Rituals
There's blood on my hands again. It stains.
Stains viciously. Then the stains won't come off. It's a real bugger.
So every night, after the hunt, I stand here.
In front of the sink.
In this crappy little apartment.
And I
soap, scrub, rinse and repeat
scrub. It's like some weird little ritual. Go out,
kill something,
come home,
scrub.
I always end up looking in that bloody mirror, too.
I don't know why I keep it around; it serves no purpose.
I look down.
The stains are still there.
So I begin the ritual again.
You know, they say that killing never helps.
"They" are wrong.
They're the same people who said that chocolate is better than sex,
and that four out of five families have cable TV.
So I suppose they're used to being wrong.
But killing does help.
Some vampire, or demon.
Never a human.
Not any more.
It's like a giant stress ball, just waitin' to
explode into dust.
Or stinging purple goo, as was the case with that green thing two weeks back.
Plus, the fact that you think…
no, you know you're saving someone… well, it's something.
But it's never enough.
It never can be enough…
can it?
It has to be.
Because frankly?
This life is crap.
I need something to hold on to.
Or at least something to kill.
I look into the mirror for the umpteenth time this night.
I jump just the tiniest bit when the shards of glass fall
into
the sink.
I look up, and realize my hand is
embedded
in the mirror.
More blood. More stains.
Another ritual begins.
