The crimson liquid dribbles in a small stream down from the corner of his mouth. He feels a slight tickling sensation as it run cleanly, quickly down his chin, unhindered by the unshaven bit of stubble that that recently started growing there. The drops are cold by the time they finish their descent, and hit his freshly washed, black pants. A jolt runs through him as the blood burns down his throat. A flash. Color.
He swallows again, and inhales in the next breath, half expecting only the cool crispness of the clean night air. He wishes for its purity to cleanse him. All he gets is the foul, irresistible stench of fresh blood. Her blood. His mouth tingles, her taste still lingers on his tongue, the feel of her skin still fresh in his mind.
He licks his lips clean, drawing the blood in, while his mind only wants to vomit it up. To reject it. No, to return it, this substance that is so precious. That is so essential, so essential to this person, which is so precious to him. His body refuses to give up its only source of fresh nourishment. His stomach twists painfully. It tries to squeeze in on itself, to close the distance between the blood and itself. Greedy.
His lips still rest on her neck. Still he cannot control his actions. His mouth is pressing back against the wound, almost before he realizes it. His tongue moves in obscene ways against her flesh, lapping at the liquid remaining. Angry, rough strokes from the base of her chin, to her collar-bone, wiping it clean.
Something in him shifts. The red haze clears from his vision. He is himself again, and he is left with only the remainder of his actions this night. He knows the severity of what he has done.
Pain. Self-loathing. Hate. He wants to grab her. To shake her. To crush her against himself and let her feel how much he regrets his actions already. He couldn't control it. Couldn't stop it, and can not make ammends. He knows there is no excuse, and no going back. She is perfectly still against him.
He wants to pull her close. This is why he pushes her away. Hard. Harder than he means to, and he curses himself to Hell again, for what seems like the millionth time in the last few minutes, as he hears her hit the ground. Fleetingly he is grateful that the ground is soft.
As he backs away from her, he feels a weight shift at his side. When had he drawn the gun? For a moment, as he watches the moonlight glint off of the barrel, he wishes that this would be enough to redeem him. He knows it isn't. He knows that nothing will ever be enough. He is disgusted. He is satisfied.
He tosses the gun at her feet. This is all he can do. This is all he can offer in return. He finds himself unable to meet her eye, and unable to answer the unspoken questions she asks, as she whispers his name carefully.
He takes a step back, and turns. He can't be here. He feels that the bloodlust has receded, but he can never be entirely sure. He doesn't want to risk anymore. He takes a step forward. Back towards the school. He turns his head back, preparing to speak to her. His fingernails dig painfully into his palms, leaving angry, red, half moon marks in their wake, as he whispers an agonized apology into the breeze. He doesn't know if she heard it. He doesn't stop walking, or turn his head to find out.
Notes: I'm aware it ends ubruptly, I haven't been able to think of a decent way to end it yet. This is my first attempt at writing anything in present tense. I was trying to experiment with jerky, quickly ending sentences here, dunno if it worked at all or not. --; Debating turning it into a songfic with "Animal I Have Become" by Three Days Grace, which was my original intent for this one.
