Just a taste.
Skittery could hardly remember the last time he'd done it. After the death, that which ravaged him and the rest of those left behind, he decided to put away his habits and move on, for they brought forth only desperate emotions of shame and brief, shallow, and unresolved happiness. Yet somehow, he was always back to his knife and his cup, hovered over the sink in a velvet haze.
One more time.
Just one last time.
Nobody will know.
How did he even get back to this? He could have sworn that five seconds before, he was sitting on his bed, calmly and lazily watching Wheel of Fortune. The clock chimed ten; his friends were out for the night, and he was left alone. And in an instant, it flashed.
theknifeisinthedrawerthecupisinthecupboardwhere'smydamnbathroomineedyouineedyouineedyou.
ineedyou. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. ineedyou.
THIS IS THE LAST TIME, SKITTERY.
(fuck that, you're not Skittery. your name is Joshua. your name is Joshua. you're not Skittery anymore. you're not anything, any more.)
THIS IS THE LAST TIME. IF YOU EVER TRY THIS AGAIN, I WILL KILL YOU.
(Pretty damn funny. You're threatening to kill yourself. For this.)
ineedyou.
He watched his wan, pale face in the mirror. Life was tinged a pale blue that night, pale blue and grey.
His wrist was above the cup, placed daintily above the drain in the sink. Perched perfectly, ever ready for him.
Just a taste.
The knife slid across and through his skin (Breathe. ineedyou. Breathe. ineedyou. Breathe.); the immense, heavy, rich liquid fell into the cup, dropped slowly into his favorite cup.
Have you ever tasted blood? he asked Jack, nonchalantly at three AM when they were as drunk as all hell.
Yeah, who the hell hasn't? You accidentally bite yourself and there you go. his companion replied in an incredulous voice.
No, man, I mean... have you ever... drunk blood like it's a cocktail?
He put the cup to his dry lips, took the metallic liquid in.
Just one last time.
Nobody will know.