He'd heard the word before, used it - but he hadn't known what it meant. He knew that now. He had no idea of what it really meant, not until now, not until this moment (but he knew it would continue to get worse until he could eat, of course it would, that gnawing inside would only get worse)

His vision was failing, he was dizzy - he needed something, needed to find something to eat, or he would -

He knew it with a painful clarity. He would die.


It had been bad enough the first time - he'd had to, they'd had to see him die, in order for him to be reborn, to wake up with new teeth, a predator, an unholy creature (that was what they called him, thought of him as, but he didn't - couldn't - believe it)

He needed blood. To live. He wondered if he could stagger to a hospital, coerce them into giving him a transfusion, or almost die in front of them, give in to this weakness in his chest.

Then again, that was probably a bigger risk to take, that would probably lead to more pain, more ache, more agony.

He forced himself to walk, to enter the room - someone, asleep. Someone who could stand to lose a few pints.


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bespectakate (joined about 13 years ago)
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Ladygirl of a British persuasion; sometimes I actually write stories that aren't depressing (but not very often)

I write for the, which is a webcomic about superheroes. Interesting ones. Cute ones, too. Which is nice. (It's cheerier than most things I write. That's where the happy goes, guys.)

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