I watch a pigeon trying to mate with an unresponsive female as I hold down the urges that beg me to buy a drink. It is true that alcohol had been a good friend to me these past few years; had warmed me on the coldest of nights, had helped me forget my inadequacies, helped me forget that I'm loathed by all men. Today is the day when everything changes. I refuse to be the brunt of society's witless joke, refuse to be scorned, spat at or beaten again. Never again will I ask mankind for the piffling handouts that it martyrs them so to give... sanctimonious pricks.

I shift my weight on the bench that sits directly opposite Birmingham's cathedral. I have been here all day; the loose change in my pocket and the off license merely a stone's throw away. People went home from work hours ago, now they are all coming back, primped and preened, ready to party. Still I wait, watching them as they pass me, they pretend they don't see me; my scruffy clothes and stinking body too much a reminder of how things can go wrong. Some of them look at me, but when they do it's not me that they see. They don't see a person, what they see is an object, something to be despised or beaten to assuage their own inadequacies.

I have been weak, hiding from my true self for too long; trying to pretend that I am as normal as everybody else is. I realise now that I could never be like that. I am what I am and hiding from it will soon destroy me.

I come from a long line of vampires, not the type that you read about in books or watch on the television, but the kind that are real. A vampire is not undead; it is one who seeks immortality through drinking the lifeblood of others. It is said that to gain immortality you must drink the blood of one thousand victims, and the blood must be drank from the head. Both my parents were vampires; their victims lured back with the promise of sex. They had a guillotine in the white, tiled basement and it's this they used to decapitate their victims, gorging from the head while the eyes are still rolling in the sockets. I watched but was never allowed to drink myself; I was too young at the time. My induction to the drinking of blood would have happened on my twelfth birthday but events conspired to ensure that this didn't happen.

About two weeks before my induction, my parents got into a blazing row the kind of row that is a whole bunch of stuff about lots and lots of nothing. The kind of row that festers and steams till the flames surge up and all anyone can see is red. My mother was no match for my father's strength and in his rage he killed her. I walked into the kitchen right at the point my father was slicing off mom's head with a sharpened machete; my dad used to brag about how the machete had a cutting edge only one molecule thick. Upon seeing me, my father lifted up mom's body, the head lolling precariously as only a few bits of skin were left holding it to the body.

"Drink." He said. His callousness was unbelievable. It's true that I knew what I was and what I was due to become. It was okay to feed from people you don't know, but my own mother, who had reared me, given birth to me... I couldn't do it. My stomach lurched at the sight of my mom's blood, her lifeless body. I ran, out of the house and into the street. My dad gave chase but he couldn't catch me, and while he could still see me I could hear him shouting.

"Come back. I'd never hurt you. You're my son!" I couldn't believe him, wouldn't. I ran and never went back.

After I'd run away from home I started sleeping rough, stealing food and begging for a living. At twelve years old however this soon drew attention. The police caught me one day stealing from a shop and locked me up in a cell because I wouldn't give them my name. My dad had always told me to be very careful whom I told my real name, our family name was Burton but this had been changed nearly a century ago from Bathory. It had to be changed because the name had become synonymous with vampires.

I told the police that my parents were Romany gypsies who had left me in this country after I had become too much of a burden for them to look after. I told them that I didn't have a name. After that they locked me up again to run some checks and when they came back it was to give me a new name. John Smith they called me; and when they were done they placed me into a children's home.

The homes weren't too bad; I quickly learned that to survive you had to join the main crowd. I robbed people and burgled their houses for the drugs that my friends seemed to enjoy. After a while I too grew to like the drugs, grew to need them just as they did. I had found a new family, a place to belong.

Inevitably I soon ended up in prison, only short sentences as I always seemed to get away with the serious stuff, but enough of them to make a total of ten years behind bars. My friends all disappeared, either through overdosing or receiving long sentences.

