Post by The Wanderer on May 23, 2005 13:39:44 GMT -8
Dripping.
The incessant piddle of dripping blood.
It was an annoyance; one he could quickly bring to an end.
But he didn’t.
It was not laziness, nor a lack of care for its source, who would certainly die should the drip be allowed to continue for long.
Put simply, he did not move to stop it because it pleased him. It pleased him to witness the transition into death, though he knew he would not, could not, allow it to actually occur.
He could no longer tempt death himself, as he had once done. He was now reduced to the vicariousness of witnessing the suffering of others.
He hoped he would learn something. Something useful.
Life, such as it was, had been full of transitions of late. More were to come. The dance he was stepping now would, hopefully, enable him a smooth move out of town. Fortunately, it was just a matter of when now, not if.
Her bare arm draped unconsciously over the side of the bed, crimson streaks weeping from the eyelet he had made with teeth, but left untouched by his healing tongue. From where he sat, crouched on the floor, the arm was the only visible part of her. It made it easier to watch, not seeing her face.
The heady smell conjured the familiar dry clawing in his throat, and he acquiesced, leaning forward to lap at the slowly growing puddle like a kitten would cream.
He was a parasite, gaining strength off the pathetic excess energy of the main body.
Nightly now, he watched the politicos ply their influence and play out their silly intrigues; the same intrigues they had played countless times before.
The incessant cycle of boredom among monsters.
It was an annoyance; one he would quickly escape as soon as he left town.
But for now, he would watch it; not try to avoid it entirely.
He hoped he would learn something. Something useful.
He stood, staring down at her thin nakedness, her mind lost in an induced slumber.
Gently, he took her blood-smeared hand in his own, as though in rescue to pull her out of whatever endless abyss he had coaxed her into.
Instead, he bent over, and licked the wound closed, and lapped up the excess.
Why pretend to be something you’re not?
The incessant piddle of dripping blood.
It was an annoyance; one he could quickly bring to an end.
But he didn’t.
It was not laziness, nor a lack of care for its source, who would certainly die should the drip be allowed to continue for long.
Put simply, he did not move to stop it because it pleased him. It pleased him to witness the transition into death, though he knew he would not, could not, allow it to actually occur.
He could no longer tempt death himself, as he had once done. He was now reduced to the vicariousness of witnessing the suffering of others.
He hoped he would learn something. Something useful.
Life, such as it was, had been full of transitions of late. More were to come. The dance he was stepping now would, hopefully, enable him a smooth move out of town. Fortunately, it was just a matter of when now, not if.
Her bare arm draped unconsciously over the side of the bed, crimson streaks weeping from the eyelet he had made with teeth, but left untouched by his healing tongue. From where he sat, crouched on the floor, the arm was the only visible part of her. It made it easier to watch, not seeing her face.
The heady smell conjured the familiar dry clawing in his throat, and he acquiesced, leaning forward to lap at the slowly growing puddle like a kitten would cream.
He was a parasite, gaining strength off the pathetic excess energy of the main body.
Nightly now, he watched the politicos ply their influence and play out their silly intrigues; the same intrigues they had played countless times before.
The incessant cycle of boredom among monsters.
It was an annoyance; one he would quickly escape as soon as he left town.
But for now, he would watch it; not try to avoid it entirely.
He hoped he would learn something. Something useful.
He stood, staring down at her thin nakedness, her mind lost in an induced slumber.
Gently, he took her blood-smeared hand in his own, as though in rescue to pull her out of whatever endless abyss he had coaxed her into.
Instead, he bent over, and licked the wound closed, and lapped up the excess.
Why pretend to be something you’re not?
