He puts his drink aside, and kisses me, then he leads me to the bedroom where we splay out on a mattress on the floor. Soon he’s on top of me and it’s revolting; his worm-like lips slither across mine, and he occasionally thrusts his tongue into my mouth, like an eel probing the seabed. If I was capable of it, I would have thrown up right here and now.
Suddenly, he pulls back.
“Hey, are you alright? You feel kinda cold.” he says.
His affection is equally disgusting. The sweet-talking tone with which he asked the question, his way of communicating some sort of sincere tenderness in what is otherwise a transient affair –it makes me want to gauge his eyes out.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, with a feigned but timid smile “I’ve just been feeling a bit under the weather lately –I don’t know why, maybe I’m catching a cold.”
“We don’t have to do this, you know?” he says, again with that disgustingly saccharine tone.
“Really?” I reply.
“Of course.” and he gently begins to caress my hair.
I can’t restrain myself any longer –can’t stand his sickly sweetness bearing down on me– so I look deeply into his eyes. At first he mistakes my mesmeric gaze for something caring, something tender but soon he is gripped by a terrible dread. I can only imagine how he feels; first a sinking feeling in his stomach, some overwhelming sense that something has gone wrong, recognized by the most primal recesses of his being, who immediately begin to kick and scream and scramble for survival; then a feeling as if falling, tumbling head-over-heels, spinning round-and-round before his mind shoots through his skull, hurled off into an infinitely disorienting distance.
His eyes glaze over and he disappears; disconnected from this world –he goes limp and I drag him off the bed and start carrying him to the bathroom.

I picked him up at some worn-down dive bar. I sat close to him, shooting timid glances and playful smiles. Soon enough he approached me, and I even let him buy me a drink. He seemed revolting to me even then, but you don’t have a choice, not these days.
Feeding on the mature can only be described as abhorrent. The longer they live, the more taint they take on; nasty habits accumulate and when they don’t it is natural decay that spoils the meal. I can taste every tumor, every cavity, every ulcer in your stomach; I can taste every cigarette you ever smoked, every drug you’ve ever shot up or snorted up your nose; I can taste twenty years of working a soul-crushing job and chronic sleep deprivation –and it is absolutely, totally and completely revolting. .
Anyway, I brought him back to my apartment. An old building where, over a hundred years ago, laborers lived within a stone’s throw of the factories they worked in; where the steel and glass cityscape pours over into brown bricks and smoking chimneys; where warehouses and factories seem like they could stretch out forever, were it not for the river halting their expansive march –and that river is a good friend of mine. In its boundless generosity it takes everything; the toxic sludge of industry and dead bodies, it swallows them both. It used to be that you didn’t need to bother with things like that, you would snatch one here and there, and leave them right where you drained them; you could nearly feed once per day and none would be the wiser, now I regularly starve.

I gently kick at the bathroom door to swing it open all the way and drag him inside. The bathtub is probably as old as the apartment itself; cast iron lined with porcelain –I throw his body in it, head first and leave his feet sticking out. I tie his legs together and hoist him up; I’ve made a pulley system just for this occasion; a shabby construction, but it’s good enough.
I hoist him as far as he will go, and hang him over the bath. I take a razor, the type men used to shave with not too long ago but don’t anymore, and slice his throat. The skin gives way to the blade easily, as if to say ‘by all means, enjoy’ and at once blood begins to poor from his throat; profusely.
I quickly thrust myself underneath the wound, my mouth agape The liquid cascades down his face and drips down like a grotesque miniature waterfall into my own mouth. It tastes sickening, yet even the most nauseating blood has something blissful about it and the cold, ever-present pit that is otherwise present at the center of my being temporarily abates while I gorge myself on the ecstatic fullness.

I stay like this until every last drop of blood has seeped from his body and into me -then the blissfulness fades. The coldness creeps back in, the little flame inside of me goes out and I feel nothing again. Then I begin to heave; my diaphragm contracts and I brace myself against the loose tiles of my bathroom floor. I can feel it coming up through my stomach and then my throat, like a languid wave slowly encroaching the shore, and finally blood spews from out of my mouth.

The sun is starting to come up; a ray of light sneaks through the curtained window –it hits my skin and stings, but just a little.

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Pub: 02 Feb 2025 23:55 UTC

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