“Hello,” his breath brushed my ear, the moon gleaming over us sinisterly. My heart stopped, I didn’t want to open my eyes, I didn’t want to face him. I knew he was coming.
His teeth, long and pointed, sunk into my skin, drawing in my soul. Tears streamed down my face, but eventually, I was too exhausted to even weep. “Thank you,” He whispered, caressing my cheeks with his icy, lifeless fingers. That’s when I dared to part my eyelids.
Blood soaked my sheets, my clothes, his clothes. How could I bleed that much and still be alive? That’s simple, I wasn’t.
So I’ve decided to do both. I’ll be posting two original pieces each day through October!
The fictober prompts will be excerpts / character development / etc. for “In Which Fate Has A Speaking Role” because I’m still stuck on the second draft and hopefully this will inspire me!
The jotober prompts (inktober prompts just written) will be short poems (maybe some prose) because I’ve missed writing poetry!
Since I don’t want to spam my usual tag list consistently for a whole month, I thought I’d make an October tag list just for this.
Please like / reblog / message if you would like to be on this tag list!
If you’re also taking part in either, please add me to your tag lists too!
Prompt: Roasted
Word Count: 250
Characters: Unnamed Characters
Triggers: None
my bad for this being late...
“You don’t like it?” He asked, pouting a bit.
“No, no, it’s not that,” I explained. “It’s just my stomach again. It’s good, I promise.”
“Are you going to be alright?”
“Yeah,” I replied, smiling. “I’ll be fine.”
He took me out to dinner that night for the very first time. It was a promise he made me when we were teenagers; that we’d go out to dinner to have “authentic pizza” as he put it. Because, apparently, anywhere but New York is “fake.” He also wanted to take me for a hometown special as he would say, even though it’s not even native to his hometown. “It’s roasted –– or, uh, deep fried pizza. A whole pizza. Like, a deep fried burrito, but pizza. And it’s huge.” That was his explanation for it three years ago.
“You barely ate anything though,” he said, a worrying look drawn on his face.
“I’ve always been like this,” I said, trying to comfort him. He would always worry about things like this. “You’ve known me for, what, 4 years now? I’ll just take it home and eat it later. Don’t feel bad for something you can’t control.”
“Too bad,” he said. He always said that. No matter what, if he was sorry or if he felt bad and I told him not to, he would reply with too bad. He always cared too much about me, which I guess was kind of attractive. But I felt like more of a burden than anything.
