Blooded to a Vampire

The Artist

All those who wander are not lost.

The song to the right is Sweater Weather by The Neighbourhood. I loved this song very much and was listening to it while I thought what to write next. :D Enjoy!

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You would think I would know what to do in this kind of situation. You would think anyone would know what to do in this kind of situation.

Maybe teleport the hell away, or faint, or turn around, or just...I don't know..speak.

But me? Oh please. I'm way above all that shizz.

I stood. And stared.

His back was to me and it was glistening with water that was dripping down and getting soaked into his white turkey towel that looked so white it could've been an effing cloud. Then again clouds can disappear, so it's best that towel stayed a towel. He had his hands braced against the sink and his head was bowed causing tanned skin to stretch taut over his shoulder blades accentuating his tattoo.

Oh lord help me, his tattoo.

It said FREEDOM in black letters that dripped with blood everywhere it touched the thorn in the stem of the roses that twined around it almost like a noose. My breath caught as I looked at the detailed beauty of his tattoo. The artist would've spent hours into just drawing that on paper, and then Christ knows how long to transfer that onto his beautiful unblemished skin. It was so beautiful that it made me sad. Because it didn't mean something happy to him. No...it reminded me of the word: Desolation.

This wasn't a happy tattoo. I think this tattoo was to remind him of something that wasn't pleasant. It didn't lessen the beauty of it though.

When I looked at the mirror, I met violet churning eyes that looked at me with no emotion (that I could identify) in it. I swallowed and waited from him to tell me to get out. But he didn't...he just shut his eyes again and dropped his head.

His hair was wet and getting dry real fast and since the situation was so serious, I'd figured I'd add some humor to it.

I walked to him, while gesturing with my hand.

"If you have like a bowl, I can dump it on your head and cut your hair for you." I came to stand next to him.

He straightened and I almost dislocated my head, snapping it to look up at him.

He huffed out a laugh and ran a hand through his hair.

"In the state my hair is, I might actually consider it." he said, trying to smooth the strands away from his forehead. I held in any kind of indication that shows that I was enchanted by him with the whole not-clothed, wet-hair, tattooed thing.

I'm pretty sure my ovaries are going to spontaneously combust if this continues. There's only so much those poor things could handle.

I cleared my throat, "I can actually help you by trimming your hair a little if you wish."

He threw me a surprised look.

"There are scissors in the cupboard," he pointed for me and looked just about ready to do anything as long as I cut his hair for him.

I just laughed. You poor boy. Then, I pulled on my best teacher face and started talking, "Okay, I'm going to need a chair, preferable something high, a comb and newspapers to spread on the floor."