Angel Grace and Lilin Heart

Something Sweet to Bite

He was out of blood.

The heart that had stopped beating in his chest weeks ago sunk. The little, plastic container in his cold hands was the last one left in his fridge. The congealed contents shook as he held it.

He'd known this day was coming, and soon. He'd spent the last four days trying to resign himself to that fact, yet he still couldn't get it through his head before it was too late.

He was out of blood, and he was hungry.

Starving.

He was almost positive that before he'd gotten the disease, he'd been sharp-witted and intelligent, but these days, all he felt buzzing in his mind was numbness and hunger. He couldn't think. He couldn't process that he was out of blood because he was too desperately hungry to think correctly. His hunger was all he could think about.

How stupid.

It was easier, he learned, to be stupid when you're weak. It becomes harder to fight and think so you don't fight or think at all. It's easier to be stupid than to let the sinking weight of your condition truly seep in. He let himself be hungry. He allowed himself the pain of it, rather than push against it.

The congealed mess made an indecent noise as it fell into the pot on the stove. He always hated that part - watching that pure, deep, crimson mass fall within the boiling water, diluting it, ruining it. It was an awful waste of such perfect, pristine blood, but he had to boil it down. He couldn't stand it cold and solid.

It was harder to resist the fantasies the longer he went on like this. At first it was horrifying, beyond his consideration but now, he couldn't help but think about the warmth of blood taken directly from its source every other waking minute. He imagined the smoothness of it - no clotting, no texture. The taste would be so strong, overwhelming his senses - filling his nose, his throat. It would be heavy and thick. He'd be able to feel its lovely essence of life flow through every part of him. It would be revitalizing, rejuvenating. Like resurrection.

He swayed dangerously. Taking up a chair, he sat, breathing heavily, and rubbing at a pounding headache. He couldn't stand for much more than a few minutes anymore.

He touched his lips to the skin of his arm, waiting for the blood to heat. He imagined the coldness of his skin as warm, pumping full of life. He imagined he could feel his veins flowing with the nectar he desired more than anything. He wanted to take it from himself, to give it back to himself.

Stupid.

He stood back up slowly, anticipating the sudden rush of nausea that followed. The room spun for a few moments while he looked down into the murky red water boiling on the stove.

He took the pot up in shaking hands, trying with all the strength he had not to drop it and burn himself. The contents flowed through a strainer into a bowl, clots catching in the wire. He picked up the bowl, blowing off steam, which carried with it the scent of diluted iron and bitterness.

He took a deep breath, then tipped the bowl over his lips, squeezing his eyes shut. The liquid burned his throat as he gulped it down, and he nearly gagged, perceptible clumps going down with it. A few drops of it flowed through the corner of his mouth and trickled down his face. He felt disgusting.

It was so hard to pretend like he was really drinking from a victim, but he tried as hard as he could to visualize it: the surface of warm skin, the taste of fresh blood, the frightened heartbeat of who he was stealing from. He couldn't do it. There was no skin, no freshness, no heartbeat. The blood was old and tasteless.

A harsh gasp filled the dingy kitchen when he finished, shakily putting the bowl back down. He panted, mouth salivating, tongue numb with burns.

The trail of blood over his face stained his white skin red. He rubbed at it with a washcloth, trying to distract himself from the fact that he was just as hungry as he had been minutes ago.