When the succulent blood of a strawberry dribbled down his chin, his brother mentioned he resembled a vampire, and rushed down the driveway to catch the school bus.
Now, his mattress swallows him, keeps him prisoner while he desperately struggles to muster the motivation to rise again.
Maybe he is a vampire. Maybe he drains the life force of anyone near him because he is the anti-life of the party. Maybe he is perpetually pale-faced and hates walking out in the sun. Maybe he uses preternatural powers to vanish from social situations. Maybe he spends his life desperately searching for himself in mirrors. Maybe he has spent so much time on this hellish earth that he would rather stay six feet under it.
As he lays in bed, his depression bites into him and siphons every ounce of strength, of courage to face the day.
Maybe he isn’t the vampire after all.
Maybe he just sucks.