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She chuckles bitterly as the silver cross--the one she usually wore around her neck, on top of her suit--scalded the skin on her arms, the sharp edges drawing rose-red lines of blood, adding to the look. She carved flowing, flowering patterns into her skin, painfully beautiful. Oh, the irony. A vampire making herself bleed--not even to sate her own hunger.
Her hand trembles slightly as the cross continues to burn patterns of the flowers wilting in her long-forgotten garden. She particularly loved carving poppies, the red hue of her blood painting their petals like a vivid dream. There was just...something so incredibly satisfying about their soft petals, their sweet scent...quite unlike her. So much about her delightful garden was so unlike her. How could such a thing like her be so disgustingly passionate and gentle with something so delicate, something so easily crushed.
Oh, how she prayed--quite a bit of irony today, heh--for someone to come and stop her, to tell her that there was no reason, and that they loved her, and they would paint real flowers with real paint over her torn skin.
All she really wanted was love.
Right?
No. No, no, that can't be--
She had sworn off of that joke of a feeling years ago.
But still...
She thought back to the alley. The feeling of her teeth grazing her skin, her lips against hers, the warmth of her--no. That was just--just a fluke. A screwup. A screwup which resulted in her glancing at her phone every minute to see if it lights up with a new notification from that stupid, stupid wolf. A wolf?! Not even a demon or--or a harpy to at least come close to her high species status. But no, of course she had decided to pin some dirty, mangy mutt that had come crawling out of a bar, reeking of alcohol, to the wall and--
--fuck. Why did she do that again? Her hand tightens around the cross, burning a line in her palm, but she barely noticed before she suddenly throws it against the wall with a clank. She abruptly stands up from her bed, stained with small splatters of blood, but it doesn't even make a difference anymore. Fine. If that creature doesn't text her, then she'll text first. It can't be that hard, right?
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It was, in fact, that hard. She had thrown on her signature vest suit, and bandaged up her arms, hissing with pain as the cloth touched the carefully engraved patterns. She was now sitting on her bed, staring at the new contact saved in her phone.
Winter.
She huffs, twisting her neck towards the nearby mirror. God, she was a mess. Thank god you couldn't see it, though. Her hair is as neat as it can get, suit freshly ironed (as it always is). Her phone buzzes in her shaking palm, her head snapping back towards it, eyes practically gleaming with anticipation.
•Hey im free tonight, hbu? Meet at the same spot?•
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Her fingers scrambling to type back;
•Yh sure omw now•
Before throwing on her coat and rushing out the door. Damnit, are they a thing now? I-I mean, it's not like there was any true romance, but then again, it was the middle of the night, both were half-drunk and tired... Halfway out the door, she stops and looks at herself in the mirror. Ugh. Stupid fucking marks, littering her neck. She raises her collar a bit to hide them from passersby, and steps outside, leaving her still-sizzling necklace on the floor next to her bed.