The Addiction...
I cut myself shaving in the shower this morning.
It wasn't really a surprise. I'm not getting enough sleep as it is. My hands aren't exactly rock steady. But the weather is beautiful, I wanted to feel it on my bare legs, and that meant shaving them. So I pulled out the razor, and I went through the usual morning routine. Until I gouged about a quarter of an inch of skin off just above my ankle. It hurt like a bitch.
Then I looked down and saw the blood. Blood. I didn't care that it was mine. I didn't care that it wasn't vitae. It was blood. A steady, slow welling of it to fill that entire little patch of missing skin until enough came that it trickled out over and down my ankle. Red, delicious, hot blood down my skin. I felt myself whimper as it trickled into the water, polluting itself, then down the shower drain. I don't really remember hitting my knees, dropping the razor, but the next thing I knew I was down in the water. I clutched my hand tight across that ankle, protecting the blood from trickling further down the drain, protecting it from the water pouring from the showerhead. Hot, sticky, metallic blood all between my fingertips. I knelt there, frozen.
There have been temptations since that day someone ensured I'd never be free of this addiction. Since someone changed my whole fucking life. Hell, Vincent Corzo himself offered his fully bleeding wrist, ripe with vitae, about a foot in front of my face. A kind gesture to Sutter's injured and well trusted ghoul, since I was clearly out of vitae to burn myself as I had not healed. He'd offered that delicious, desperately tempting wrist without self-concern or hesitation. How could he have known? Yes, it was tempting, but I was strong enough to fight it off. I simply turned my head, murmured polite thanks, and walked away.
I am stronger than this addiction. I am.
But this morning, I couldn't fight it. Maybe it was because part of me knew this blood was safe. No stronger addiction or power could come from tasting my own mortal, weak blood. Maybe it was because I'd simply been fighting it too hard for too long. Maybe exhaustion took over. Maybe it was all those things. This morning, I gave in to the addiction.
It felt so right. So good. I just turned my body away enough the shower wouldn't pool water into my hand, and I cupped it beneath that wound. I let more blood pour out, coating my entire hand, before I brought it to my mouth and licked. Metallic salt was a weak underscore to the pure and simple ecstasy of tasting that blood. My first real taste. Not strong, not powered, but blood, and it was enough. I reached down for more, but the wound was small enough to barely be bleeding any longer. That first taste was all I'd easily get.
The razor lay not even a foot behind my knee. I didn't even think as I reached for it, blood stained hand guiding it quickly to the top of that wound. I angled it deeper, ensuring to take skin and flesh as I went. Just an inch open. Two. Enough to let the blood flow freely and fast. The groan of pure pleasure that escaped my throat didn't even sound like my own voice. I hadn't ever needed something so badly in my life. As the blood flowed freely, I cupped more of it my hand. Enough to drink. Not to sip. Sweet as wine, salty as the sea, the pure essence of life and it was all mine.
I woke up in the shower about twenty minutes later when it had turned to complete ice, the hot water tank empty. Most of the wound had clotted. Anywhere I wasn't touching water was a sticky mess. My hand, face, ankle, heel and foot were covered in darkly clotting blood. When I managed to dizzily pull myself out of the shower and stare into the mirror, I looked like I'd walked out of a horror film. Skin pasty against bloodied lips, jaw and throat covered with the stuff. I was revolted, and yet I craved more. Something in the back of my head said it'd be so easy just to reopen the wound. Taste again.
God... what have they done to me...