I tore open a blood bag from the fridge, squeezing its contents into a mug I've found on one of the cabinets. The silence pressed heavy around me like a sweet relief. My fangs were already aching before the first sip even reached my lips. I drank deep, finishing it in no time.
Still, it wasn't enough. So I took another bag out of the fridge and filled myself a second cup. I walked over to the living room, assessing the damage while I drank.
No one had cleaned it. No surprise there. The whole place was still a mess, with shards of glass shattered across the floor. Mud streaked in a jagged trail from the door through the room, along with some splatters of blood, here and there.
My jaw tightened. Typical. Men broke things, left ruin in their wake and expected someone else to sweep this up.
