Droplets glide down the chrome tubing of the stool's legs, sliding into the crimson pool, which spreads, grows, expands, reaching the broken, thorny stem of the rose which was the bait, but now lies snapped in two, like the neck of the recipient, who has become the donor of sweet life, to one who had been mistaken for a romantic tragic figure fighting against his nature, but who could no more deny his needs than an oak tree could deny water.
A shame, he always thinks, that some of the precious elixir always escapes to stain the site of the meal. He chooses to believe it is a tithe, a tribute, a libation to the undying source who created his kind.
Why are the humans so ready to believe that they have encountered the one special case, the single unholy drinker who will resist their blood?
There is no such being.
But he feeds on the vague human fascination with the possibility.
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