That familiar feeling is creeping back in. The wheels of the plane make a horrendous screech as they slam up back down to Earth. Terra Firma. The feeling has been hovering on the edge of my consciousness since I awoke in a different time zone, in a different country, in a different world it almost feels like. If I had to assign words to this feeling, it would most closely resemble apprehension or perhaps even sadness, but neither word can really encapsulate the emotion associated with returning home.
That same miracle, that same one ton of steel breaking with gravity and whisking me away with hopes of adventure and a suspension of reality is now the same drudgery that now brings me back to banality. I left with hopes of adventures I did not read in a book or hear about from friends or watch in surreal colors on television. For ten marvelous, awe-inspiring days I lived that dream, but now I must return to my hopeless hamlet and leave behind that ephemeral joy.
Those days in Brazil held so many first for me. It was my first time experience the oppressiveness of humidity. At this moment I can almost feel the thin sheen of sweat that constant covers your entire body while you are doing nothing more than lounging in the evening air at a street side cafe. The moisture in the air was so thick that it collected in a fog across the hotel windows until in the heat of the day broke the fog into beads of sweat that raced each other down the panes.
It was the first time I experienced fruits named things exotic things like caju, jaca, and maracuja. Although they did not sound as exotic rolling out of my American mouth as they did from the dark skinned rag-tag kids that stopped by the hotel to sell them to the foreigners every morning. As I bit off slabs of their flesh, rolled the unfamiliar textures across my tongue, and wiped their juices away as they escaped out the corner of my lips, I marveled that they grew from the same ground as the mundane fruit I was accustomed to.
It was the first time I camped in the open air, trying to truly become aware of the nature around me. I slept with nothing between me and the canopy of interwoven leaves; the jungle singing its song all around me. I looked down at the now bluish bite on underside of my left wrist that was proof that there was not even the canvas of a tent between me and the raw nature I was looking for. Noticing the bite gave me the urge to scratch the swollen bump that was twice what it was a day ago, but I resisted.
For ten days I felt like I had shook off the invisible blanket of gray that covered everything in my life. For ten days colors were brighter, life was louder, and my consciousness has been awakened. I felt everything from breathing to moving was new and exciting. But looking out the tiny gray portal of the plane, I can feel the blanket falling over my eyes and settling on my shoulders.
Soon the plane was leaving the landing strip and slowly making its way to the gate. The artificial, recycled air was suddenly sweeter and warmer as the pumps pulled in air from outside the plane. The arid smell of the dry dirt of the desert rushed in and began to stealing the moisture from inside my nose. The sensation rushes from my nose to the back of my throat where it triggers a cough.
I sputter and then cough into my hands. I can feel the portly guy sitting in the middle seat, who’s bulk had slowly been invading my space for the last 14 hours give me a contemptuous glance over his shoulder without moving his head. As if the audacity it took to cough while in his vicinity was an unforgivable sin. Out of shear spite I coughed harder to give him something to stare at.
Suddenly there a familiar copper taste rushed into my mouth. Perhaps I put just a touch more effort into that than I should have. When I pull back my hands, I can see they were covered with a mucusy red mess that startles me. I had tasted the blood as soon as it left the back of my throat, but this blood was the deep crimson of blood that was old and exposed to air. My confusion gave way to sudden embarrassment when I realized that my fat friend was now openly staring at me.
Agoged, I close my palms and pull at the corner of my jacket that is sitting just inside the open zipper of my backpack and quickly wipe away the evidence of my drama gone awry. Looking back up, Mr. 14B had already hopped into the aisle. Suddenly overcome with overwhelming exhaustion, I just sat for a moment to, not only allow him to make his escape, but also to muster enough energy to make my way home.
Standing on the four linoleum squares that made up my entry way to my expansive 712 square feet apartment, I can not help but notice how deathly quite it is. Before I left I had power down everything that normally whirls, buzzes, and hums in preparation for my absence. In shafts of the orangey, early evening sunlight filtered the through the dead air, dust particles float down to find places on my furniture that I will then surely fail to dust for several months. Everything here testified of the feeling I could not put words to. It is quite as a tomb, and devoid of life.
