Metafiction from the Blood Donation Chair

I  give blood while watching a crime drama about vampires. The nurse is needledeft, and gore pours from my arm. Coiling lines of red wrap my wrist. Crook of my elbow looks unreal, the hole in my arm, my blood - the nurse guards my wan face, drapes a white cloth over the elbow. I still feel the hot, tubed blood trailing down open palm. She has brought me a soda, so that one hand is cold and dewy, the other, on fire. A vampire bites into the white hollow of a sleeping woman's neck. Control is key. Bleeding to death would be so easy: replace the pint bag seven times, and I am a sheet. An old man stops in for coffee, can't donate now because of his medicine, but he's a pint away from having donated thirty-nine gallons. The vampires escape, of course. I wonder if they take phlebotomy classes at their local community college. Watch as the line between saving life and taking it approaches asymptotic. A lone vampire steals into the shadows behind the police chief's house. Watch the bag of my blood fatten. Remember not to stand up too fast, and be sure to grab a cookie on your way out the door.