[Week 9] [Day 6] [After Dark] A friend in need's a friend indeed; a friend with weed is better.
Music. Music with heavy beats, heavy guitars, heavy, throaty voices. You can feel it vibrating in your flesh, your blood, down to the bones. The colors around you are all red and black and little else. Red, for the obvious symbolism. Black as well. Men and women, dressed in fishnets and tight leather, all dancing, kissing, groping.
A woman falls. Cuts her thumb from a fallen bottle, that crashed into million little glass shards and alcohol drops. Several people jerk, spun and stare at her as fangs starts to appear on their opened-mouth grins. The dancers on the podium, with quick speed in their movements, dance on, swaying their hips and flailing their arms, but with the predatory light in their eyes and drawn fangs.
Another woman picks up the fallen woman. Grins with her deadly smile and say to the shaken woman, “Let’s go somewhere quieter” and never gives the bleeding woman a chance to protest. They walk away.
Your fangs are drawn out, and you smell it, that scent that you want it so much and it takes a hold of you and squeezes making you starve, to become mindless, to become what you have always been. You want to be like those dancers. You want to be part of the music, the dripping blood, the predators, everything because you are exactly like them but constantly denied again and again.
A voice you hear, a desperate man whining to someone.
“I want to get high on V, man. I can’t stop myself.”
A dying man. A starving man, in need of his fix. Fuck that, he doesn’t need his drug, he has food to eat, a vending machine to give a bag of chips for a measly fifty cents.
You are starving, to the point of mindlessness. You can see the addict’s face - everything is red and black, after all - and you whisper, perhaps next to his ear -
“I can give you some, in exchange.”
It’s blood for blood, after all.
You hold the addict’s shoulders. The red and black colors, in all shades, keep spinning, turning in the beat of the music. “Please,” the man begs. “Please, gimme some. I haven’t got any in day now and I’m suffering.”
Suffering? He doesn’t know true suffering, true starvation, and the pain of death and rebirth in death.
“All in good time,” you whisper back, feeling through the colors to cover his mouth with your hand. “I haven’t fed in days.”
With the brute strength and even more brute speed, you plunge your fangs into his neck.
Bright red, red that looks completely different from the ones swirling around you, because it is important, the most vital as you taste it and discover its unique flavor. You hear gasping and maybe a little squeal but really, he knew what he was getting into. You have to know what you are getting into when you deal with V in any shape or form.
You and the addict fall through the dancing floor, away from your kind and his kind. It’s just you and him.
“Please don’t kill me,” he says. “Just gimme some V, man.”
You continue to drain him.
“Please, just a drop!”
Ah. Ah, okay then. Fair’s fair.
You bit your wrist and shoved it into the man’s unseen face
He’s free to drain you dry.
But not before you do it to him first.
[The Hitomi clicks on, with Jessica’s barely-awaken face. Red hair, being unwashed in two days since that trip in the bathhouse, splays all over her in strands. Blue eyes open completely and she stars at the Hitomi, aware that’s broadcasting for some reason. She continues to stare at it, blankly, until she bares her teeth and revealing her fangs, a look of sour displeasure. She reaches for it, her hand covering the screen.
The feed cuts off.]
A woman falls. Cuts her thumb from a fallen bottle, that crashed into million little glass shards and alcohol drops. Several people jerk, spun and stare at her as fangs starts to appear on their opened-mouth grins. The dancers on the podium, with quick speed in their movements, dance on, swaying their hips and flailing their arms, but with the predatory light in their eyes and drawn fangs.
Another woman picks up the fallen woman. Grins with her deadly smile and say to the shaken woman, “Let’s go somewhere quieter” and never gives the bleeding woman a chance to protest. They walk away.
Your fangs are drawn out, and you smell it, that scent that you want it so much and it takes a hold of you and squeezes making you starve, to become mindless, to become what you have always been. You want to be like those dancers. You want to be part of the music, the dripping blood, the predators, everything because you are exactly like them but constantly denied again and again.
A voice you hear, a desperate man whining to someone.
“I want to get high on V, man. I can’t stop myself.”
A dying man. A starving man, in need of his fix. Fuck that, he doesn’t need his drug, he has food to eat, a vending machine to give a bag of chips for a measly fifty cents.
You are starving, to the point of mindlessness. You can see the addict’s face - everything is red and black, after all - and you whisper, perhaps next to his ear -
“I can give you some, in exchange.”
It’s blood for blood, after all.
You hold the addict’s shoulders. The red and black colors, in all shades, keep spinning, turning in the beat of the music. “Please,” the man begs. “Please, gimme some. I haven’t got any in day now and I’m suffering.”
Suffering? He doesn’t know true suffering, true starvation, and the pain of death and rebirth in death.
“All in good time,” you whisper back, feeling through the colors to cover his mouth with your hand. “I haven’t fed in days.”
With the brute strength and even more brute speed, you plunge your fangs into his neck.
Bright red, red that looks completely different from the ones swirling around you, because it is important, the most vital as you taste it and discover its unique flavor. You hear gasping and maybe a little squeal but really, he knew what he was getting into. You have to know what you are getting into when you deal with V in any shape or form.
You and the addict fall through the dancing floor, away from your kind and his kind. It’s just you and him.
“Please don’t kill me,” he says. “Just gimme some V, man.”
You continue to drain him.
“Please, just a drop!”
Ah. Ah, okay then. Fair’s fair.
You bit your wrist and shoved it into the man’s unseen face
He’s free to drain you dry.
But not before you do it to him first.
[The Hitomi clicks on, with Jessica’s barely-awaken face. Red hair, being unwashed in two days since that trip in the bathhouse, splays all over her in strands. Blue eyes open completely and she stars at the Hitomi, aware that’s broadcasting for some reason. She continues to stare at it, blankly, until she bares her teeth and revealing her fangs, a look of sour displeasure. She reaches for it, her hand covering the screen.
The feed cuts off.]