clarence

excerpt from basically a self-insert about me falling in love with an edgy werewolf boy. It's a long story. I don't even like werewolves that much. I prefer vampires.

We came across each other again. I was carrying a machete in shaking hands, once again drenched in blood. My forearms were glistening stained scarlet, so much so that I was wondering if it would ever come out. It was warmer tonight, and humid; the air stuck to your skin. He was soft in the moonlight, and his fingers were curled like dried up leaves, tense and trembling. I would touch them, one day. But then I just stood startled by the striking yellow of his eyes in their deep-set sockets when he turned to me; I just stood waiting to breathe again. In his stature and his wrinkled clothes, I saw something of myself, and I felt compelled in ways indescribable.

“What are you staring for?” he asked.

“You have beautiful eyes,” I blurted. And he looked dumbly at me with them, as if trying to understand the meaning hidden in those words, except there wasn’t really any.

“No I don’t,” he said, a bit slow and unreadable.

“Fair enough,” I said, waving it off, but my insides were screaming in confusion and dissent, as his eyes were like nothing I’d ever seen. I wanted them made into marbles so I could carry them around in my pocket, and put them in my mouth from time to time, as one does with marbles.

“Are you going to kill me?” he asked, sounding unconcerned. “I don’t care if you do.”

“I can’t,” I said, nearly breathless at the idea, and dizzy already.

His brow furrowed. “Why not? I’ll be transforming soon.”

“I just can’t,” I said, and it came out a bit more strangled than I would have preferred. “Why don’t you care?” I tossed out, desperate to turn his scrutiny away from myself.

“I didn’t ask to be bitten, you know,” he said, and his profile looked so rueful and so classic and so beautiful that I couldn’t control myself. Sometimes clichéd dialogue really gets my blood hot.

“I couldn’t kill such an absolutely killer f*****g piece of a*s,” I informed him.

He looked bemused, and then said, “Is that how it is?”
I was sure I was wearing a completely hopeless and indecent expression in response. “I want to eat your face,” I said breathily.

“You should probably leave, then,” he said, and the moon was starting to peer over the tops of the trees, an all-seeing eye.

“Yes,” I conceded. Before I did, however, I took a massive handful of that aforementioned a*s, in case I didn’t get the chance again, leaving a bloody handprint on his threadbare bluejeans.