There is no cat to call to, no plant to rush to and quench its parched soil. Instead, I sag down into the couch, even more weary than I was at the airport. I am sure my travel worn feeling was from actual travel. I collect enough strength to chortle at my own wit. Assessing how the rest of my evening would play out, I wonder why I am not hungry. I have not eaten since San Paolo. The smells of greasy hamburgers and fried sides during my lay over in Miami did nothing to stimulate my appetite. Bedraggled, I decide it is time to just call it a day. I take only myself, no bags, into the bedroom where I fall into bed without removing an stitch of clothing, a smear of makeup, or either contact. Sleep claims me quickly and completely.
*********************
Trying to rouse myself from slumber makes me feel like Lazarus waking from the dead. Opening my eyelids feels like a near impossible task, so I leave them shut for a moment and assess the rest of my body. My limbs are heavy and it takes a concentrated effort to move them. The sheet I must have found in the night and thrown over me suddenly feels like a death shroud. I must get it off of me immediately. Slowly, with exaggerated jerking motions, I coax my sand filled legs into kicking the sheet off. Now slightly winded and still exhausted, I wonder idly how much sleep I have gotten, for my body is surely testifying it was minimal. Prying open oysters is easier than peeling back my lids to start the day. I turn my head towards the clock. The large, red numbers are blurry and danced about wavily. Squinting, I can now make out the numbers.
"No!" I hissed out. I had slept 12 hours. I usually cannot make it four because the urge to void will not let me slumber longer.
Pushing up off the bed, I stagger a little bit as my legs are slow to respond. It takes a couple of pumps before the muscle memory required to stand erect and move returns to them. I make my way to the toilet, turn and sit. And there I sat, and sat, and sat. Finally a trickle begin. The acrid smell assaults my nostrils before the sound of the urine hitting the water reaches my ears. Peering down, I could see the stream was a cloudy and dark amber in color.
The panic sat in my chest for a full beat before I began to make the connections that seemed so obvious now. Doing a quick self assessment, no appetite, body aches, blurred vision, the odd urine...I am sick. This is just my luck. As I ponder my luck that I am not working today when the image of my blood covered hands from yesterday flashes across my mind. Of course I am sick. It seemed so obvious now.
A couple of hours l came to the conclusion I was sick and I am now in a nearly vacant waiting room trying to decide between “People” and “Newsweek” to read. Sly I look around before passing up "Newsweek", and pick up “People”. I sit down and my muscles seem stiff and non-compliant. I have a sinking suspicion this was going to be more than just a cold.
Trying to focus on the spreads of glossy photos and bold words becomes an impossible task. My vision seems to worse than it was this morning looking for the alarm clock. I shut the magazine in frustration and let it fall between my knees. I tilt my head back, leaning it against the wall and let the exhaustion wash over me.
It is minutes later that the nurse calls me back. Embarrassment flushes at how I have to rock back and forth to get to my feet, and even more so when I turn and see the darkened spot on the wall where my head had been. With a quick glance around, I am ensure I am the only one who notices and shuffle after the pert nurse into the back part of the office.
The climb onto the table is torture. The paper crinkles beneath me as I try to reposition myself so I am centered and there is no chance of a fall off the excessively high table. The nurse busied herself filling out the blank sheet on the front of my chart.
“Reason for visit today”, she chirped out without her eyes ever leaving the paper.
My list of symptoms tumble out of my mouth. I follow each with a short pause to allow her to record them. She scratched them on to the paper with a false, painted on look of sympathy.
After writing far more on the paper than just my symptoms, she exchanges the chart for a rolling machine with a blue front display. She slides a tiny, latex sleeve with a glowing red light over my finger, and then begin to encircle my arm with the the blood pressure cuff, she starts the cuff’s anaconda squeeze and turns to pull out a thermometer. Sticking the probe under my tongue without any attempt at eye contact, she goes back to her scribbling.
