It was meant to end like this

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<<audio end_bgm play>> <center>IT WAS MEANT TO END LIKE THIS a short entry in the [[art without blood universe|https://artwithoutblood.com/]] \ [[content warnings]] @@.angry;[[✄|START]]@@ </center>

<center>IT WAS MEANT TO END LIKE THIS contains the following material: -violence -major character death viewer discretion is advised. [[return|ttt]] </center>

In another life, perhaps this could end without bloodshed. Without a body to bury, to burn, to use. But you know the inevitable. You have for hundreds, if not thousands of years. It gnaws at your organs. The ruined skin replaces itself. [[“Hey, are you still there?”|yeah]]

It takes you a few blinks to come back from your daydream of static and noise. You are seated at a table in a café, nestled against a window. The snow falls outside slowly. The drink in front of you swirls gently, anticipating your lips. In front of you is a man in his mid-twenties, wearing a chain with a crescent moon around his neck. His hands, decorated with black nails, gently grip his mug as his eyes scan you with a glint of worry. In your daze, you had nearly forgotten about your date. [[You apologize.]]

The sentence would provide anyone else with a wave of relief. For you, it gives you time to decide [[what to do with him]] once the night is spent. You can use the obsidian knife on his pale form and open him up like a self-addressed love letter. You can take a fork, stab each of his eyes out, and stir them into your coffee. You can pin him against the brick wall behind the café and kiss him, and as your lips trail down his neck, you can find that soft spot that humans always have exposed and sink your teeth in deep. The thought of his blood on your tongue is [[making you shake.]]

He’s gorgeous, but you fear you'll ruin his features if you decide to place him in the gallery. Not every guest will want to comb through your entire collection and see such a beautiful piece, as much as you plead. You think he might make a good [[receptionist.|You apologize.]]

“Are you sure you’re okay?” The worry knits perfectly into his thin eyebrows and delicate lips. For now, you nod. With one hand, you reach across for his hand. You take it into yours and run your thumb across a bone on the back to assure him. His gaze softens. You’d like to [[enjoy your coffee]] before you [[take him.]]

The barista knows your order: a latte with lavender and extra sugar, served with a [[turn and a blind eye.|making you shake.]] It’s a sweet taste that wakes you up from your self-induced daze.

Once you finish your cup, you raise the question: “Do you want to get out of here?” He nods, and you take him by the hand to the back and [[out the door.]]

Moments later, you find yourself pushing his half-slumped body against brick. A knife is pressed against [[his throat.]] His eyes are full of tears.

He begs, pleads even, but you know it was meant to end like this, with his body as your [[new muse.|ttt]]

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