My lip still aches from a hungry nibble, just a pound per square inch past what might be called a bite. It wasn't a bite, though; there's a certain way that only teeth can cuddle, safe and sharp.
My lip still throbs. The punctures pulse and drip onto my tongue. I can taste soaking, sticking mouthfuls of my own blood, rising like gorge from a knotted belly. I feel like I'll live forever in that moment, in that flavor, in the aftershocks of something sweet and this yawning time ahead.
Vampirism is a curse.
I still stink from sweat and lubricants, social and otherwise, under the first shirt that I could find. It isn't mine. It doesn't fit. That tightness used to feel safe. Now the neck is choking me.
Toys still lay abandoned where they fell, rolled, or hung from headboards and helpful rafters. Confetti, not rose petals, line the not-even-that-good cotton sheets. Our champagne came in plastic flutes. I won't even mention what we did with the floppy little buzzers. I can't even think about funny hats without breaking out in tears. Not in front of strangers. Not now. No, not now.
New years are supposed to be beginnings.
We'd fought, but no, it wasn't that clichéd. Was it? Is it? We'd tossed things in a row. We hit. We cried. We kissed. We'd said words that, yeah, you really can take back in time. We even said a few that, yeah, you never really can.
We even made a resolution: to live and love like there's no tomorrow. We just needed coffee. It was just across the street. Our street. This was a home. Home's supposed to be our safe place.
I wasn't ready. I'm not ready. Please. Please, just this time, God.
But the ambulance isn't in a hurry anymore.
New years are supposed to be beginnings. Vampirism is a curse. This lip will throb forever.
Prompt: A reminiscent Anonymousasked you:
You never know the last time is the last time.
Love is ambiguous. Loss is universal. Sometimes you don't see it coming. Sometimes... you do.
(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins, seeking writing prompts, feedback, review requests, or questions!