Beep, beep, beeeeep. The nurse peels her eyes away from the scribbling and inspects the front of the machine as she nits her brow in a cute, practiced way.
“Problem?”, I mumble out the side of my mouth, trying not to not drop the thermometer.
“This stupid thing, we just got it and already it has decided to quit on us.” Punching some buttons, the cuff begins to inflate again. The hum of the small compressor continues on and on. Real frustration bursts across her face and for the first time since I walked into the room, she has checked into the situation. She reaches up to remove the now flaccid cuff from my arm, and the white coated, grey bearded doctor walks in.
The nurse, flustered, turns to face him and said, “I am so sorry Dr. Stevens, I know you are running behind but this stupid vital sign machine is not working. It says her heart rate is 36, her temperature is to low to read and the blood pressure cuff just inflates and never takes a reading.” She furiously begins to punch more buttons on the display.
“No matter, we can get them after the exam. Can I see the chart?” he says as his eyes scan the room for the elusive chart.
Glad for the chance to escape reprimand, the nurse pushes the defunct machine into the corner of the exam room, hands over the chart, and hastily beat a retreat towards the door.
Afflicted by the same inability to look me in the eye, he addresses me as his eyes scan over the paper.
“So we have been feeling a little under the weather have we?”, he lilts.
Silently I thought, “We have not been under the weather, you were not there when ‘we’ vomited in the parking lot? No, you were not”. I thought it but did not say it. Instead, I politely tell him about fetid urine, the random bloody incident on the plane, today’s vomiting without the forewarning of nausea, the weakness that made me feel like the walking dead.
“Vomiting, weakness, a bloody nose, and the urine.” He rattles off as he turns towards the counter behind him and grabs a pad. His pen scratched across the script and he tears it off with a practiced swipe. He hands it to me as he said, “I am sure that you just have a bladder infection. Fill this and call my nurse in a week if you don’t feel better.
Before I can look up from the prescription in my hand, he is out the door. The whole exchange took less than three minutes. I am unsure if I should be mad that he did not live up to the paternal figure TV always assured me doctors were or to be relieved that he is so good that he did not even have to examine me to know what was wrong. Mad wins the struggle.
Pulling myself off the table is an extraordinary effort. One foot hit the ground and there is no second leg to catch me. I windmill and bang my forearm on the edge of the counter. Mad before, I am now seething. I drag myself to the car and make a draining drive to the pharmacy, then home where I fall into my sheets fully clothed.
****************************
The room is so bright. Opening my eyes, I blink rapidly, trying to save my screaming retinas from the pain. Squinting I look up at the ceiling. How long have I be laying here? What is that horrendous smell? The pervasive smell is a sour smell that reminded me vaguely of the way my trunk used to smell after a flank steak escaped a grocery bag and went green before discovery. I quickly decide the smell somehow emanating from me. Even if the smell was not me, I am sure I need to bathe since I have not showered since Brazil.
I shuffle into the bathroom and it takes a few moments for me to flip the shower on since my hand is having trouble closing properly around the knob. I slowly undress. Ugh, the smell must be in my clothes, for when I began to undress, the smell got stronger. Perhaps when I vomited yesterday, I got some on me and just did not realize it. I want the clothes as far away from me, while I showered, as possible. Crossing the bathroom, I put them in the corner.
Heading back to the shower, I catch my reflection in the mirror. I am ghastly. I am so pale. Where has my sun kissed skin from the warm Brazilian sun gone? I can not believe the cadaverous face staring back at me from the mirror was mine.
Slowly I raise my left arm to touch my face and when I do, I receive a shock that pales in comparison to the one I just had noticing my pastiness. Bringing my arm up into my field of vision, I can see that the entire area from my previously nickel sized bite to my elbow was a deep blue that is bordering on black. The color streaks down my arm, illuminating the arteries and veins that resided right under my skin.
Horrified I look back to the mirror and the back of my arm comes into view. My God, what was happening? The entire back of my forearm looks like something out of a horror movie. The area that I struck on the counter yesterday at the doctor’s office has now split along the long line made by the counter. The pale skin has peeled back, revealing the structures underneath. Only they no longer look like skin or connective tissue or muscle. Instead of the warm pink glow you expect your innards to be, they are only a shade or two lighter than blue that covers the other side of my arm.
