It's funny how things that are so horrible when you first encounter them become normal and even desirable. Days flowed into weeks since that night when I first developed a taste for blood. God, it was revolting – at first. Then it became bearable. Then I found myself growing restless, fucking whomever Zeph wanted me to fuck, doing whatever he wanted me to do just as long as I got to taste him when it was over. What a horrible addiction – but I needed it. I needed that sweet metallic taste on my lips.
Last night was different. I don't feel well. That is to say that physically I feel fine, better than ever, but I'm disgusted and sick in my heart and mind. It's like I said before, when he's here and with me it all makes sense, but when he's gone I'm left wondering what I was thinking. Even as I sit here writing this, I can feel him inside of me, and the doubt starts to dwindle. He's not coming tonight. He's in town, and he's laughing at something. The more of him I feel inside me, the less of me there is left.
He's coming tonight. I don't know how I know, but he is. I woke up trembling this evening. I've been in such a state, pacing through the abandoned corridors and empty cavernous rooms, turning on all the lights because I was frightened (the place is haunted, I'm sure of it), and then I turned them all off again because he prefers the darkness. Now I'm sitting at my desk writing it all down. That's why he gave me a desk, right? And paper, and a pen. There is precious little else in this manor, except for the books in the library, and I can't focus on what I'm reading when I'm like this.