The Beautiful Death


It's too late.

You're scared beyond all sensible thought, and shiver outwardly, in response to your mental chill.

You've given yourself, completely, after the struggle. You're his now, and it's frightening, but somehow, the delusional, insanely calm part of your brain tells you it's just so... right.

Leaning back into the soft sheets, you look down, touch your wrist hesitantly with the fingers of the opposite hand, and see the glittering ruby blood cover them.

The memory of his sharp fangs piercing your wrist swims to the front of your mind, but it's pushed back by the faded feeling of his lips parted over the wound, drinking your fear, soft, mimicking the slow, rhythmic ache of the hand that was not holding your wrist to his mouth, but the one that drifted across your stomach and your thighs, and slipped inside you, so softly that you'd imagine he was hesitant, but you knew he wasn't.

Never hesitant.

Calculated caresses render you useless to anyone but him, even yourself. Now, with him gone, you would run, but you're too weak. But no - that's a lie. If you could run, it would only be to find him again.

If you just close your eyes... you can imagine him there again. He won't speak, and it's killing you. He won't even say your name, but he keeps looking at you with those beautiful blue eyes, hungry, and you know you're nothing but a body - blood.

You want to reach down and touch him, push the night-black suit jacket from his chest, remove the stark whiteness of his shirt - see him naked, vulnerable. But you know inside, that if you did see him naked, it would be your own death, the last of a thousand deaths. You'd just break down, become more enslaved than ever.

But your thoughts are ended. In a more permanent way than you could ever imagine, because he has returned to you. You smile, as he pins your hands above your head, his body hard, his eyes cold.

You're still smiling, and if you could, you'd brush your hair gently from your neck yourself, as you welcome your death.