There are parts of this story that I’ve known would happen since I conceived the idea years ago. There are parts that I came up with 30 minutes before writing this post. But I’ve given myself permission to suck and be all over the place while writing the first draft this month. Sucking is not a crime, not at this point. Talk to me when I’m in the editing stage, lol.

I do have a pretty good idea of where I want to go after yesterday’s think tank. My only problem will be having patience with getting to some pretty cool scenes I have lined up. In a bit I’m going to introduce you guys to some characters that play a huge role in the story, but for now I want to give you a moody taste of Evie and her emerging memories. Still a long way off from exposing any major plot twists and I want to keep it that way in case things change. But I dunno, for now this is the best of the worst and I promised I’d share not just my ramblings, but some actual examples of how rough it can get when you’re drafting a book with baggage. lol.

Now here’s an excerpt. At this point Evelyn has only been back for a few days, a week tops. Timelines are still subject to change and forgive the typos. Again this is a darker story so I’m playing with some elements that might make you squirm a bit, but I don’t wanna oversell that. Some of you will cringe and some of you will yawn. Feel free to leave comments and such.

***

She dreamt of blood, coppery honey, tangy and dripping over her lips, down her tongue. Wriggling inside her like a welcomed worm, like a finger inside the moist, heated cavity between her legs. She dreamt of every vessel in her body craving fulfillment. She dreamt of taste buds dancing and exploding like bottle rockets, insatiable flames igniting in depths she hadn’t known existed, seeking release above ground, seeking nourishment. She dreamt of the precipice of orgasmic release, that luscious moment just before the fall. All of that could be found in the taste of blood. She swallowed rivers of it, gulped and begged for more and only when she was drowning in the thick, flowing sweetness did she finally feel free.

She dreamt of hunger abated, but she woke dying of thirst. Her throat was as parched as a hidden, abandoned tomb and she slid out of bed on trembling legs. The world at the edges of her vision seized and expanded as she propelled herself down the hall towards the kitchen of her childhood home. Dizziness made her grip the walls and then the kitchen counter where she steadied herself as she pried open the refrigerator door.

It all happened so fast.

The glass. The water. The cold, empty taste of it, the minerals sinking in her gut. Another glass was in her shaking hands, coursing down her dry throat. Then another. And another. The liquid in the pitcher sloshed over the counter and onto her legs and feet. The tears started somewhere near the middle of the fourth glass and her hysteria reached a fever pitch. Nothing she did could slake her thirst, her lust. That’s when her hands clutched the glass into shards. It crumbled easily, like a prop in a sketch comedy scene, like sugar. But it didn’t dissolve. Instead it stayed as solid as her hunger and lodged itself into her shivering palms, dissecting the life lines, stretching the love lines, jutting up like tiny architectural triumphs from the soft flesh. Moats of shadowy crimson liquid surrounded them, and in a distant corner of her mind she heard a lazy, masculine laugh. The sensation of it, the memory of it was so real that she felt that sound slide against her skin like a tongue. It slid inside of her, buried as deep as her memories were, and she knew of only one way to quiet it. Feed the hunger. Give in.

You know you want to….

His voice again. A voice she’d never heard. A voice she knew she’d heard many times before. She listented to it. She couldn’t have stopped herself if she wanted to.

Her stomach seized, contracted so strongly in hunger and recognition of what could sate it that there was no mistaking the feeling. She stared mesmerized at the blood coursing from her hands and walked like a zombie to the sink to dispel herself of the stubborn shards. She didn’t even feel them sink into her bare feet as she walked over the pieces that had shattered to the floor. She was silent now, though the tears still coursed down her face, salty pearls falling to mingle with their ruby cousins in her outstretched hands. She pulled the shards from one palm and then the other with dazed precision. They clattered into the sink with a chiming sound, coated a pretty ruby red that shone even in the dark. But they were merely an impediment. The real focus was what came gushing to life once the pockets of skin were free from obstruction.

And when they were, when the sink was filled with shards and her hands were filled with freely coursing blood, she lifted her hands to her face and pressed them hard against her waiting lips.

She licked, she sucked, laved, coated her tongue, drowned the back of her throat with the flood. Her eyes fluttered closed. Her sex clenched reflexively. The taste. God, the taste…she’d been starving for this and finally, finally it was hers to savor. Her body thanked her, her stomach calmed.

The kitchen light switched on and she turned, feral and caught, eyes flashing at the intruder of her first faint moment of release from an unrelenting hunger. Days and days of restlessness and questions, poking and prodding and sleeplessness and now that she’d finally found some peace it was being interrupted. A growl sounded low in her throat. A warning.

Her mother’s eyes devoured the scene before her. The hands that covered her mouth in shock wer like a terrified mockery of Evie’s blood covered hand pressed to her lips.

Like waking from a dream, Evie’s shoulders uncoiled, her eyes went limp with recognition of the sight she must make and the animalistic noises she’d made. With reluctance she pulled her numbly pulsing palms away from her mouth. The pain couldn’t rival the ache left unfulfilled deep within her. She could feel the sticky aftermath of her depraved gorging coating her chin, her lips. She didn’t dare lick them now though she wanted to so badly.

What’s wrong with me?

She pleaded silently for answers and when they didn’t come, Evie started to sob outright , whimpering in frustration and confusion, standing in her own mess like a parody of the helpless child she’d been once. Her mother approached slowly, wary of the glass, wary of her own daughter. They were both crying now, but Evie’s tears were falling for one reason she couldn’t share with her mother.

There was no pretending she was normal after this. She was clearly unhinged, and still very, very hungry. Danger was coursing in her veins and crackling in the air. And even though she wanted nothing more than to feel her mother’s arms around her, she couldn’t stop staring at the pulsing of the arteries in her creamy brown throat as she came closer.