even the forgotten drunkard in the alley. This taste, this blood, was beyond magical, it was orgasmic.

I lost track of how many times I stabbed and jabbed the inside of my mouth. Even long after the pointy tip had broken off, leaving a jagged edge to scrape and gouge. And then the candy was gone, and I knelt there, on the street, in the snow. Rivers of red pouring from my maw, staining my cloak in crimson stripes. I screamed a climax to the blood moon, gurgling on my scarlet magic. The night fell silent in an eerie blanket of respect as the echoes of my blood scream died in the distance. I was reborn, again.