Bliss

The building always creaked. It seemed it was just a feature, one that would never be removed. Even after the renovation, it still groaned in the wind.

Outside the rain poured heavily, beating against the fogged glass of the window with a comforting drum as she worked. Blanche enjoyed her job, personally. The bodies kept her company, and they were superb listeners. Not only that, but they were also very convenient at times. As a mortician, many would probably find her job rather gruesome, perhaps even unsettling, but she was well used to it. The intricacies of setting features, dressing the dead and the careful makeup and sculpting appealed greatly to her. That, and it helped her satiate her thirst.

Of course, she could drink water and alcohol, she could eat bread and dine on well done steak, but never, ever would it fill her. Instead, she would just feel sickly. She needed blood, it was all that could sustain her, and the corpses were infinitely more willing to donate than most of the living. It would have gone to the sewers anyways, she didn't think they'd mind if a small portion ended up in her fridge.

Stray thoughts aside, she picked up a long thin spike and her scalpel, returning to the bedside to dig the blade into the side of the neck, ignoring the spray of blood that coated her hands as she slipped the tube into the skin. It resisted slightly, but she shoved it into the jugular. She flicked on the machine beside her and it hummed to life, pulling the satin liquid of life out of them, depositing it rudely into a gallon tank. She'd have to swap it out once it grew full. This body was fresh, she'd probably take some of the blood home for herself, then. One or two gallons would do her for the week.

She sighed, waiting. There was little else to do, she'd prepped everything else.

The water swirled, small strands of red trawling along with the pull and spin as the water sank into the drain, quietly murmuring as hot rain spattered against her hair and back, steam quietly rising from the tiles as the shower hissed, the patter comfortingly random. She ran an idle hand through her hair as she stood there, enjoying the feeling of the pressure against her shoulders, her fingers occasionally catching a knot that she tugged on. She looked down at her palm, pristine and pale. She turned her hand over, running the other up along her arm from the wrist as she squinted slightly. Her knuckles were vaguely bruised, fingernails cut short and painted with a chipping, cheap magenta she'd gotten a week or two ago. The blood on her arms decayed, washing away with the water to disappear below her feet. She wasn't sure how it always got under her sleeves. Probably the wide mouth of the coats.

She sighed, dipping her head under the shower to rub the last of the shampoo out, before starting to scrub herself down.

~~

Blanche stepped out of her bathroom, a towel loosely clutched around herself as she drearily stumbled through her hallway, eyes half lidded. She lived alone, but modesty still felt more proper. Besides, the stray dots of water clinging to her hair and shoulders were cold, a slight chill pricking at her skin like needles in a pincushion. She tugged the towel tighter, snug into her armpits as she padded along into her apartment’s main room. It was a quaint living room, a small kitchen attached, separated from the living by a rather long island. Blanche stopped by it, feet transitioning from carpet to the harder tiles of the kitchen as she paused in front of her fridge, pulling it open to retrieve a coke bottle she’d repurposed. She shut the fridge door as she straightened up, walking to her couch to collapse onto it, bottle in hand. She paused, holding the glass by its neck as she admired the deep satin, the slow swirl of thicker shades swimming in the opaque liquid. She could, if she focused, see the other side of the bottle, but that required her to squint. Her lips pulled upwards slightly as she brought the bottle to her lips, tilting it back to take a long sip, relishing in the taste. Even if it was a little stale, it was ice-cold, the taste of iron and the sweet tang coating her tongue as it sank down her throat.

Sweet, sweet satiation.

She’d been saving this one for a good amount of time, she’d run low and kept herself from imploding with rather plain toast and assorted fruits, but nothing really helped outside of the bottle in her hand. Being a vampire was inconvenient, but she’d found her ways around it.

She’d have to smuggle out a little more blood next time.

"B-Blanche I've… Not really done this… Before."

"Shhh… Don't worry. Relax, just let me take care of everything.".

"O-okay. Be gentle…"

"Tch."

"H-hey!"

"You'd think a zombie would be less afraid of a little nick." Blanche's hand wrapped around Coryza's, pressing it upwards along the handle of the knife, until her thumb was resting on the side of the blade, "Like this." She said, her voice exceedingly gentle as she muttered in Coryza's ear, more focused on the cooking than she was the proximity. Coryza nodded slightly, grasping the knife a little tighter, cold hands on fire under Blanche's warmer fingers.

"I guess I can't fault you for the lack of dexterity." She teased as she pressed herself up against Coryza’s back a little tighter, setting one hand on the counter as she guided Coryza’s hand along, surprisingly patient with Coryza’s slightly clumsy movements and stiff fingers, silent as she did, soft breaths pooling on her collarbone as they worked, the soft click of the knife hitting the board repetitive but comforting. Coryza’s normally sharp tongue was rather dull at the moment, the words falling apart every time she tried to put them together to shove out from between her teeth, her mind going blank every time Blanche’s well practiced hands tensed around hers, running the long, smooth arcs of chopping, the vampire’s cheek against hers, the dark clouds often roiling about Blanche’s head strangely absent, replaced by that all too attractive focus on her work. Coryza had seen it a couple times, but the relaxed feeling of the prim woman behind her, perfectly married to her figure, holding her in such a safe, warm embrace, it was mind-numbing. Soon, they were done, and Coryza already missed the rhythmic movement and pined for those slender fingers and gentle chastizations as she leaned back. Blanche let her, the hand on the counter pensively rising, settling around Coryza’s waist as the zombie shut her eyes, resting her head against Blanche’s shoulder.

“You know… You should teach me how to cook more often.” She muttered, feigning a certain air of pensiveness, leading Blanche on.

“Be careful, you might actually learn something.” Blanche responded, slipping in another light peck to the cheek, her nose brushing against Coryza’s cheek for just a moment before she pulled back, shaking her head. “You’re hopeless.” She said, exaggerating her exasperation as she held her a little tighter. Coryza’s head emptied itself again, flashing all manner of blacks and whites and satin reds and luxurious, passionate purples, before the scent of onion, peppers, cumin, and slow-cooking meat hit her like a wave again, pulling her back to the warm sensation of her body melting against Blanche’s. “C’mon, get the bowls, I’ll finish this up.” She said, nudging Coryza’s knee with her own. Coryza rolled her eyes.

“Yes ma’am.”