I grab for the bottle and touch it with the tips of my fingers. Squeezing it in
between them while stroking it. I close my eyes, and listen to its siren song of
temptation, willing myself to resist it for as long as I can.
I don't want to admit I hunger for it, that I need it. Like an addiction that
I can never quite quit.
How can she be surprised, she knows what I am. I never lied about that. Never.
Unlike a certain dark brooder of the night I know.
I crawl back, trembling in shame as I realize what's happening, what she's
seeing.
I want her to run, to leave my alone with my shame and the blood spread on my
clothes as I lunged for it like an animal.
"I'm sorry." For a moment I'm not sure if it's her or me who's saying it.
Then I realize it's her. Why? What does she have to be sorry for?
I'm the one who …
"Now see what you did to my lunch."
She should go all angry now. But she's not.
I interrupt her.
"Human?" My voice sounds angrier than it's supposed to be.
"Of course it is. What else did you think I eat. Cow? Like some tamed pet
that you can keep huddled at your feet to do your bidding."
I won't tell her that's what I usually eat. She's grossed out, as she ought to
be.
But still she isn't angry.
My grocery bag is still standing there, empty.
The bottle of human was supposed to be my treat. I saved up for it after weeks
and weeks of cow. Building up my strength. I don't want to drink to much of it.
I can't count the number of bottles my grandsire sent me, that are now resting
up the crooked boards above my hide out. The ones I won't touch, no matter the
threats he makes. And the ones that make him smile every times he smells them,
because he knows I won't throw them away.
It isn't so much the taste, the scent, the knowing of what it is. There's a
presence in it, feelings, awareness.
When it's fresh enough.
I sip my lips, wetting them.
Oh God the need.
I put my fangs in my wrist and slit it open, draining from the vain, anything
to overcome this lust.
