The sun is barely setting, slowly, sinking into the ground. I glance out the window, watching the naked trees in the wind. They are snow, white, ghost trees with hardness, jagged branches. They remind me of you.

You come into the room, bid here by my thoughts of snow, coldness. The red light splays across the room, the bed, bold bloody darkness.

The metal falls cold against my wrists; I want to cry. I always want to cry when I'm with you. Instead I sigh, a half-whimper as skin hits skin.

Your hands against my wrists, squeezing until I can-- just almost-- hear the bones breaking.

Your hands against my face. Quickly, quickly. You slap me, then press your fingertips to the imprint. Your hands are cold. I whine; too cold. Your touch, the air, the snow outside; cold sending shock through my system.

You press your lips to mine, hushing me.

More metal. Copper tang of blood as you bite my lip. Rusting blade. You press it to my skin. Then drop it. It lies, waiting, on the sheets. They are cold too.

One finger. It reaches out. Nails long, painted black. One finger reaches out, stroking my bare chest. Down. To the bone. Through the skin. To the bone.

You count them silently. Too much fat. One less rib visible. You frown. Eyes darken.

I close my eyes and you lower your mouth again. Vampire. Your lips press to my eyelids, kissing softly. Softly. Barely touching.

The blade is there again. Against my ribs. Down. It presses. It smiles at me. In the light. Blood light. Then more blood. A line, down my torso. Thick line of blood that you stare at. It's warm against my skin, and I pray you do not messy it.

You lower your mouth. Third time. Vampire. Lapping the blood until a cold stickiness, layer of saliva is all that is left. I am cold. When you do this.

I feel like a corpse.