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Burning Thirst

I knew what had happened before I opened my eyes. I could feel it, and I remembered. I remembered a beautiful man, more like a god. He had designer clothes and the sickest car I had ever seen. Black and shiny with real leather seats and tinted windows. I preferred my red ’66 Dodge charger, but he had a star quality. Perfect, pale-as-death skin. Then I got to his eyes-blood red.

The thirst was burning me, a fire in my throat. I needed to drink something. I immediately saw a red liquid in my head, thick. I knew it. I used to feel sick at the sight of it. Now I felt an animalistic need and I jumped to my feet in one swift movement, opening my eyes.

I finished drinking, shaking the body to check for any more. I dropped it, backing away. How did I get here? I remembered. I remembered waking up alone, the god nowhere to be seen. At first I had thought there was a girl there with me, one far more beautiful than I. Then I recognized parts of her. The black color on her nails, a weak attempt at goth. The black clothes, stained dark with blood. The fire in my throat flared up. But her eyes…they were bright red. Crimson.

I had ran. I had ran from the mirror and the room and from that version of me. She caught up with me, though. The woman I had just killed had been trying to help me. She saw the blood on me and had come to help, come to be nice. I had killed her. The image of her pain burned into my eyes, the feel of her body breaking, dying, in my hands. The sound of her screams frozen in my ears.

I was still thirsty.



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