Unbelieving of what the mirror is showing me, I bring my arm up so my eyes can confirm what I thought I was seeing. As soon as my arm comes close to my face, I realize for the first time, the putrid smell is coming from me. The smell is now so strong in my nostrils that it can no longer be confused with anything else. It was the smell of death.
Pure panic flashes across me. I do not know what to do. The smell continues to recycle and send the same smell of putrefaction to my brain every time I draw a breath. All I want is for the smell to be off of me.
The shower runs behind me, so I move into it and snap the door closed behind me. A deep sob escapes past my lips and I douse all the shampoo that would come out of the bottle with a gigantic squeeze down my front. My right arm still functions, so I furiously begin to spread the sea foam green slippery mess around my body. Tears mix with the water from the shower head and around my feet I can see the entire floor of the shower become a slimy green mess.
Another wave of panic crashes over me, and I lean to grab the bottle again, to empty the rest of the contents unto myself. Leaning over, the slick alkaloidic mess covering the shower floor squishes between my toes and I pitch forward. Putting my hands out in front of me to catch myself did nothing. Covered in slick, green soap, both of my hands slam against the glass of the shower door and shoot out in opposite directions. The last thing I see, is my head meeting the glass.
*****************
Waking up, I somehow know I am different. I have a general awareness of my body, but I cannot call what I am experiencing feeling. Feeling is like a movie, bright and tells a story; flickering information, more at times, less at other. This, instead, is like a picture. Flat, static, and conveying only two dimensional information. The water is still running over my feet, and although I know it must now be running cold, it does not chill me as cold water should. The only thing that I must now focus on is my brain saying I have to move, I must get up, I must get off of this floor.
While I struggle to put my decision of movement into action, a sound like gravel hits my ears. There is crunching and popping as I stand. With my feet finally beneath me, I look down and notice that the sound was not gravel at all, but the thousand glittering bit of glass that was once the shower door, spread across the floor like beads of morning dew. After I am able to stand up, I look down further and I can see my naked body is now the repository for hundreds upon hundreds more. Each sticks out at different angles, but none of them causing the bright droplets of blood one would expect to be to escaping from around each point.
I try to pull my arms up to brush some of the glass off of me, but instead find it almost impossible to bend them at the elbows, like a metal rod has replaced my, my, my...I could not think what they are called. Arm bones is right, but there is a different word, other words that I want, but could not bring forward. Trying to pull the obscure word out of my brain, is like trying to swim through murky waters. The word is not important, but I want to see how badly the glass has infected my once smooth skin. I drag each foot forward, my arms still extended, and walk over to the mirror.
The first thing I notice is not the thousand points of light the glass shards create in the florescent glow of the bathroom light, or the pale blue hue my skin had taken on, or my swollen and bloated belly. It is the gaping wound on my arm, and how it was not festering, or oozing exudate, or attempting to scab over as a wound trying to heal would. Instead, it is cold and dead. I examine it with detachment because it is impossible to feel that the dead thing is even a part of me. Had you severed it at the shoulder and handed it to me, it would be no different to me than the condition it is in now. Despite the way my legs feel, numb and oddly heavy, I know that they were yet the dead flesh of my arm. I can feel the total death starting to spread down from the shoulder to my chest wall and across my back. Soon my entire body will no longer be in the process of dying, it will be completely enveloped.
It is in this moment, contemplating the moment of total cellular death, that I sense the natural conclusion to this train of thought. Looking at myself is not easy, as a thin film of milkiness now clouds my vision, but what I can see are all the things that make this outrageous thought even a remote reality. Had it not been so horrible, I would feel the need to guffaw at how ridiculous the thought gnawing at the edge of my brain was.
The word zombie keeps trying to surface into my conscious mind, but no, that is ludicrous. I don't understand how this could have happened, but no other conclusion made sense. Although, did this even really make sense? Zombies were fodder for sci-fi books and second rate movies, not something you worry about like cancer or heart disease. Yet, could there be any other conclusion?
