Standard Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
WARNING! Slightly disturbing.
Bloodlust
You stare at the body lying prone in the snow - at least, you appear to be staring at it. If someone watched you closely enough, they would see that you eyes were unfocussed, like those of a blind man.
You stare at the body of the unfortunate Muggle woman, who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and you stare at the snow that is her deathbed, but, more importantly, you stare at the gash on her forehead.
Your eyes follow the progress of the blood down her cheek and into the snow. The wound is already clotting up, you notice: the blood isn't dripping as steadily as it was before. There is a pool of blood in the snow, from when it gushed from her as though it was being sucked out. You see your reflection, distorted, in the blood, even though you know you shouldn't.
You are too drawn in by the red on white of the blood on snow to think any more of the reflective properties of the liquid. You see yourself, as though watching from a different perspective, mechanically kneeling down by the body, not quite facing it, but all the while staring at the red-tinted snow.
As you settle on the cold ground, you feel something soaking through your robes. You look down, annoyed, hating everything about snow, and the kiss of winter, the coldness and wetness of it all, and are surprised when you realize it is not just snow melted by your body heat that is seeping into the fabric.
Blood trickles down in a stream towards you, down the path you made for it by melting the snow. You see it reach you, and the redness soaks your robes even more thoroughly. You suddenly regret your fixation with black, and wish you wore white, so the pink of the woman's life essence would be visible, so that all your Death Eaters could see your triumph, and fear you even more thoroughly than they already do. Crimson doesn't show on black.
You make to stand, then hesitate a moment, and plunge your hands into the congealing blood, that is no longer quite so scarlet, but a brown-red. Old blood.
It coats your hands, and you walk away, resisting the urge to kick the body of the Muggle as you go. You know that it is dirty blood, nonmagic blood, that coats your robes from the knee down and your arms from the elbow to the hand, but at the moment, you don't care. You love blood, more that any human does, more than any lycanthrope, perhaps more than any vampire.
You love the scent of it, the smell of rust and salt, the vivid shade of red it is when it is freshly spilled, the dull russet it is when it is left to sit. You love the feel of it coating you, sticky and fetid, coagulating even as you watch.
It is your addiction to blood, your bloodlust, that drives you. You kill with a flick of a wand and a flash of green light when you are watched, but if you are alone with your victim, you carve them open and abuse them, the blood coating you and their pitiful screams as you rape and mutilate them more rewarding than any unmarked dead body. You would rather bathe in blood than water.
Blood is thicker than water in more ways than one.
Wow. That didn't turn out like I thought it would. It was inspired by two things: 1, reading a really well-written 2nd person fic yesterday, and, 2, having a weird dream last night about a pale man coated in blood and a flash of green light. And I must sound crazy.
Anyway, I'm really not sure about this, so please review, and be almost brutally honest (but not quite). Constructive criticism is appreciated.