Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 85029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
I go into the kitchen, grab a spoon, and then, without thinking too hard about what I’m actually putting in my mouth, I eat the whole thing.
Then I go back into the bedroom, sit down in the bed next to Syrsee, bite my palm, and put it up to her lips. Like every other time I’ve fed her since she fell sick, the blood stimulates some kind of involuntary instinct to suck. I give her a little more than I normally would—wanting to make sure she gets enough for the medicine to take hold—and then pull back and start thinking about my own hunger.
There’s another jar, one specifically called ‘Hunger,’ and my first idea is to eat it myself. But would it be better if I feed it to Syrsee and then take her blood the way she just took mine?
Unless she wakes up, that’s not possible.
But I could just bleed her out a little and mix it in, then eat it.
I decide to do this because while it would be much simpler to just bite her neck and take what I need, leaving the potions or whatever out of it, that is a temporary fix. What if this jar can make my hunger go away? Maybe not forever—it’s not likely that it’s a cure. But even if it’s just long enough for her to wake up and make informed decisions about being my food, wouldn’t it be worth it?
It would. Time. All I can do is buy myself time. Because whatever is happening to us, it’s coming no matter how many jars of pudding we eat. And I just want a little more time before I truly turn into something evil and take my girlfriend along for the ride.
I position Syrsee’s wrist over my mouth and then nick her vein with my teeth. Then I hold it over the open jar of ‘Hunger’ and fill it up to the top. When that’s done, I lick the wound on Syrsee’s wrist until it heals. Then I get a spoon, mix the blood into the pudding, and eat it. Again, like the first one, it doesn’t taste bad at all. Not like honey and ginger ale, more like… meat. Which is kinda gross. Should be gross enough to stop me, actually. But by the time I’m actually having this thought, the jar is empty.
I just stand there in the kitchen, waiting. For what? I’m not sure. Something has to happen.
A moan from the bedroom draws my attention and when I enter the bedroom, I find Syrsee covered in sweat.
“No.” I say this out loud, trying to give the word power. But I already know that I’ve made a big mistake. I go over to her, place my hand on her wet forehead, and find her cold.
My heart thumps inside my chest, ready to panic. But I force myself to stay calm. Cold is better than hot, isn’t it? Plus, she’s not dying. She’s not human, so she’s not dying. She’s going to live to be very old. This is not the end. Paul did not just tell me how to kill her—he needs her.
It’s this last thought that finally snaps me out of the urge to panic. Paul needs her. He would not have gone to all this trouble if all he wanted to do was kill her.
I go back out in the kitchen and read the labels in the jars again. Then pick up the one that says ‘Chills.’
I eat it as I’m walking back into the bedroom. Then I sit next to her, bite the palm of my hand, and put it over her lips.
She reaches up and grabs my arm, pulling it down to her mouth. And this reaction is so sudden and unexpected, and I am so on edge, that I nearly pull away. Especially when I realize that she’s not awake. Her eyes are still closed. But I calm down, get a hold of myself, and watch as she feeds on me like I’m food.
It’s kind of erotic. I can feel her pulling the blood out of my hand and it sends a weird sensation through my entire body. My mind swims and floats and I have a sudden urge to drink her dry. Not a sip, but all of her.
Then I nearly laugh out loud. Because of course I do! ‘Thirst’ is a label on a jar in my kitchen.
I grab it, milk the blood from Syrsee, mix it in, eat it.
Relief.
But then I hear gasping from the bedroom and at the same time, I’m looking at the jar on the counter that says ‘Gasping.’ I don’t even hesitate this time. I bite, I milk myself, I mix. I eat. I go back into the bedroom, teeth already puncturing the skin on my palm, and I hold my hand over Syrsee’s mouth. She’s too busy grabbing at her throat, trying to breathe—eyes still closed—to grab at me this time. But when I place my hand over her mouth the instincts kick in and she feeds.