Being an eater is a curse. You aren't religious, but you've spent the last year of your life praying that you'll be cured of this ailment. Rosary beads, prayer circles, offerings... none of it even made a dent in your cravings.

The only thing that did help was the confessional booth. Although... that may have been because only one person walked out. Sorry, Father. He tried his best to help you—if you weren't going to Hell before, you've certainly bought yourself a one-way ticket now.

It's a lonely life, too. Making friends? Out of the question. Your family? Just as fucked up as you. After your first feed, you haven't looked back. It's their fault you're in this mess, as far as you're concerned. Aside from the constant aching desire every time you get a whiff of blood, there's only one other constant in your life.

Lee. You don't even know his surname. It doesn't matter, though. You don't give a shit about where he comes from or what happened to him. All you know is you're in this together, locked up in some motel room and praying the bleach-filled bathtub will be enough to melt the red stains out of the sheets.

"You're an apex predator, didja know that?" He'd teased five minutes ago, when the twisted part of your brain traitorously decided that the room service you ordered wasn't enough. "No prisoners. Absolutely ruthless."

But he's being more tender with you now. In your undergarments sitting on the floor while he wipes gently at tarnished skin with a cloth. You made a joke about him cleaning you off with his mouth, instead, but he'd simply tsked and told you to sit still. Not the time to be bantering anymore. You suppose that's fair, considering there's someone's remains in the bathroom right now.

But, for whatever reason, that doesn't stop you from saying:

"... Is your hair red because of like, y'know...?"

That's a stupid question. Rooted in humour, perhaps, but you find yourself curious about it nonetheless. A physical manifestation of his bloodlust, you wonder, as he cleans your face.