❛ admit it . . the sight of blood excites you. ❜
“who starts a conversation like that?” frank asks, sipping his coffee. the other had sat down, and without an introduction, started talking about blood. like what is frank supposed to say?
“sure, anyone who spends a lifetime covered in it eventually gets a craving for it.” it’s a simple answer with a much deeper meaning, one that frank has no interest in diving into in some random ny diner.
the stranger does provoke him to think, reminded about the blood on his hands, both his own and others. his family’s.
metaphorically, blood was something frank despised. it meant injustice, death, hurt. but physically. yeah, sure. it excited him. someone covered in blood, having gotten what they deserved.
“tell me, why do you care if blood excites me?” frank tilts his head, looking the man over, curiosity bubbling in his chest. not many people cold approached him anymore, especially not when they realized who he was.
