“Divebar Delicate”

The low lighting gave way to the accents of her buttons, treasures like medals on a multi tour general. That stench of smoke, sweat, cheap booze & angst stung the nostrils of the ones who “didn’t come her often”.

She wonders up to the bar and tries to get the attention of the “spirits therapist” to no avail. After a few minutes she makes her request, receives her drink and turns to face the room. Her eyes are bagged, pupils strained and trying to focus on what surrounds. The room is unfamiliar to her, the anxious feeling of “I need to get out of here” rides her vertebrae up to her mind then fires blindly into the crowd of her brain cells.

Synapses burst into flames, thoughts become shrapnel & nerve endings go into shock. PTSD for people, places & things. Absolute fear in the face of the focal point of “make new friends”.

Small steps glide across uneven flooring. She takes a seat in the corner and watches the room as it slithers and squirms, human bodies moving like a pit of snakes.

A shiver up the spine. A twitch. Eyes refocus.

Her eyes are darting back and forth, mind ablaze with incredible thoughts, painted in shades and tones only seen in anatomy books. Then crime scene photos. “Change your major”.

It’s somewhere around 1:20am when the crowd has become a trio. Her light feet almost tip-toe back to the bar to drop off her last, of three bottles, before closing out the tab. The swimming sensation begins to grow in her left side, that soft warm, floating feeling.

The swoon.

Pupils expand and overcome her entire ocular core. Sheer blackness. Consuming.

Her feet make for the door and head out into the street. Bloodlust has taken her by the wristband lead her warframe to the steamy asphalt for a go at the locals. Sucking them dry before they knew what hit them. She’s hungry and only one thing will do: Blood, aromatic with the aftertaste of trepidation.

The streets are empty, to her dismay.

Not a soul in sight...

Except for one...lone...drifting creature...

Fixation. Udder fixation. A means to scratch the itch. A vessel for this.

Before the warm body knew what was happening, it was being tackled, wrestled into place, locked in tightly so it could be consumed.

She draws down and strattles this ignorant soul. Pressing her might and power, in such force, that the breath of escapes her prey. Her heart pounds in triplets. Her heart beats in breakdowns.

The early hours begin to dew. The grass is heavy with droplets, soon to glisten and drop in order renew life again. The cycle of life in motion.

Her lips quiver.

Her body limpens.

Her need is subdued...for a time.

As the hours pass, she drives around, thinking about her latest conquest. The joy it brought. How she is more full than more empty. This is what she had been seeking for quite some time. A sense of fulfillment. This must be her “niche”.

How “Delicate” to be in a Divebar.