Hematophagy, Pt. 7

The need was sudden, pressing. I tore off the shirt and the briefs I’d worn to sleep, stumbled as my underpants wrapped themselves around my ankles, fell to the floor, crawled into the bathroom. I needed relief. I couldn’t let trifling concerns like dignity or mobility stand in the way of that.

Dragging myself on hands and knees, I pulled myself across the tile floor of the bathroom, over the lip of the tub, and collapsed unceremoniously into its depths. I turned on the water, and found instant release in the ice cold flood that issued forth from the faucet. It soothed me so much that at first I didn’t even notice the water turning pink as the blood that had dried on my body stained it. But after a few relaxing minutes, I realized something.

If the water was turning pink, the blood must have been relatively fresh.

Whatever had done this to me had done it not long before I’d woken up.


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