My mind feels like it was trying to come to a conclusion while sinking in a puddle of nectar thick liquid. Standing there, I cannot seem to muster enough mental clarity work through the problem. Stalled in thought and stark naked for longer than I care to admit, I decide that while I may have one foot in the grave that I am not totally there yet. Unable to think of any other course of action, I decide I must get back to Dr. Stevens' office.
It could have been minuets or hours that passed as I struggled to clothe myself. I was unaware of anything other than how difficult the process was. I decided to forgo the attempt to brush my hair or apply makeup as to not startle all those I was sure to come into contact with on the way over. I did not even try to remove the tiny points of glass sticking out all over my front and simply pulled a simple wrap dress around myself. I paired it with a house slippers, out of sheer need, for they were already on the floor.
After the ordeal of getting dressed, while wondering what could be have been harder when I suddenly had my answer. The same lose of time occurred, moments turned to minutes as I stand at the front door, arms extended out in front of me, trying to figure out how to get through it. Making decisions is becoming harder and harder. I finally am able to make a grip with my one good hand, and swing the door in. The swing inward come quicker than I expect and rebounded back as it ricochets off the side of my face. I stand startled; not because it hit me for my reactions are such that there would have been no way to avoid it, but because I am still not accustomed to the lack of sensation.
I maneuver myself around the door and emerge onto my porch. Stepping out into the sunlight, the world seems wrong. My apartment door still looks out onto the street with duplexes lining the other side, but it is like someone turned down the volume on the entire scene. Matte and muted, the entire world seems to meld together. No one thing stands out against the wash of blandness.
Then movement comes across my vision and in an instant, it is all I can concentrate on. It is a jogger. He bounces up and down, his shirtless body glistening with sweat. Watching him takes over my entire being. All that is in me is drawn to him and his smooth motion. I watch him bound down the sidewalk, and then there is suddenly something else. Below the movement I can sense something, something magnetic, something so inviting. I can sense, what was this I am sensing, his heart, his warmth, how alive he is? I am not sure, but I feel so drawn to it. All I want is to be as close to him as I can.
Spurred by the unfamiliar draw, I start my shuffle towards him. Letting one stiff foot fall in front of the other, I try to push my stiff legs faster to reach his warm skin before it is gone. But he is simply too fast. Finally reaching the sidewalk, I crane my neck in an attempt to spot the warm blip on my otherwise dulled radar, but he is gone. I swing my neck and head together in the other direction in hopes I just have not spotted him, but instead I miss the edge of the curb and unable to stop the fall, I fall face flat in the street.
As I lay prostrate on street, I begin to try to roll myself over. Abrupt and unexpected, I again feel that same heat that could only come from the living. A family from across the street saw my fall and the average looking man detached himself from his small brood and is now kneeling beside me. He places one glowingly warm hand on me and it radiates his heat down to the dead flesh below him.
It is like the rest of the world melted away, and I could focus on nothing else except the warm, pink glow of his skin. He dipped his head down to try and better assess the damage I had done on the pavement. His neck was was close. So close I could almost hear his heart beat within. There was something inside of him I wanted. The desire to reach out for it, to taste whatever that was is so strong. I cannot say why I did it, but I lean into him and before can process what I am about to do, I bit down. It first thing I feel is amazement because unlike anything else, I can actually feel the warmth of it. Warm, then hot liquid rushes into my mouth, over my chin, and down my neck. I revel in the salty taste of it, but it is still not exactly what I want.
My delight is interrupted when the man reels back from me. His left hand flutters up to the crimson fountain I have opened on his neck, eyes so wide that his irises are rimmed all around with white. He is unmistakably terrified of me. A hint of regret touches me as I look up and can see the bright stream escaping from between his fingers as he tries to staunch the flow. It make a puddle on his shirt that grows and grows, washing down his front wasted and untasted. The hot sheet of blood down my chin began to cool and return the skin beneath it to the dead, unfeeling mass it was before.
