Enjoy.

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I scream, for the wounds hurt. Cutting has always hurt, but never like this. Maybe the pain is more intense today because he is watching me. Those intelligent, cultured eyes pour over my motions as I moan slightly, never leaving the spot where I stand before him. He came to visit today, the Good Doctor always making house calls, and I won't lie, for I was happy to see him. But, God Almighty, it hurts!

His eyes never leave my wrist as the blood trickles down my arm in little crimson lines and pools at my feet. Those bright, sharp eyes are hungry, always hungry and patiently waiting for the meal that will never come to him freely.

He started only slightly when I made the first incision. A straight razor, I have come to find, cuts more efficiently than anything else I have tried. He caught himself, folding deep into his mind, becoming the stoic doctor I feel I know so well. He cannot bring his eyes to meet my face, but I can tell he burns for me and mine by the way his brow furrows. His desperate eyes lever leave my wrist and I make a second incision, parallel to the first and find myself filled with a strange, child-like delight. Look at me daddy! No hands! I cut it off. All yours now.

I feel weaker now, and have to move to sit down on the edge of my tub in my cold bathroom. I can see concern flitting across his haggard face like brief shadows. Without warning, he moves towards me, kneeling in front of me, his eyes pleading for a taste of the forbidden fruit.

I extend my wrist and he takes it. His fingers feel like fire wherever they touch and he examines the wound, ever the Good Doctor even in the thralls of hunger. Slowly, he meets my eyes and lowers him lips to the blood. The tip of his tongue dances across my skin and I shiver in unexpected delight. He shudders and moves to clamp his mouth around the wound, his throat pumping as he drinks my life's blood from me. Bet he wishes he had a nice Chianti with him now.

I close my eyes and watch the colors play across my lids. I am barely hanging onto consciousness now; only the feel of his lips keeps my mind awake. Deep in my heart, I know I should be disgusted, but I'm not. I'm loving every minute.

He pulls away and stands, elegant and taunt in his motion as he leaves the room. In a moment, he returns with bandages and antiseptic. A small trickle of blood escapes him and I reach out and wipe it away. He pauses, staring at the wavering red drop on my fingertip, then kisses it.

The Good Doctor. A killer of men, an eater of flesh, a sadist of the heart and mind bandages my wrist, looks of sympathy and understanding passing through his cold dark eyes, gentle fingers making butterfly touches on my skin. I can hear him in my mind, begging me to never do that again.

But I must. It's the only way I feel anything anymore. No lingering looks stir my heart. No soft touches make me shudder. I am dead inside. I feel no more. Because of him. Isn't it ironic that the one who drinks from my heart is the one who stole it in the first place?

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Sorry the ending's a bit abrupt there. :D I might do a sequel or another chapter, no idea. Please review and let me know what you thought. If you like angst, feel free to check out some of my other stuff. Fire and Ice is x-files, so...whatever. k. Thanks for reading! -T