I moved swiftly to the car without saying a word and before I’d fully closed the door we were stumbling onto the road and away into the night.

I recognised the voice emanating from the orange ball of light. Charlie. The guitarist. Shit, we had a gig tonight.

“Freddy, get your arse in the car. We’re going to be late”.

“There he is. Finally!” the voice shouted from the road. Bright headlights shone into my eyes, making my retinas scream, as the same time obscuring my vision of anything in a drunken halo of light. I edged back, ready for trouble.

Thankfully there was no need to get dressed and it was already dark outside, so I grabbed my wallet from the bedside table and made my way to the front door.

I gingerly rose from the bed, unsure as to whether my legs were still working, but rather smug when I found out they did. The first thing I did was walk over to the body in the corner, giving it a short kick to the ribs just to make sure. Yep, dead.

Some groupie probably. Almost certainly dead. That explained why I didn’t feel thirsty. Subconsciously I ran my long tongue over the pointed teeth, as if hoping some remnant of last night’s feat might linger.

I lifted my heavy head, groaning as the searing pain transgressed to my frontal lobes, before attempting to scan the room. There was mess everywhere, which wasn’t all that unusual. But in the corner was a body. A young girl, early twenties at a guess.

Not one item had been removed the night before and it all lay there, half on the bed and half on the floor. How had I even fallen asleep in that position?

As the haze slowly began to lift, I was able to scan my tall, body. Fully dressed in tight black jeans and a torn and ancient rock tee shirt, black boots with chains and a long point. A deliberate cliché that worked better than expected.

The cold air that poured in through the accidentally open window hit harder with the heinous hangover that caused everything to blur, including my emotions.