to please you

Sometime down the road, she stopped appreciating me. I had given up everything for her--my career, my time, my love. Everything I could, I gave to her. I helped her out--not just the little things, either. I got her that dream job she always wanted. I brought her the things she needed. First it was cigarettes, except when she quit for a while. Then booze, in little hidden bottles and flasks so they wouldn't catch on. Just to get through the day. I made her what she was, gave up everything so she could do everything she ever dreamed of.

I even carried on when it was clear she thought of me as nothing but a way to get her fix when she wasn't supposed to or couldn't tear herself away. Because she was more important. Of course she was. And yet--how could she stand it? Knowing that I'd done so much for her?

She wasn't home enough to notice when I started bleeding into her drinks, and she never noticed the taste. If it tasted coppery it was probably just the flask. She never suspected that she was drinking my blood along with her liquor. She was letting me become a part of her. And what if I was growing weaker by the day? She was finally becoming mine, letting me influence her.

Then one night she came home and I had passed out from blood loss, and she called the ambulance. "See?" I said, as they loaded me onto the stretcher. "She does care." And I smiled as they drove me away and the world went black.