Vodka, sugar, and vanilla? Scarlette Barlow muses, as the body crumples to the floor. Auburn ringlets slipping through her fingers like running water. Leaving bright streaks on the cracked tile. She lets out a shaking gasp, metallic and viscous.
A hollow one, but a breath all the same.
Glass wavers at her reflection, a blur of dark ash and fraying gold. All bound in black, hiding scattered splatter and fingerprints, and bloody skin. The only solid, gleaming fangs, dripping red. A too wide smile.
I hate it. The disgust twists at her calcified heart.
She said she liked my smile. Scarlette mused. I think her smile was better. Like stars and confetti. Alive.
Her veins ache with the following vitae as her cheeks flush. For a moment she feels the girl's warm hands at her waist, biting her skin. A young memory, but not the first.
LED lights prick the darkness in blues and violets. Earplugs doing little to drown out the cacophony. Sweat and beating chess fill the air, as peo— cattle move about. A laugh cuts through it all as her hungry eyes land on red hair and a lilting smile. She's so. Alive
The faucet creaks and sputters, as murky water gives way to a slightly fresher sort. "I sure as shit don't miss drinkin' water." The red fades from her fingers and black lips, spiraling down the basin, and down the drain. "Revoltin'." She just watches. A sort of ritual she considers. One she picked up after so many years— decades, of this. Watching the blood, the regrets, the hunger, and this girl.
No.
A girl.
Drain away.
Monster.
"Fuck me." She growls, as she bites open her wrist.
YOU ARE READING
A Hunger of Leeches and Wolves
ParanormalA compilation of all my vampiric, lycanthropic, and other monster-ic short stories. Sapphic women and some body horror are abound.