My distress at the lose of such experience is eclipsed as the matriarch of the brood came rushing forward to see what was happening. She leans close to me and asked, "Are you hurt too?", mistaking the blood down my chin for my own. She is close, so very close. I can feel the pulse below her skin, and want to again taste the salty goodness, to again feel something. All I have to do is lean into her, and with a single bite, the blood gushed forth. It is more than my mouth could hold. I open my jaw wider to try to capture more of the fluid, trying to decide why the taste is good but still not quite right. What am I missing?
Without a thought, I released the writhing woman, and reached around her to pull the small girl hiding there to me to see if I can figure out the taste. Kicking and screaming, I pull her to me and again bit at the neck. In her struggle to get away, instead of biting across the taunt muscle between the throat and head like I did her parents, I get a half mouth full of hair, a warm gush of blood and then the most marvelous taste I can ever remember. It is faint but gushes into me and starts a fire within.
What is this? Pulling the small body away from me, I refocused and bit her across the back of the neck again. There it is, the taste is like magic. What was so different? Putting my fingers into the gaping hole, I peel back the skin and part of her skull like it I am peeling an orange. Below the surface I can now see a pink, quivering mass that must surely be the source of the intoxicating smell wafting up at me. Leaning in, I take a bite. Joy rushes into me; it is like a feeling of completion. I look down closer to see what I had eaten that finally spoke to my hunger. My jaw stops mid-chew. Looking down at the limp figure in my hands, I can see the frill at the bottom of her dress and two patent leather shoes swing as her legs sway with my movement. I become cognizant of the fact that it was an actual person, a human being just like I once was and the material in my mouth was her brain. I immediately drop her to the ground and back away as the horror of my actions settle into my addled mind.
I watch as she falls limply to the ground. The half of skull that I had dislodged make a sickening smack as it flops back into place. With the warm blood all down my front starting to cool, I am trying to come to grips with what I have just done, but cannot. I have to get away. I have to get away now. I turn and begin to shuffle down the street, I have to hide from this. I have to hide from the horrible things that I had just done.
How could this be? What kind of monster just murders three innocent people in the street? That is what I am, a monster. The blood smeared down the front of my dress, and becoming tacky across my arms sickens me. I am not a ruthless killer. I feel the urge to cry but my eyes will not respond. This upsets me even more. What have I become?
I shuffled at top speed until I catch a whiff of a scent so delectable that it blots out all other thoughts. No bakery ever had an aroma like this. The smell calls to me, beckoning me, no commanding me to follow. I veer courses to follow the alluring odor. It is coming from an open garage, who's recesses are too dark to see from the driveway. Crossing the threshold, I can now see a lone man, bent over a lawn mower, with his back to me.
I am half way across the garage before he becomes aware of me. He turns to me and politely asks, "Can I help you?".
"I don't know", I think, "can you?", but from my mouth only spews a mumble that sounds like a wounded duck. He is squinting as I come closer because I am so back-lit from the sun streaming through the open garage door. So close. He begins to stand and turn toward me in one fluid motion. I can feel my need rise in me. Quicker than I though I was still capable of, I cover the distance between us and fill my mouth with the soft flesh of his neck. The bite satisfied my want to feel the warmth again, but does not satisfy the need pulsing just below the surface. Releasing my jaw, he sinks to the oil slicked garage floor.
Kneeling before me, head bowed as if in prayer, the crown of his head is all I can see. My instinct moves through me like lightening and before thoughts can register, I am sending him back to his God. My teeth melt into his flesh, yielding so easily to that which is so unlike those I had mere days ago. I bite down and the sound of crunching of bone fills my ears. Pulling back I have a mouth full of skull, hair, and bone. The warm sheet of his blood moving down my front intrigues me only momentarily, for I know a joy for beyond that of the warmth.
