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Whos blood

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He stands at the top of the stairs, alone, as he is with everything. He can't remember how he arrived here and he has a rising sickening feeling that something is wrong. He peers tentatively down at his hands, crimson red glistening blood... everywhere.

 

The room seems so much smaller and his world seems to close around him. The walls are grey and lifeless. Mirrored fragments of memories taunt him from the corners. Portraits laugh at his misfortune. He looks up, forced back to reality. Suddenly he knows where he is... home.

 

The room is dark and unforgiving, there are lights, and many, but they don't make a dent in the spreading darkness. But, he longs for that darkness. In that darkness he is invisible, and he can wait and rest and... and... hunt.

 

His hands no longer repulse him, now they maybe ever smell of dinner. "NO!" He screams, "I will not give in to my nature." He shrieks and falls to the ground sobbing.

 

Would it really be that bad if he... No, he cannot. He cannot let that burning hunger control him. He is dead inside, and broken, and irrepairable. He cannot be fixed, is that reason enough to succumb to his nature? He crawls down the stairs like the self-loathing monster that he has become. Why give himself the dignity of standing upright? That would only fuel his narcissism.






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