blood thief

In a land of perpetual night I took to sitting in the bed of a red pick-up truck on a fairly regular basis. The truck was parked in my suburban childhood neighborhood, down Graeloch Road. I would just sit in it and think, and I always left it neat and exactly as I found it. The owner sometimes starred at me from his house window, but never said anything; I suppose he knew I wasn’t doing any harm. One time as I was getting ready to leave, he came outside. I was nervous, I didn’t know what to do. I took nothing from the truck, although this time it seemed to be lined with bait: a tube of cookies, a nice coat (that I initially thought was mine), even a little money. The owner didn’t say anything to me. In fact, I knew him — he was a kind new-agey man in his late 30s, too kind, to the point that he was a bit stupid.
One of the neighbors emerged from him home from across the street. He was in a panic. He immediately asked if we were donors, and said franticly, “she needs blood right now!” I didn’t trust him at all, something about his face and tone wouldn’t let me. I declined to aid the situation and made up an excuse to take my leave. The new-agey man did not. I was nervous for him, and asked for his phone number as he climbed into the strange man’s small car; but I didn’t get it all, he was too caught up in the situation’s distraught energy.
I later found out that he was drained of all his blood and left out in the woods for no particular reason. That man across the street . . . I see him sometimes, in other dreams. He has shoulder length hair, and he’s always sweating and in a frenzy. His greeting smile is a bit crooked. I’ve seen him before in waking life too, but I don’t recall where. ♨

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