Awakening from my vampiric stupor was the greatest enlightenment ever, insofar that I feel absolute disgust with the feeble self I vaguely recalled as a chapter of my living years. The burning contempt was overwhelmingly insane, as I lifted my index fingers and claw off crumbling grey-red ashes around a black pit of nothingness, around a place where my beating heart used to lay solemnly within.
And I can see no dreams for the addict sustaining his delusion through tubes of constant false hope. He waits like a shadow thief; awaits for opportunity to plunge the poison dagger eagerly into the back of his adversary. He wants him dead for good, so as to loot, but he has no such chance.
My perching lips grew into a smirk and watched the scene with sadistic pleasure.
He thinks he remained unseen, but the croaching silhouette makes the thought laughable.
I observed with an appraising eye, curious with the depth of stupidity my fabled assasin has grown to live with over the years.
That would suffice a predictive suicide.
He will take what he wants and die by what he takes.
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