Lust of blood
The streets of London were streamed with humans, diversely dressed, hustling out from their previous shelters for the passing storm and straight on to their solitary destinations. The public house, after rain, was peculiarly obsolete.But the boy was there. The boy who never smiled or cried, no matter how hard he drank. The boy who, as I dare claim, had been very loud and full of laughter when he was much, much younger. His once-broad shoulders shrank, his lean back collapsed. He sat uncaring, this time by the window, staring out over the sparkling street light.
I stood behind him, lighter than a shadow.
Were he to see me here, he would cry and smile, and I would love him for that.
He sat with his eyes wide open, dark as the abyss itself, or the venom in his blood that had led him to it. He sat with his mind out of this world, out of this life. He could not remember. I never let him. I spared him.
Many a secret night we had spent in unison, betwixt the grey sheet, down a dark river. The pain he gave me. The kisses I gave him. The mournful cuddling.Tearing-away of shrouds. The silence was piercing. Blood all over his cross.
He had loved me, and killed me, neither of which he shall ever know again. I will never descend upon his dreams.
He sat there, like a withered lily, lolling.
The night was as black as his eyes.