[Filtered AWAY from Cissie.]
Two murders of my own making in less than two months. It still doesn't feel enough. In a place like this, why fight it? The happiness I feel, the joy of the blood running over my fingers? It's worth it, no matter how brief. What else is there to cause pique here? What else can be entertaining, occupying-- enjoyable?
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Go on, slick, roll your eyes and ignore me like it'll make me any less right.
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If we learn to fight it, we'll get to leave. And it's a sin to kill people. And to drink blood.
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Robin?
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What is this about?
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