In truth, Emilie didn't even remember the last time she had something to eat. A few days? A week? She didn't fucking know and she didn't fucking care because the wash made it so that she couldn't even feel the hunger pains as she wasted away to nothing. Just a week before, she'd seen a ghoul who had yanked out all of his teeth with a pair of rusted pliers because it seemed like a good idea at the time, and he hadn't felt a thing.
It was poison, alright, but it was a poison that Emilie was sure she would die without. She'd die because of it, too, but at least that death would be softer and sweeter. That's what she told herself, anyway. Never mind that death by Prax was slow and debilitating; it turned you into a rotting corpse before it ever really did you in.
"Rodeo," she half sobbed, half growled, and her grip on his knees tightened, her dangerous talon-like nails digging into the rough material of his jeans. "Can't be done. Can't be. I'll die without it. Don't you see? Why does no one see?" Emilie was shaking, both with the need for another hit and with the sheer amount of terror at the thought of not having anymore wash. She didn't even realize she was crying, the tears mixing with her smudged eyeliner and mascara until they ran in black tracks down cheeks that were once full and soft with life.
"No, no, nononono. Tell me what to do. Anything. It's inside of me. Once it's in, you can't get it out. It makes a home and when you don't feed it, it eats you. You don't understand."