Shall we speak of the pangs that we endure when the wait grows longer and longer between feeds, and the quantity less and less? Of the caring of those who offer their essence, despite their fears of needles and pins and glass or razors and all manner of things sharp and cruel, and the guilt of accepting the sacrifice none the less, and yet – ever smiling and grateful, to consume a little of their life at a time?
Shall we talk of the dry times, while we slowly feel ourselves fade and wither from within, the dissolution of our capacity, our resolve and the running down of our battery, while the need claws at the confines of the prison of our minds from within, with ever sharpening claws – and inside, the little voice that is all that remains of the childlike innocence that is shocked at our own actions and disregard for itself is raised in a painful cry of despair?
We hide so well that need within, when we take what is offered, no less – and no more – and say reassuringly to our friends that it is enough, when inside the cry would rise to a roar if it could: “More!”
More, my friends, is not enough. But it is and will have to be. And yet, when nothing is offered, that too must be enough as well.
This then, is just a brief glimpse into the well – of what is the Vampyre’s living hell.