It’s been long, considerably long- and that’s all he can think as he screams over and over again. He’s stared at the crimson liquid marring his skin for quite a while-
And he hasn’t lost his composure, not until now. The blood on his hands might be there, or it might not.
Both options are increasingly terrifying.
The need, the overwork for blood is too much for him, and his head is a swirl of emotions, steadily accompanied at every step by the dizziness that turn out to be toomuch for him at any moment, very soon.
He’s afraid- terrified at the feeling of not knowing because it is driving him crazy. He doesn’t know anything anymore. He doesn’t know whose blood is covering his hands, he doesn’t know the steely taste at the back of his throat and he doesn’t know who he is anymore.
And that thought alone makes him scream, scream until he cannot- until his throat is raw and chafed-
And healed quickly because he’s a vampire and vampires have quick healing.
Don’t they? Don’t they? ANSWER ME.
Desperation has always been a motivator, and up until now, he has never found himself to be desperate enough to go through what he has always thought about. With a jolt, he finds himself impaled- a strike straight through the chest courtesy of his own treacherous, traitorous hands-
And he’s coughing out the same liquid with a death grip on his hands and it’s everywhere and the pain is unimaginable-
And for one goddamned moment he considers himself to be going since his vision is getting black from the sides- like a bad television scream for the seventies-
And then suddenly there is no more wood stuck in him that he is clutching on and his hands and his hands are pure again, clean- no witness on them for whatever dark deed he is being convicted of by his own self-
And that- that is enough to make him scream.
Help me-
I can’t tell what’s real from fake anymore.
