Bloodlust

There has been a romance constructed about rainbow drinkers, of dainty sips from upturned wrists, but the lore of a hundred sweeps ago tells a darker tale, one that burns hot beneath my cold white skin. Though I can smell the blood all around me, violet and teal and candy-apple red, it’s only you I can’t look at without my mouth growing dry. Looking at the pale curve of your throat, I know it is not a matter of if I kill you, but when, how long I can last before I tear your pale throat open and watch you bleed to death. I have known this from the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew it and still I came, still I succumbed to the soft plead in your voice and the loneliness you never even realized had consumed you.

Your smell hits me, darker and sweeter than the other two who share your color. I turn my head and I see you, dead glassy eyes, blood spattered across your pale face like stars. I can feel you dripping down my face like the juice of an overripe peach. A moment later the vision clears, and you’re looking at me with concern and more fright than you will ever admit. I wipe my hand across my mouth, but only a black smear of lipstick comes away. When I am alone here, the dark void pressing against me, I often fantasize about killing you.

You lean forward and you kiss me. Gamzee says the others are still alive, he says we’re all having terrible dreams, nightmares we can’t wake up from. He talks to them, sometimes, he says they’re all here if we’d just look closely. When I dream I dream of your sweet red blood, when I’m awake I see the ghost of your mauled body. Your arms are around me now. I want to cut your wrist and paint my naked body with your blood, I want to watch the life seep out of you, I want to slit your throat so you can’t scream.

“I love you,” you whisper, so quiet, words I doubt you’ve said to anyone else before. In my dreams your blood is studded with stars, and when I drink it I drink of a universe.

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