By the time I reached thirty I'd had enough of prison, couldn't bear to go back. So for the past five years I've lived like this, begging for money to buy the comfort that alcohol brings to a cold night.

The cathedral's clock rings out three times and I stand from the bench, the hand in my pocket closed tightly around the handle of the lock knife I'd bought from the market earlier today. I know that the knife will not be good enough for the job it'll have no chance of decapitating anybody, but I didn't have enough money to buy anything bigger.

My shins feel numb and I walk with little feeling in my legs for a time, until the blood starts pumping freely again. My induction begins now.

I walk with my head down not wanting to attract the attention of the drunken revellers that spill out of the pubs and clubs from time to time. I am to be no one's victim tonight.

I have known all day that my victim will be a homeless person like myself, more than likely a man as you get few women sleeping rough. I head for the markets, almost as though I am drawn there, which is strange, as people do not generally sleep under the stalls anymore. It looks deserted as I walk along the rows of stalls, and I'm just about to give up when I see him. A head poking out slightly from beneath one of the stalls. I pause, unsure of my next move. I decide that hesitation could well be my undoing and I draw the three-inch blade from my pocket and walk stealth like till I am standing right behind the sticking out head. I hold the knife firmly in front of me and I creep closer to the head, so close that I can see his temple beating in time to his heart beat; soft snores pour freely from his nose and mouth. I pull my arm back and plunge the knife into his neck. His eyes open wide and he leaps to his feet in shock, a hand reaching up to touch his blood soaked wound. His eyes focus on mine, and a heartbreaking sob slips from his mouth. He looks at his blood soaked hand trying to desperately comprehend what has happened. I allow him no more time for thought and I leap on him, knocking him to the ground, and I plunge the knife in and out, in and out.

Only when he has stopped struggling and his breath is rattling in his chest do I stop stabbing him. I'm panting from my exertions and fresh sweat pours over the old to make a smell that even my own nose finds offensive. I allow myself a little rest to get my breath back before digging the knife into his throat and trying to cut off the head. The blade makes hardly any headway at all and eventually I put my fingers into the hole I have made in an effort to rip the head off completely. Despite my best efforts the head is only half removed from the body by the time I put my mouth to it and begin to feed.

The feeling as the blood gushes into my throat is amazing, better than any drug known to mankind; and I know because I've tried them all. The euphoria doesn't last long, as the man quickly dies his blood flows no more. I realise that I haven't done it properly, that the feed didn't last long enough, most of the victim's lifeblood was spilled onto the concrete. Yet despite this the feeling was strong enough to let me know that I want to do it again. For the first time in my life I feel powerful, I have the strength of ten, I remember, remember who I am. The world could have had me as its friend, instead it has chosen this, I am unleashed, watch out people, watch out.

It is with a certain feeling of loss that I eventually leave my victim. Dawn will soon be here and I need a place to get cleaned up, to complete my transformation.

I keep to the side roads, my blood-covered form would surely be a concern for the police, and just as day is breaking I spot an opportunity too good to miss. It is a complete accident that I find the house, the result of taking the wrong turning into a grove. The prospect of retracing my steps daunts me somewhat and I'm about to turn around again when I spot the house. The large bay window downstairs has clearly been left ajar, and I laugh quietly to myself reminded of the horror films I had seen in the past. Never invite a vampire into your home, is the warning that enters my mind as I fully open the window and climb into the family living room.

The house is silent and in my mind I hear the family snoring gently from upstairs. Having thrown my knife down into the sewers on the way here, my first point of call is the family kitchen. It's here that I find everything I need before creeping slowly up the stairs.

They are a small family, Mom, Dad, and their three-year-old son. Mom and Dad are sleeping together in one room while the boy sleeps in the other. In one hand I am holding a large lump hammer and in the other I'm brandishing a hefty butcher knife. I tuck the knife into the waistband of my trousers, saving it for the boy.

