The relief she feels is akin to that of a mother whose child has finally eaten after a long bout of tantrumed induced hunger. She sighs, grateful and then realizes with startled concern that Allison has already cleaned her lips dry. Rose feels her shake from where she lays with her head on her lap and the indecipherable mutterings of pain begin.
Rose is on her knees so quick that Allison's head hits the floor with a thud. She pays it no mind. After all, the pain from being unsatiated was so much worse. She falls on her hands when she reaches the man and he pleads with her. Rose wrinkles her nose in distaste.
"Shut up. You're giving me a fucking headache." And then she dives in, finding a a pretty red jewel of an artery. Rose makes it hurt on purpose, she doesn't suck him dry just yet to ensure she has a steady supply of something warm. He screams first, whimpers after like a whelping pup. A far cry from the man she'd met at that dingy club just a few hours ago who'd so boldly approached her and placed a greedy hand on her backside.
Rose stands with her cheeks full of liquid. She straddles Allison's ailing body and leans down, face hovering just an inch above hers. Allison's lips part on their own whether on accident or through instinct. Rose starts with just a few drops, letting the blood spill from her lips in a measured trickle.
She wonders if she's dreaming, a blurry half-thought as her head rests cushioned in the woman's lap. This and the blood loss (was it blood loss?) feel like some bizarre delusion built out of leftover scraps of memory. Her head thumping against the floorboards brings her back to reality. Starbursts behind her eyelids. A dull and radiating pain that was unlike the cold pain she was beginning to get used to. She opens her eyes and sees the ghostlike figure of the woman standing above the dark shape that she has begun to realize is another person. Dark liquid drips from the fringes of the pale woman's dress. Blood on snow, thinks Allison, deliriously. The figure on the ground screams when Rose leans over them, and Allison feels something that is not simply cold misery: she is cognizant enough to wonder, though not awake enough to be afraid.
She's too weak to resist and too grateful for the warmth when Rose straddles her. She tries to say something, but the murmur is indistinct, and at the first drop of blood into her mouth, she realizes at last what it is. But it's strange, alarming: the repulsion she expects at the taste of blood, sticky and clinging to her lips and teeth, is absent. Instead she is so hungry that she would weep at the sustenance after being deprived. The effects are slow but dramatic: color filling her cheeks, life returning to her desiccated skin and withered muscles. Finally, her eyes open, her eyes unnaturally bright and distant in the shadows, still not all there. She feels fuzzy, feverish.
She knew this woman she realizes. Had met her... before. Before what? Before whatever this was had happened, this horrible change. This disease eating away at her.
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Rose is on her knees so quick that Allison's head hits the floor with a thud. She pays it no mind. After all, the pain from being unsatiated was so much worse. She falls on her hands when she reaches the man and he pleads with her. Rose wrinkles her nose in distaste.
"Shut up. You're giving me a fucking headache." And then she dives in, finding a a pretty red jewel of an artery. Rose makes it hurt on purpose, she doesn't suck him dry just yet to ensure she has a steady supply of something warm. He screams first, whimpers after like a whelping pup. A far cry from the man she'd met at that dingy club just a few hours ago who'd so boldly approached her and placed a greedy hand on her backside.
Rose stands with her cheeks full of liquid. She straddles Allison's ailing body and leans down, face hovering just an inch above hers. Allison's lips part on their own whether on accident or through instinct. Rose starts with just a few drops, letting the blood spill from her lips in a measured trickle.
no subject
She's too weak to resist and too grateful for the warmth when Rose straddles her. She tries to say something, but the murmur is indistinct, and at the first drop of blood into her mouth, she realizes at last what it is. But it's strange, alarming: the repulsion she expects at the taste of blood, sticky and clinging to her lips and teeth, is absent. Instead she is so hungry that she would weep at the sustenance after being deprived. The effects are slow but dramatic: color filling her cheeks, life returning to her desiccated skin and withered muscles. Finally, her eyes open, her eyes unnaturally bright and distant in the shadows, still not all there. She feels fuzzy, feverish.
She knew this woman she realizes. Had met her... before. Before what? Before whatever this was had happened, this horrible change. This disease eating away at her.