Mine won't be much like what they gave you. [With a flick of his knife, Frankie's bleeding into the mug, careful not to let any drip outside the container. It's not entirely true. His blood looks and smells and even tastes the same as any human's-- he knows, because he remembers biting Elvis-- but it acts fast, and no sooner had he swallowed than it had started to burn from the inside out, like the sun crashing through his veins and waking up his heart.
After a while he twists his arm, the small cut already starting to clot, so the sluggish blood drips slowly down towards his hand, and offers her the cup.]
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After a while he twists his arm, the small cut already starting to clot, so the sluggish blood drips slowly down towards his hand, and offers her the cup.]
Bottoms up.