They say most cravings average three to five minutes. After that, you’re free. This is if you’re lucky. If you can tame the darkness inside of you. Stitch yourself up before it comes spilling out. You can resist the urge by timing the length of your cravings. Science trumps the urge, it was written. Let the minutes pass. Count them. Think outside of yourself. Close your eyes. Don’t look at the clock. Don’t think about it. Stop, you’re thinking about it. They say if it lasts more than fifteen minutes, you may still be exposed to the stimulus causing your craving. You ask an addict to remove themselves from the equation, see if they tell you logic dictates.
Commit to those fifteen minutes they say. He stands, reformed. Back straightened like a priest offering mass. One hand clasped around the other wrist like a handcuff (hah - get it? a handcuff) behind his back. He stands in front of clock tower. Eyes closed. Jaw tight. And it’s silent. silent except for the quiet ticking of his clock. He’s counting the seconds as they pass. 894. 895. 896. 897. 898. 899. 900. Like counting sheep, praying he won’t become one.
There’s breath interrupting his seconds. 901. 902. 90-... Heavy and wounded. From here, we imagine he says Ava Maria thrice. His steps, silent and steady, navigate a labyrinth of alleyways. The heartbeat strange but familiar. He heard it in this way before. Shaky. When he sees her, he is hungry. Remove yourself from the stimulus. But her face will not allow it. He knew it well. The face of a girl who had lost an uncle. The face of a girl who had hunted his sister. The face of a sister who was once a vampire. “No rest for the wicked, huh?” He examines the wound from where he stands, whistles, shoulders relaxed, “That’s a pretty nasty wound you got there. Werewolf?” His fangs are kept at bay. What kind of cosmic bullshit has aligned for this? He wonders if he owes her for a dead uncle. Knows she probably thinks so. “I gotta’ say. That was real stupid what you did to my sister,” he’s circling her, “I didn’t appreciate that, nor did she, for that matter,” a sigh, “But I do apologize for my lesser half.” He bites his wrist in spite of himself, his own blood washing away the blood on his hands, “Losing family is a goddamn kick in the head. Never meant to inflict that kind of pain on anyone,” he stops, offering his wrist to her. “Drink up. You’ll feel better. Boy scout honor,” he smiles, eyes locked onto hers, “And let’s try to keep any malicious or ill-intentioned antics to a minimum,” he waves his hand around as if bored of his own voice, “Y’know, respect your elders. I don’t want to hurt you, you get it, right,” he asks, drops of blood flicking from his open wrist, “Look, now I’m just wasting it. Here.” The blood dripping down, ready to heal.
jacobvanloon
dededos
dailybridgerton
baratheonpilled
