Pulling all of the boxes inside, he slunk back into his own shadows. Not that he had any issues with sunlight, but he really didn't need or want more temptation. Temptation was something to stay away from. He had to understand this all more, to find a way around this before he traveled head first though it. Like a child learning to walk, he wanted to do more than take those steps. He wanted to see it all and find what worked. Michael was his very own lab rat.
Microscopes were set up, centrifuges, samples, dishes, it was everything that he needed. Why hadn't he thought of doing this before? He was so set on what he had to do. It wasn't about him before, even though it was. Pride. It was forever a path that brought a certain destruction of its own. His fears and arrogance molding and shaping its own tools. But his home was no longer about to be a real home, it was going to be his one true work space. He had to understand to what level this was all happening. Maybe science would work for him, the way it had all of his life. It would prove that this was more than just some sort of strange set of theories or something that went beyond the drinking water. Should his own DNA not change due to whatever was going on? If there were some sort of actual virus that could cause vampirism?
Setting everything up the way he was accustomed to it all, it took time, but he had more than enough of it. There was no better distraction than work. Who was really going to bother him anyway? He had never really understood people as a whole. The word friend was used few and far between in his entire lifetime. Science would explain the world to him in ways that nothing else could or would. People were oddities, at best. It's all they seemed to have time to be. Many even wanted to be. That whole need for acceptance, to change yourself, molding into what others wanted to gain it. These things never settled for him. Where moments of loneliness became understandable, especially when you lift your head and realize the things you have learned or found. Those moments where you had no one to speak to, to share things with. It was just you and your findings. Results charted and passed along to someone else that might not understand it. That or colleagues that you didn't actually know.
Another knock came, awakening him from his lost stream of thoughts. Looking down at his wrist watch, he noted the time. Had that much passed so quickly? Heading for the door, he peeked through the hole to see a figure walking away. Opening the door, there was an ice chest. Just what he had asked for. A smile on his face, he picked it up without worry. No one else would be bothering with this, it was all his. It became a treasure, something to hold to his chest and hug. Perhaps his own salvation. These were high hopes, but they were all he had at the moment. Anything else just sounded insane.
Locking the door behind him, he put the ice chest on the kitchen counter. Opening it up, a single blood pack was pulled out, as he stared at it all in awe. Fingers running over it, as if it were some sort of blessing. The chest was closed and promptly put into his refrigerator, as if it were just some regular lunch. Nothing special, after all, except with how he stared at it. The lingering gaze, as he felt the fluid move between his fingers. He wished it were warm, still pumping. It caused a certain hunger in him, a burning in the back of his throat that couldn't be quenched. As if his body were decaying there without it. A want to bath in it, to close his eyes and imagine the shattering of bones and airways. To have it spilled all over the streets.
His own body seemed to move on its own accord without Michael realizing what was going on. His eyes were closed, lost on some sick sort of fantasy playing out in his mind. Better here than out there, past his own doors, making it real. That's what he would tell himself later, but it wasn't the same. His fingers lingered along the edges, finding a latch and pop, leaving him to suck the blood up as if through a straw. Nothing but tubes and releases, but there it was. That bitterly metallic taste that felt sweet and soft to his own lips.
It wasn't until there was an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach that his eyes opened wide. This wasn't right. What was he doing? There had been no real hunger, no need to taste, let alone that much. Looking down at the bag, it was nearly all lost. Stomach forcing, pushing, he had little time left here. His body forcing it up, as the gagging began from the back of his throat. Rushing to the sink, he barely made it in time. Blood coming up and washing the chrome in the crimson liquid. Heaves were created until it was all free from his own insides. Maybe he was going insane after all.
~laurel & ~hurst