Chase in captivity

A faint shuffling woke him, his eyelids felt as heavy as his body, the same damp stone pressed against his back. The itching was new, all over; every inch of his skin was itching, like a thousand ants crawling over him. More shuffling and whispers around him; voices that he did not know. The words vampire and monster reached his ears, he had to know, had to ask. ‘Angelica, are you in here?’ A gasp, more whispers, his voice was hoarse, deeper than before, his body felt different. He smelled the hatred and fear in the room; he called again. ‘Who are you?’ There was no answer, just more frantic whispers. The chains around his wrists and ankles felt lighter than before; he pulled at them, testing his strength against the steel, no good. No day or night marked the time that passed, but he could sense that the humans in his cell were getting bolder. The whispers grew louder as they discussed him, arguing, wanting to kill him out of fear. The females were against the killing at first, but the males saw him as a threat, his attempts to assure them, fell on deaf ears. The only acknowledgement their silence when he spoke. He fell asleep, but was awakened by hands holding his arms, around his neck, choking him, fists beating him. He wanted to live, wanted to find a way out, to the light, to feel the sun’s warmth seep into his body, just one more time. His ferocious snarl ripped through the dark and the hands were gone, cowering in the corners. He tried to stay awake, but sleep caught him and the beatings woke him again, and again. They were well organised, taking turns to keep watch, too cowardly to attack him while he was awake. His body was their punching bag, his existence pulled them together, his death their common goal. The beatings grew weaker as they weakened from hunger, but they were relentless, slowly killing his soul, torturing humanity out of him. The fight against his animal instinct became harder with every attack; it would have been so easy to get his fangs into a hand or arm, to ease his own hunger. Still he fought to stay human, knowing that they were driven by fear and prejudice, hoping they would act differently under normal circumstances. Soon they were reduced to moaning heaps of flesh, too weak to move. His thirst for their lifeblood was consuming him, but vampires take much longer to die from starvation. He listened to their whispers, heard them decide to drink each other’s blood in a last desperate attempt at survival. The strongest cut his arm first, letting the others drink of him. Chase knew it was only a temporary solution, cheating death by a few days. The blood gave them new strength and made the subsequent beatings more violent. One of the attackers must have gotten a taste of his blood, because the next attack was different. He was pinned to the wall, awaiting the inevitable, instead, his wrist was cut and they took turns to suck on the bleeding wound. He knew the consequences, pleaded for them to stop, to consider. His blood would turn them into the one thing that they have despised from the moment he was put in the cell. His pleas were answered with fists; he had become their food. Some were too weak and died; only to wake up, turned. Too late, the survivors realised their mistake.