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Day 22 - 468 words, end Chapter 2 - Not a rock, I'm just Ruth
All Me, no apologies
just_ruth
just_ruth
Day 22 - 468 words, end Chapter 2
Confessions of a Three Eyed Fag Hag - this was the original ending of the first short story about Tia and her friends. I tweaked it a bit because of the other stories that have mixed themselves in - I may break them up into individual short stories or keep this crazy quilt going after November.
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A little over a week later Pavo was preening in front of me before he went out for his own celebration of the full moon. Ziggy or Jopher, as he was calling himself now, had gone back to where he'd come from to let his relatives know he was still alive but he was promising to come back. He already had a tentative job offer from Roger, who was working out the last details of opening his repair shop.

"What do you think?" Pavel twirled in front of me. "Do I look good enough to eat?"

He was in a black silk shirt and his black leather pants. The shirt was a collarless V that the bloodsuckers favor because they can get at a partner's neck easier.

"Ever hear of the phrase once bitten, twice shy?" I couldn't help but ask as I punched a button on the microwave to make some popcorn.

"Depends on who's biting."

I appealed to the ceiling with all three eyes. He just doesn't want to learn. He's had his heart broken twice by bloodsuckers but he keeps running back for more. Vampires are nothing more than selfish assholes who only care about getting their rocks off with a partner that makes them look good. Always have been, always will be.

". . .Dead in his hotel room," said the news. I turned around and grabbed the remote, turning up the sound.

She did it. Damn her, she did it. Patrice found someone else to make her a love potion. Someone who didn't care about the consequences and now Patrice was going to jail – they were calling it first degree murder. Drugs, booze and then a love potion all turned into poison and the ever-so-famous star that she wanted to love her was dead.

And he would never write the song.

I felt a lump in my throat. Pavel took the remote away from me and clicked to the stupid romance movie channel. He got me some Kleenex. I hadn't even realized I was crying. I hate crying, it gives me a headache, especially when all three eyes get going.

"It wasn't your fault," he said. He sat me down on the couch and wrapped his arms around me. "It wasn't your fault."

"Don't you have to go get yourself bitten?" I couldn't help gulping the words. I blew my nose.

"I think I'm going to stay home with my favorite three-eyed fag hag tonight," he nuzzled my forehead above my third eye. "It wasn't your fault."

It wasn't my fault, but I cried anyway; for a song that would never be written and a little boy who would never have a father or a mother.

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