Magenta
2:09am

Riff Raff ahs cut himself again. I always knew that it would come to be a habit. He's the shrinking type. I close my fangs about the newly clotted bloodthat encircles his upper left arm, reopening the wound. At first he is expecting a kiss from me, then he realizes the pain that I am giving him. He heaves with sobs upon the pillows and the sheets are stained with red. Helplessly I lap up every last drop of the delicious blood. Mmmm, salty. I can feel my own blood rushing through my veins, into my eyes, bedazzling me and fogging my vision. Am I supposed to drink that as well? I close my eyes and wrap myself in brother's limp, shaking arms. I have done this to him. I have made him weak, made him helpless. He always played the dominant one until now, and I can feel a sick kind of triumph rising in my heart. I am the strong one now, and I sense the fierce defiance of bloodlust churning again in my teeth, in my throat. Oh Riff, I'm so sorry, but can't you see? I must leave you now. I am not yet quenched, and your blood is not as tasty as I had imagined. It is too coarse, and yet so thin: it is almost flavorless, with a trace of half-earned suspicion mingled with a false assertiveness that you do not own. False, Riff, you are false. Without another thought I leave the chamber and make my way to the servant's quarters, to find the new groupie.