CRIMSON

I grabbed her by one of her slender shoulders and drew her closer. Bending over her, I tore at her throat with my teeth. The hot blood sprayed, then bubbled out, running into the folds of the twisted bed-sheet. I held my hands close to the wound, cupping my palms. They quickly filled with the warm flow and I spun back to face the mirror. I raised my hands to my cheeks. Slowly, I worked the hot blood over my face, letting it run into every curve of my flesh, letting it trickle over my lips. I spread it over my eyes and chin. And I saw my own image beginning to take form. The steaming blood was visible in the mirror, tracing the ghostly features beneath. Again and again I went back to the bed and returned with handfuls of living blood. I slathered it over my lips and neck, over my forehead and temples. I streaked it through my hair and let it flow over the back of my head. I gazed at the dull red mask hovering within the mirror, glistening in the moonlight. Floating near the disembodied face were two crimson hands, drifting, dripping. I stared at my face, a thing I had not seen for very long. My heart tightened in my chest. Perhaps, I thought, there is something to this illusion. Maybe reality can be strengthened by the occasional dream. Maybe that was the mystery the girl knew. Maybe that was what I had forgotten. And she had shared the precious secret with me in her fiery blood.