Blood dripping down her arm. Washing away her sins. The pain made her focus. Made her feel alive. It cut through the haze of her existence and brought her focus and strength. She told him they were over, that they would be no more. That she was using him and it was killing her.

But she couldn’t let go. She needed him, needed him to bring the pain, the pleasure. He was the only thing that could reach her, yet it was wrong.

So she gave him up like a good slayer. Protect the world and even him.

But she still needed focus, needed something to make her feel. She needed to prove she was alive.

So she cut, and pretended that it was normal. That the desire was not for his fangs, not for the release that he could bring. She pretended that it was not wrong and that the cutting would bring her the oblivion she desired.

Blood dripping down her arm.

She wondered if she should waste it; if he would take it. Deep in her mind she pondered his reaction. Would he take it and not ask questions, would it be addicting and would he crave more? Would he try to take more, waiting until she was weak? Or would he look at her with love, quietly supporting her decisions? No matter how it hurt him.

Blood dripping down her arm.

She wondered how long this can go on.