I enter the parents' bedroom and creep towards the bed. I take the dad first, bringing the hammer down so hard into his head that he doesn't even wake up. Mom does though, the blood that sprays across her face enough to waken her. A drop of blood lands on her top lip and I watch her tongue flick across it as she sits up. I wait for her to notice what is going on, wait for her to notice her husband's caved in head, for her to realise the imminent danger her family is in. The shock on her face is priceless, and I read her mind as she makes to escape from the bed, her only thought now of her son, must protect him, must. I grab her by her long blonde hair and drag her to the floor. She screams and I bring the hammer down quickly to silence her, bringing it down again and again, almost obliterating her head. I leave both bodies there, no intention of feeding from them, not when there is a succulent child sleeping next door.

I take my time with the boy, positioning him just right. His eyes look into mine as I dig the knife into his neck; he suffers only momentary pain as the blade slices through his flesh as though it were delving through butter. I hold the head aloft and position my mouth below the jugular that spurts the blood into my throat. This time the euphoria lasts much longer and I know that I have done it properly, my first proper kill.

I stay in the house for a few days, living there as though it is mine. I shave, except my eyebrows, every hair off my body. I replace my clothes with some out of the parents' wardrobe and my old ones I burn in the kitchen sink. There is quite a bit of money hidden around the house and by the time I leave it is with nearly two thousand pounds that I place in the inside pocket of my suit.

People look at me differently now and I find myself thinking whether that is because I am wearing a suit or that they can sense my power. I arrive back in the city center and I sit myself in a café with a cup of coffee, pouring over the property pages from a regional newspaper.

It is while viewing the outside of one of these properties that I meet Harjit Sidhu, the owner of the house I'm viewing.

"Alright mate." He says getting out of his van. I nod, not liking it when complete strangers talk to me with such familiarity. "Nice innit." At first I think he's talking about his van and I appraise it for a time.

"It's alright." I tell him, not really giving a toss.

"Not the van." He chuckles. "The house! I'm talking about the house." I laugh with him as I realise my mistake.

"Oh." I say. "I see. Well I can't really answer that until I see inside." I flinch slightly, caught by surprise as he proffers me his meaty right hand to shake.

"Harry," he informs me. "Everyone calls me Harry."

"Nice to meet you Harry." I say taking his hand and shaking it firmly. "I'm John, John Smith." Harry looks at me sceptically for a while, as people generally do when I tell them my name. "Honestly." I tell him a little needlessly.

"Oh I believe you." Harry says. "It's just that it's a bit of a joke where I come from. Where I'm from everybody thinks that all Englishmen are called John Smith, and the funny thing is I've lived here for nearly twelve years and I don't think I've heard of anyone who actually has the name."

"Well you have now." I tell him for want of anything else to say and feeling that I should say something.

"You wanna take a look?" he asks nodding his head in the direction of the house.

So it was, Harry rented me the small two-bedroom house for the sum of five hundred pounds a month, calendar not lunar. I got casual work now and again from a temping agency and coupled with my Jobseekers I soon had the basement tiled. The guillotine took a little longer to construct than I had originally planned, but finally everything was ready. Now all I had to do was beguile people into coming back to my house.

Unlike my parents, I wasn't born with good looks, they said that I owed my looks to Erzsebet, my Great, Great, Great, Great, Great Grandmother. She was eventually caught after killing, what was reported as, over six hundred women. Men weren't attracted to her due to her utter ugliness but she seemed to attract the attention of women easily enough, the type of women that prefer the company of their own sex. I have a similar problem, women just aren't attracted to me so I took a leaf out of her book and started trawling the gay bars. It was far easier and it wasn't very long before I had notched up thirty-five victims. In fact the hardest part of it all was disposing of the bodies afterwards. I dealt with this issue by buying a car that I used to transport the corpses to various private spots. Things went well for months, then one day it all came crashing down. I had a fresh kill still lying on the tiled floor of the basement when Harry dropped by unexpectedly.

