Anyone could see that they were a couple very much in love. Always laughing at each other's jokes. Finishing each other's sentences. Name the cliché and you'll find them living up to it without question. 

Like most couples unhealthily obsessed with each other–'in love' as you might like to call it–they also shared the same job, which primarily entailed observing me from behind a plexiglass wall as I went about my day. At work, they were 'babe' and 'honey' to each other, and 'Blue' and 'Grey' to me, named after the liquid concoctions each of them constantly carried around in mini borosilicate tubes arranged in compact metallic racks. Their daily routine was rather simplistic and rarely varied–from the morning coffee to the late-night data sheets, our resident lovebirds lived the same day on repeat and in sync, seemingly as unaffected by rain or flood as by my occasional yowls.

Blue didn't quite seem like her usual self. There were muffled sobs at first, followed by some muted wailing as she curled up on the floor in a fetal position. When she finally resumed working, she did so guided by some sense of heavy disorientation. I watched from the safety of my plexiglass enclosure as Blue snacked on her data sheets and poured the contents of her coffee tumbler into her delicate metal needles. I observed her face gradually changing from pale to just a touch sanguine, before hearing her emit a blood curdling scream as her limbs began to contort.

Grey was barely visible, his entire form a flurry of white garment and erratic gestures. I waited anxiously to hear of the aftermath, pacing and purring away within the plexiglass, scratching at the synthetic material even. No word for days as I purred and yowled away in a dimly-lit chamber otherwise devoid of sound, where Blue and Grey's workstation lay deserted in their absence. Their metal needles grew exceedingly cold, deprived of contact, while a thin film of dust began to collect on the abandoned data sheets. I waited.

The official word was that it wasn't the worms. Grey referred to Blue's episode as that of a "woman under the influence of blood".

My entire being had never known such immense relief. Of course it really was the worms. All it took was a quick scratch on her forearm, as painful as a mosquito bite and just as easily dismissible, as Blue pinched my fur with the weekly dose of blue concoction of the worms that caused my insides to disintegrate while I writhed in agony. Grey followed up the worms with a steady stream of hissing bile pumped into my veins, spreading from the back of my eyes to beans in my toes as the colour drained from them.

Grey had missed his dose in all the excitement. But it won't be long now. I let out a drawn out meow to let him know I'm waiting.

Rasha Jameel is a writer. You can now pre-order the author's NYT bestseller 'How To Komolika: A Short Course To Becoming A Conventional Vamp' from Joe Goldberg's new bookstore in NYC.