Imagination is a thin line between a human's sanity and madness. Within it, within our dreams, reality dies...
Her skin feels like fire. Her smell carries the scent of wine and strawberries, so exquisite, yet so exotic. Her eyes burn with the life of a thousand suns and yet they cannot warm the hardened ice of his gaze. They cannot win the right to live on. Because for him she is no fire, just fuel….
Perfect twin fangs caressing a snow white neck, teasing with the heavenly promise that only a heavy spike of pheromones can bring, the victim closes her eyes. She feels no pain, no fear, she wants this… The fangs slip into her, carrying a surge of pure ecstasy. Even the death that follows can barely extinguish it.
She shivers in his arms. The heat slowly leaves her body rejuvenating him. Her mind is no more. Her soul is scattered. Her flame has smoldered. She is no longer. All that is left is blood.
In the end all that remains from a star is but dust. Her body is left ravaged. Her persona is no more but a fragment of remorse in the memory of a killer….
The stolen warmth fades. The cold fear slips back in and with it the realization. The end of his bloodlust has come, yet the expected relief doesn’t follow the fear. There is no notion of light, in the haze of his mind, just promise of pain.
He can clearly see his death, even if he can’t sense it, a curious sight, a faceless nobody inside of a black suit. Before his reason can comprehend the absurdity of the situation, it is shoved aside, replaced by primal instinct.
He leaps. Fangs and claws glitter in the candle’s shine. A cry of anger, mingled with despair escapes his lips.
A touch and the flight ends. A touch and the silence reigns.