rip-a-rip-lo and a hey nonny nay.
I shiver. It's cold. Cold all over. My flesh was always cold though, wasn't it? Well, not always; for a few short years I was warm. I was a man. Now the only life I have is what I've sucked from others, taking their sweet pulsing force between my teeth and my tongue, scraping away until they're empty bottles.
The dead are stacked up around me. I can't see them all the time, but I know they're there. Hundreds of them, wall to wall in this basement. And they're all cold, like me.
Cold except for this spark in my chest. I can almost see it if I press my hand to my heart; a light seems to shine through. A burning light. A hungry light. A light that wants to eat me up.
And in the darkness, whispers.
Sometimes it's my mother.
"You're so tender, William. Tender like a little lamb just before it's speared to death and served up for dinner." Her smile was wolfish. "Drusilla should just have fed on you and left you in the gutter. Oh, don't cry, my darling," she said softly, almost tenderly. "You know it's true, don't you?"
I nodded. She was right. Mother was always right.
"You couldn't keep me, so you killed me. That's right, isn't it?"
No, no, it wasn't... I just wanted to love...
I killed the things I loved.
I let them die, it was the same thing. Kill, neglect, one and the same, like my neglect of her, Dawn. Her shining blood on my hands, in my nostrils, on her dress.
"She looked lovely, didn't she?" said Mother. "Good enough to eat."
"You couldn't even save the girl you loved."
"You let me die, Spike."
She stared at me.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."
"Sorry? You think sorry is enough? I had to kill myself and you're sorry!" She laughed.
"You're pathetic," she said.
"You're pathetic," Mother said.
And then there was another voice in the room, one that was familiar. Hated. Strong.
"Why are you here?" I asked.
((Open for FE:Glory))