One night, as she masticates over a particularly tough bit of steak, Debra bites her cheek.
"Fuck," she grumbles as she rises to her feet and hurries to the kitchen sink. She spits out the now inedible blood-soaked bit of meat – but finds herself unwilling to spit out all of her own blood.
She swishes the blood through her mouth slowly and thoughtfully, as though she is at a vineyard sampling wines, or at the dentist's office cleaning her mouth with fluoride. She wonders what it'd be like to be addicted to blood the way Dexter is – to carry around a permanent and insatiable need to feel the gush of crimson rivers from flesh, to see the fade of life from human eyes, to exercise the judgment and ability of a god.
She shudders and gags on her blood. Even picturing it freaks her out.
She spits out the rest of her blood into the sink and watches it dribble down the drain, relishing the taste of a clean mouth as she rinses out with tap water.
But hours later, supine in bed, she finds herself tonguing her cheek wound and half-wishing for a fresh spurt of blood.
A/N: Reviews are love.