I refuse to look up as he stands infront of me. I'm not sure how long he has been stood there now, but I do know that he will stand there for hours, waiting to get a reaction out of me.
"I only hurt you because I need you. Don't worry, it won't take long, just a few minutes. Then it will be all over," he murmers. He flits down and crouches beside me. I flinch away as he touches my shoulder. I can feel his breath slicing across my throat, ice cold. I shiver, squeezing my eyes shut. Please make him stop, please make him stop! I want to plead this out loud, beg for him to get off me, but I know he won't. He doesn't really care about me. He hates me. Why else would he do this?
When I jerk my head away from him, he reacts instantly, snapping his hand out and cupping my face. He makes me look at him, and I try to avoid staring into his cold silver eyes. "It won't take long,"
I gulp, and know that I can't resist. He has complete control over me. Grimacing, I force myself to nod. If I don't let him do it, then he'll just do it by force, and holy cow it hurts when he does that!
"Good boy..." he purrs, patting me on the head. His hand travels downwards, and finds my wrist. Through the darkness, he runs his fingers across my scarred skin, trying to find a smooth spot. He says that using unmarked skin will make it hurt less, but it proberbly just makes it better for him in some way. Yes, I'm right there.
Lifting my arm up, he opens his mouth, ready to bite. I bite down on my lip, tensing my whole body, ready to brace myself against the pain. His fangs graze my skin, scraping across it before he breaks the surface. I feel his tongue flick across my wrist, and a small noise escapes me. I expect him to make a snide comment, like he usually does when I do that but he doesn't. Instead, I feel him crunch down into me, and I let out a sharp squeal, doing my best to hold back the screams that are building up in my throat. Eventually, the pain subsides as he withdraws his fangs and begins lapping up my blood. I wimper, tears wanting to escape, but I don't let them. I will never cry for him. He suckles the wound gently, earning more strange noises from me. I feel dirty when he's finished. I always do.
"You enjoyed that," he whispers, stroking the now quickly healing slit in my wrist. I shake my head violently, refusing to believe him. I could never enjoy that! He should see what it's like, it's not nice!
"Thank you," he tells me, like usual. I don't know why he bothers with his manners. He never says please before drinking. "Now what do you say?" his voice is sadistic and cold. I swear he only does this to make me feel even worse.
"You welcome," I spit, lifting my gaze to glare at him with the small amount of courage I can sum up. He smiles, and it does reach his eyes, but only in that icy dark way that scares me. He dissapears quickly, flitting away. I know that he will be back any minute though.
Just as I thought, five seconds later, he's stood infront of me. "Now, eat," he orders thrusting a sandwich at me. He stays for a moment, knowing that I'm proberbly about to complain. Lifting the bread up, I inspect the contents. Ham.
"No," I grunt, lifting it up to return to him.
"Well take it out. Just eat the bread, but don't blame me when you're hungry later," he folds his arms across his chest, refusing to take it from me. With a sigh, I give in. Taking the ham out, I leave it on the floor.
"I'm thirsty," I tell him, not daring to look up and inform him though.
"Well that's tough shit. You're lucky I feed you, ungrateful little bastard," he shakes his head at me, then leaves. As soon as I'm sure he won't be back, I slink down against the wall, letting the bread fall from my grasp. I'm not hungry. I know he will yell at me later for not eating, but I dont care.
I smile slightly, feeling that small jolt of rebel coarse through me. I don't care what he says, I'll do what I want. If I don't want to eat, he'll just have to accept it. I never see him eat. So why should I? I'll only end up in the bathroom, retching it up anyway. It doesn't take long though, for the smug feeling of braveness to wear off and for the darkness to creep back in.
I wish she would come back. I want her company. She makes me feel safe, and she knows what I do when I go a night without seeing her. I can't help it, but she doesn't understand that. My hand slips into my jeans pocket, and pulls the small silver object out. I play with it, swirling it between my fingers before I flick it open. It reminds me of a butterfly, the way it flutters in my grasp.I snap it shut, but leaving one blade pointing into the air. I chew my bottom lip before I put it in my mouth absent mindedly.
Will he ever stop coming for me? Will he ever let me go? These are questions I ask myself on a regular basis, and everytime, I come to the same conclusion. I'm better off staying here. The world doesn't need me to make it uglier. It's already one heck of an ugly place. I'm only a burden. Sometimes, I even think that he hates me being here. He proberbly does, but he needs me to drink from. If I don't let him, he'll have to hunt. That means he will have to kill.
I take the knife from my mouth, still thinking about things like why I'm actually here. Why not somebody else? I've asked him, but he never answers me. The knife glints in the speck of silver light being casted down through the window. I poise the blade above the already broken skin of my wrist. It takes me a few minutes, but I drop it to the floor. I can't. I need to stay strong for her. She said someone would be coming. I just have to trust her, but what if I don't want somebody else? I know she cares about me, and that is why she is helping me, but sometimes I wish he would just drain me dry. He nearly has, several times. That was a long time ago though, things have changed.
Do I want to die?
I've asked this question countless times. It wouldn't take more than a few minutes. To run this blade across my throat. He would walk in on my bleeding out body, and without a doubt he would greedily drop to his knees and lap up every last drop. Or I could drag the knife through my wrist. I'm not sure which would be quicker, but sometimes, both can be very tempting. I don't though. Something is stopping me. It was her, I'm sure of it, but now she's gone. Does that mean I can end all of this?
I glance down at the knife again. I can already see my blood soaking the blade.
No! I can't think like this! I won't, I won't, I won't! I repeat the mantra, saying it out loud. My voice is raspy and dry. It hurts to talk. I need to drink something.
Crawling forward, I reach out for the bed. Pulling myself up, I manage to stand. I look over at the door. I'm sure it's locked, but I stumble over toward it anyway. Clumsily, I fumble at the handle, but it becomes clear I won't be leaving any time soon. I've tried escaping plenty of times in the past. I haven't tried in a long time though. Maybe for about three years, but my memory becomes fuzzy after being kept in a dark hole for so long. I can't even remember how long I've been held here for. Who cares? I'm not going to be leaving. I'm stuck here. Stuck here until the day he decides to just drink me dry and dispose of my drained corpse in some ditch or a lake.
I fall to the ground, trembling. I feel angry, but I'm not sure why. The need to destroy suddenly hits me, and I pound my fist into the dirty floor. I hate him. I hate him. I fucking hate him! I can't stand it any more, I want out, I want out of here. I don't care how I get this, I'm just sick of being his prisoner. Living in this room for another day, it's going to kill me. I refuse to waste my life away in here. I don't care if getting out of here means death. I'll take it gladly. Fuck her, and fuck him. I'm sick of all of this, sick of everything. Most of all though, fuck this new kid. I hate him, I never want to see him. I don't need his help. All I need is to go away.
All I want is to dissapear.