Beneath the Blood-Red Sky

Dearest Count,

I am afraid to tell you that I will not be able to fulfil my duties. I had thought I would kneel at your feet as you darkened the bright city lights of London with your terror, feasting upon the crimson sustenance so readily offered by wench and gentleman alike.

Once, I believed there would never come a day when I was not at your beck and call. But alas, the good Doctor insists I require rest—and a different sort of mental stimulus.

So I must bid you adieu, and wish you well in your macabre endeavours, my Lord.

And yet— I fear your grip upon me may never truly loosen. What is freedom, if it is but another species of slavery? The beasts I now consume seem less putrid than those I devoured beneath your watchful gaze—and yet—still I hunger.

Forgive my repulsive and foolish self. My Lord, should you deny me this parting, I fear these walls will not hold me, and I shall come to you beneath the blood-red sky—whether I wish to or not.

Yours faithfully—and wretchedly, eternally,

R. M. Renfield

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This is for Harper's Dear John Rogue Challenge.