The banging on the door is muted heavily by the showerhead as it jets the water over my body. I turn off the shower and strain my ears to see if I can hear it again. The banging comes this time more distinct and far more insistent without the running water to dampen it. I don't panic, reasoning that it's probably just a salesman. I dress in some clean clothes and head downstairs to the front door. Before I can get to it the front door suddenly swings open and Harry is standing there trying to extract his key. This comes as a bit of a shock as I never imagined that Harry had his own key to get in.

"Alright mate." He says all smiles. "Didn't think you were in."

"So you decided to let yourself in." I state a little pissed off and also a little worried at finding out Harry has a spare set of keys.

"Sorry mate." He says genuinely, realising my slight perturbation. "I wouldn't normally do it but this is an emergency."

"What sort of emergency?" I enquire.

"I've had some information that my off license is gonna get raided." He says and I have to follow him to the van to hear the rest of what he is saying. "Got a van full of stuff that I need to keep in your basement." I nearly pass out at the mention of the basement, my mind picturing the headless corpse that hasn't even been wrapped up yet, the tiles are still soaked with the young rent boy's blood.

"No." I say, a little hastily. He stops and looks at me strangely causing me to back pedal in an effort to explain myself. "I mean, won't the police realise that you own this house and come and search here?" Harry nods, at ease with the explanation.

"No, they won't look here, you have nothing to worry about." He informs me, opening up the van's rear doors to reveal it full to the brim with smuggled alcohol.

"Why not?" I ask not finding his answer completely satisfactory.

"This house isn't in my name." He tells me. "My cousins name is on the deeds. You have to be clever in this world. Here give me a hand." I help him carry the boxes into the living room where we stack them with the intention of carrying them down to the basement afterwards.

"You might as well fly off home," I tell him. "I can carry these down on my own, no problem."

"Don't talk wet." He says, not having it. "We'll both do it, it'll only take ten minutes." I groan inwardly and can only watch as Harry picks up two of the boxes and carries them towards the basement.

He doesn't see me coming; he is about half way down the basement stairs when I hit him on the back of the head with a claw hammer. He moans, almost instantly falling unconscious after the blow is struck, his legs give way and he falls to the bottom of the stairs. I follow him down and rain the hammer down a few times into his head, smashing his skull till the bone gives way.

I waste no time in cleaning up the basement, I mop up all the blood and jet-wash the floors. I wrap up both bodies in plastic and finally, when I am satisfied that everything is pristine, I dismantle the guillotine.

Looking back on it now, I suppose it would have been better to get rid of both bodies at once. The reason why I didn't is because I knew that Harry's death wouldn't go unnoticed and I didn't want his body to be found anywhere near the others. I got rid of the rent boy's body, strapping the guillotine to the corpse I allowed it to sink into the reservoir's icy waters, at least I presumed them to be icy, I didn't exactly test it.

When I came back to pick up Harry, I found that his body was gone. I realised quickly that I didn't have time to consider the whys and wherefores, so I packed a few things and quickly left the house, my intention to emigrate. As soon as I got outside several police cars screeched to a stop in front of me, the officers wasted no time in beating me to the floor, handcuffing me and taking me to the nearest police station. The best thing to do, I've learned, when you get arrested is to say nothing except your name and place of residence. They questioned me pointlessly time and time again, and through their questioning I discovered that after I had left Harry for dead, he somehow managed to crawl out of the basement and call for help. He managed to give a brief statement to police before lapsing into a coma, after he woke up he was declared brain dead, not able to make another statement, not able to point me out in court, not able to do anything.

The Crown Prosecution Service decided that to go for an attempted murder conviction would be a bad move, as I'd have every chance of walking from court a free man. So I was charged with grievous bodily harm and my barrister advised me to go guilty. My guilty plea was accepted and I was sentenced to four years.

For two and a half years I have kept myself to myself, holding down my blood lust. My victims' number only thirty-five, I still have a long way to go. Only eight weeks left before I can begin again, only eight weeks left.