He did the deed.
Composed it, laid it out, rehearsed it and completed it.
The rain poured, clearing the streets of even the hardiest of men.
The people who might have witnessed the actual performance.
The doing must be consummated with no witnesses.
Necessary for his sanity. His future.
His knife slashed at the neck, blood rushed, gushed, steamed into the dark.
Pooled on the ground.
Body dropped, slumped, limbs akimbo.
Laid on the wet pavement, it's liquid spreading, defiled the walkway.
He's killed to have me. He's killed to keep me.
He's vanquished his rival.
The competitor for his drug.
The overwhelming need that drove him to possess it, possess me, for himself alone.
His obsessive need, his obsessive want, his obsessive desire overrode the logical, the sense of right.
Of human correctness.
I wait to hear of his accomplishment of this shocking, appalling, nefarious act.
My skin, hairs, pores, vibrate in anticipation of his return.
As stimulated by the image as if I was gripping the knife with him.
His footfall on the steps, the door opened, shut and locked.
Clothes wet from the rain, from the blood, fall away as the body that had fallen to the pavement.
His nails scratched my chest, raked, marked, dug deep down my belly.
Lips bit mine, brought my blood to his, the fulfillment of his nights horror.
A vampire would have drunk my blood; he took someone else's and gave me his life.
My hips raised to meet him, he entered my sacred chamber.
My screams, his guttural grunts, his liquid, his life pulsed inside.
He's given of himself as he took away from the other. Given me his life force.
I am his possession. His secret stored within both our bodies.