"Are you scared?"

The air around them was thick and heavy, and her body felt like it was on fire. Burning from the inside out, maybe, like they'd torn out her insides and stuffed her with thousands of flaming wicks that crawled and coiled and crept, worming into her veins like acidic leeches, consuming everything there was within her that was once human. She felt infected, diseased. The heat made her dizzy, confused her. It made her angry. She felt sick. She was sweating and panting and burning, but indefinitely composed; her body moved regardless, independent. Bile raged inside and her stomach churned; nausea thrashed and writhed; she wanted to throw up—she already had, hadn't she?—but she was still so hungry.

And Needy smelled so good.

Needy had always smelled good. Even when they were children, Jennifer had noticed. Needy may not have come from as well off a family as Jennifer, and she might have had to live without the fancy clothes and toys Jennifer had, but that didn't matter. She'd never, ever been any less of a person in the brunette's eyes. It might have been apparent to other people, but never to Jennifer. She came to the conclusion when they were seven that it was the way Needy smelled. Needy smelled like honey, sweet, golden, and warm, and when you breathed her in, it was like you could feel her sinking into your skin. She smelled like vanilla, like sugar cookies, and sometimes a little like flowers. She smelled like love; like somebody loved her…

It had been a strange concept to conceive at such a young age, but Jennifer liked it. She loved the way Needy smelled, and, even though her house was, as the blonde used to call it, 'boring' because she didn't have as many things as Jennifer did, she loved the way her house smelled too. It was always cozy at Needy's, always warm, and everything within that little sphere of the universe Needy occupied just felt like being wrapped in a great big bear hug.

As time passed and they both grew, Jennifer bitterly realized that they just had different lives. She didn't blame Needy, of course; it wasn't her fault. She just hated to acknowledge the truth. She may not have been rich in the universal, million-dollar sense of the word, but in their little hole-in-the-ground town, she was well off: the poor man's rich. Needy wasn't, but in the broad scope of things, she was rich in another sense.

Needy had been raised and dressed and fed with care, not money. Needy was always loved, always precious. She was taken care of. And while Needy's clothes weren't as pretty, and her sweaters in the winter weren't as form-fitting or flattering as Jennifer's, it was always Needy who was warm and happy and carefree while Jennifer tried to pretend she wasn't shivering uncontrollably because the jacket her parents had paid fifty dollars more for was merely stylish and did nothing for the weather. It was always Needy who would smile that knowing, but tender, smile of hers, blue eyes soft behind her glasses, and offer Jennifer her sweater, which Jennifer would always take with the same detached complaint about her lack of fashion sense. It was always Needy who was there to keep her warm…

Years and years, and she still smelled the same; her house still smelled the same; honey and vanilla—but through the blood and the sickness and the craving, aching famine, it all seemed so far away. There was something inside of her that felt wrong. She wanted Needy like she'd never wanted anything in her life. She wanted the honey, the vanilla, the sugar cookie taste in her mouth, on her tongue. She wanted to savor the flavor as she licked it from her lips. It was nauseating. She felt so sick, but Needy smelled so good, and she was so, so hungry…

Amidst the fog, Jennifer felt Needy nod—but to what? She barely remembered speaking. She wasn't even sure she had. Her body had—her lips had moved, numb and slick with blood and the tar-like substance she'd expelled moments prior—but she hadn't… though it didn't matter. Whatever or whoever commanded her lips to speak, Needy answered, silent but for her whimpering. Actions speak louder than words, they said.

Jennifer held tight to the wall. Needy's body was screaming. The blonde's entire body was shaking; her breath shook and her limbs trembled. She was afraid; she was terrified—she was tantalizing. The brunette's hunger surged. Her lips, her teeth, her tongue ached. If hopelessness had a taste or a scent or a presence, it was oozing from Needy's body, clinging to her skin, caught in the air, teasing her senses. She could only imagine how good Needy would taste… She felt her head tilt, her lips just above the flesh of Needy's neck. The urge to bite down was overwhelming.

So close… Just a taste…

But she couldn't.

No matter how hungry she was, she couldn't hurt Needy. Needy was her best friend… Needy loved her… and she loved Needy. She loved everything about her. Her skin, her smell, the house—Jennifer felt sick. She couldn't stay any longer.

She pushed off from the wall, hollow, utterly empty. She couldn't even look Needy in the face. She turned down the cozy little hall she'd walked so many thousands of times and forced her body to move. Each step felt like her legs were made of lead, a separate entity possessed by a beast, dominated by hunger and ravenous voracity. Her entire body was shaking; a remnant of Needy's trembling, she guessed. She could still feel her, like a furnace, emitting tangible heat, fading away the further she moved, crying, shaking, horrified… But the tremors were fast fading from her system, traded for pins and needles, replaced by numbness, and by the time she walked out the door, she felt nothing at all.

Because I think there was a lot more to Jennifer than we got to see in the movie. Extended metaphor in the works, if anybody's interested in a continuation. Review if you'd like.