My eyes fall upon the exposed pink mass, quivering delectably just above the rim of his exposed skull. I open my mouth to let the the crown of his head fall out to make room for the only thing I could ever want again. I only have a vague gnawing feeling that I should not be indulging in such a feast before I bend over and take the most intoxicating bite of anything that has ever been in my mouth. It is so good that all objections melt away behind the buzz of joy now rising in my chest. I pull my face away, so I could move to a new spot, I bite again. Bliss fills my entire stiff and decaying being. How could I have gone my entire life and not known a taste like this? It is a satisfaction that no mortal experience had ever given me.
Before I could take my third bite, a scream tears through the air. Homicidus interruptus. I search for the source of the sound, and from the side door leading from the house a teenage boy's warmth draws my attention. He stands in the jamb, fear painted on his face at the reality of what I am doing. He backs away. A surge of my old self roils to the surface of my conscious thought, and I feel the need to console him, to tell him what happened to me to make me do such a thing. I need him to understand about the rapture encased in each thin skull shell around me, to know I understand why he is upset. Backing up, he stumbles over the lip that stands between the house and the garage. He slams hard into the tiled floor of the house because instead of using his arms to brace himself, they are extended out toward me. I should help him up. Letting the man slump and fall sideways, I close the gap between the teenager and I in a couple of long, shuffling steps.
His thin frame is quaking as he struggles to scuttle backwards into the house, but the door has swung back toward him and is now barring his way. He suddenly reminds me of a bird trapped in a net, struggling in blind panic to the point that he was incapable of rational thought. I advance on him with no other intention than to help him to his feet. Leaning forward, all thoughts of regret or assistance, or need for explanation are gone when I feel the pull of the warm liquid below his skin. Opening my mouth is automatic, I must feel the warm rush again. Nothing else in that moment matters. Free flowing crimson rushes into my mouth, down my throat, infusing me with life and purpose. The rush was even shorter than last time, why cannot I not hold on to that feeling? I then remember that like the man, and the girl before, this boy holds that which I want most. I know I have to taste the joy that only his brain can give me.
I never did feel the approach. I am so consumed with finding the teenage boy's brain, that I never am aware that a second, huskier boy had descend upon me. It is not until the baseball bat strikes across the back of my head, reeling it forward, that I am cognizant that anyone else is present.
I drop the frightened bird in my arms, where he slumps holding both hands over the geyser on his neck and round to see who has assaulted me. Turning to face my assailant, I can see the fact I am a woman shocks him and the bat dips from the ready in his hands. In the split moment that he drops his guard and I lunge with sheer reflex and close my jaw around his upraised forearm like the predator I now am. With my jaw locked on his arm, the fire in his eyes returns, and I know this makes me fair game.
He struggles to free his arm from my grasp. He shakes me violently from one side and then to the other, but my jaw is immovable against the strength of just his one arm. It was only when the thin layer of skin clamped between my treacherous teeth tears at a ragged, odd angle, that he becomes free from my grasp.
A beat passes as I try to decide if this new kind of flesh in my mouth is something I want. Before the thought is even half formed in my mind, the bat slams across the side of my head. The sheer force of the blow knocks me sideways. A crack rings out as the other side of my head hits the concrete floor of the garage. Again I note the lack of pain and am still amazed by it, all that comes through is an odd sensation as my head bounced once again and comes again smacking down into the now damp with gore concrete.
When my head settles, it is in such a way that my chin is skyward and I can see him. He is so young, too young to be chosen for this task. He is standing over me, arm bleeding, with the bloodied bat held high over his head. I open my mouth to speak the thanks in my heart for what he is about to do, but it is already too late, for the bat is already in full swing. The wood of the bat is the last thing I see before vision in my left eye is winks out. All that is there now is the dark tunnel vision in my right eye.
I struggle and am able to lift my head to look up at him through that eye. I can see the fury etched into his face. I suddenly feel sad for I know that fury is because of the monster I am, and not because he has a clue of the monster I have made him.
The last thing I see is the bat, covered in my own festering gore make its way down towards me, and in this moment I do not think of my mother, or all the plans I had for my life. All I can think about is how I regret not getting to taste that sweetest of tastes for one last time. I am only sad I will never get to taste his brain.
