I cannot sleep; there is no rest on the hunt. I am constantly running, wishing that I knew how to stop. I’m climbing things, sneaking around, deathly silent. It never knew what hit it, never saw it coming. I drew my claws across its face, smelling the flowing from fresh cuts. Then I let it go. Waiting, and then again running. We were playing, cat and mouse.

My feet were bloody. I have hurt myself, but my pain doesn't matter anymore; it’s just more of a reason to hunt. I am catching up . . . almost there . . . pounce! I've killed it. But when I wake up, I don’t remember a thing.

I feel this urge around you. I want to hunt. You are so pure: your mind, your heart, your soul. You are my love, and I don’t want to hurt you. It is as if I need you: your purity, your love. But I am what? A monster? A murderer? I can’t help what I do, what’s in my blood. This is why I must leave you. I cannot stop what I do when I turn.

That is my instinct.