4.19 - Love Bites
I’m getting weaker every day I go without blood. My injuries have stacked up and I don’t have enough blood in my system to heal up. Sooner or later, I’ll need to go out and get a drink. Nightclubs are out; I’ve basically lost all the color in my skin. I don’t even think I can pick up a prostitute looking this sick. I feel like that episode when SpongeBob had the suds. If I get out there, I’m sure I can find some way to feed. I rub my hand across one of my stab wounds. The feeling of a scab is weird. I’ve never had one before but this is taking so long, it’s starting to scab. Is this what full blooded humans go through every time they get injured? It’s rough and smooth at the same time. Weird.
I’m a serial killer because I need to feed to live, and I can’t control myself. But I never felt bad about it until now. I’ve put together a backpack for the deed. I’ve got tape, zipties, gloves and a ski mask. I don’t even know what my plan for all of this stuff. I never had to do it this way before. It’s not as heavy as I thought as I make my way up the stairs and through the kitchen.
“Hey,” Wesley says to me as I pass through the living room.
“Hey,” I nod and keep going. I don’t want to be dragged into one of his long talks.
“Where you headed,” and he starts.
“Going to get blood. If I don’t drink soon, I might bite the dust.”
“You can have my blood,” Wesley says without a pause to think.
“Never offer a vampire your blood. It’s a good way to get killed or turned into a slave for all time.”
“I’m not offering just any vampire my blood, I’m offering it to a friend.”
I sigh, and stare at the ceiling for a moment. “Every person I drink blood from dies. I never learned to drink with any control so the first time I got fresh blood I couldn’t stop myself. Some trauma thing or something makes me repeat the same mistake every time. You would die.”
Wesley thinks before responding, “I don’t think you’d kill me. We’re friends and you’ve never drank from a friend.”
“You’re really placing a lot of trust in a moment we shared because I thought I was going to die from HIV.”
“No, I’m placing my trust in you as an individual. I’ve got faith that you won’t kill me, or drain me.”
“I don’t drink from men either. The taste isn’t as good. It’s not sweet.”
“Well you really don’t have a choice unless you want to hope you can become a notorious anemic spree killer.”
“I’ll pretend I know what anemic means, and just say I’ll pass.”
“Are you really turning down a meal when you’re on the verge of passing out again just because you don’t like the flavor,” Wesley makes a good point. I don’t enjoy feeding on men, I don’t enjoy feeding on women either, men are just worst. I used to think it was hygiene, but it’s the testosterone. I spoke with Dust Dog about it. Everyone can’t taste the difference but I guess I’m lucky. For us who can, people pick their favorites to feed from.
“Alright, let’s do this,” I toss my backpack to the side and take a seat next to Wesley on the couch.
“What’s the plan,” he asks nervously, but I can see it in his eyes he’s a little excited.
“Do you want it fast and painful, or slow and slightly less painful?”
“I’m here to please,” he says in a way that gives me chills and makes my heart beat weirdly for a second.
“Whatever,” I reach my right arm around his back. “Lean your head back on my hand.” He does it without even asking why, or how.
I feel my fangs extend in my mouth and take a deep breath. I haven’t been nervous before drinking in a very long time. I think it’s because Wesley is the first person I can consider a friend. Am I afraid to kill him? No, I’m not a pussy. I just don’t like biting guys. Wesley’s heart is beating waiting for the moment. I shake the thoughts free from my head and slam and my fangs into his neck. I feel his body tense up as he tries to not to run away. He’s forcing his fingernails into his skin, trying to move the pain somewhere else. The familiar metallic taste of blood rushes into my mouth and I feel my body come alive. The air tastes a little cleaner, the pain of my injuries starts to dull. I know without looking that my body is starting to heal. It’ll still take time, but maybe the day after tomorrow I’ll be in perfect shape. I’ll be back to my old self. His body relaxes as he gets used to it. No longer trying to cause himself pain. I wonder what people think about when I drink from them. If Wesley is right, this might be the first time I get to ask a person. His heart beat is slowing. I haven’t drank nearly enough that he’d feel weak.
I can smell it, arousal. Another quick look and a bulge has grown in Wesley’s short. A bulge he’s gripping and trying to hold down through his shorts. Some people do enjoy the feeling of being drunk from, so it’s not uncommon. I don’t know why he’s even trying to hide it. I’ve known he’s a pervert since he came here. If he gets his rocks off to this later, that’s fine as long as I can drink a little more. It he stops standing at attention I’ll know I’ve had too much.
I should stop now. I’ve had my fill and I don’t want to kill him. But if I do, should I feel bad? He’s suicidal anyway. Just a little more and I can be good to go tomorrow night. It’s not like he needs that much blood to keep living anyway. I never could control my drinking. He understood the risk. I told him what would happen. I shouldn’t be worried. He’s a psychopath. A real Norman Bates right here in my home. Stopping him now would save someone down the line. He’s mumbling something, but I can’t hear it over the sound of blood filling my . He needs to speak up if this is too much for him.
I feel something slowly creeping up my thigh and glance down. Wesley is no longer holding the tent that has popped up in his shorts and has a hand on my thigh, slowly moving up. Pure reflex causes me to push him to the ground from the couch. What the fuck is wrong with him? Now look at him, just on the floor shaking and dripping blood from his neck. I could have patched him up if he didn’t try to take advantage of me.
I leave him to take care of himself as I fill a glass with water from the sink. Even tap water tastes better when I’m on the mend. I can still see him from here, on the ground looking helpless. I guess he was right about being the first person to survive a bite from me. Maybe that was his plan to survive all along. He knew I wouldn’t like being touched.
I make my way upstairs and grab some sheets and a pillow from Wesley’s bed. Back downstairs I toss the sheets over him to keep him warm. I still need to do something about that neck wound. It would have been way cleaner if I didn’t shove him away. It’s sloppy work. I rip one of the bloody bandages from my side and use it to cover the holes in his neck. That’ll be fine. I’m feeling better now and it’s thanks to this pervert. I guess I should go get him some orange juice, and cookies. That’s what they give people who donate blood. I wonder if he likes iced oatmeal cookies. Those are my favorites.
“Don’t die while I’m gone,” I say to Wesley who still hasn’t stopped shivering or said anything. “Just know you brought this on yourself. I told you not to let me bite you. Everyone I’ve ever bitten has died. You still have a chance to live, so don’t screw it up.”
“I won’t die,” Wesley’s shaky voice speaks. I probably wouldn’t have heard it without vampire hearing. “Can’t kill friends,” he mumbles before closing his eyes.
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