Page 12 of Blood Lust

I remember her playfully tilting her head, exposing the right side of her neck. Her smooth and clean skin seemed as if it was made from the world’s finest vanilla ice cream. Her paleness was the perfect backdrop for the bluish carotid artery.

“You ever, you know, used them for...” she asked flirtatiously. “Biting necks...?”

Normally, I’m awkward around girls, but as soon as Annie asked me that question, I realized that here was the first girl to know exactly how to push my buttons. A newfound and unexpected confidence percolated from within as soon as I heard her question. My response was of few words, but felt natural and filled me with an inner strength I knew I always had but never knew how to express.

I nodded and grinned. “Yeah, maybe.”

A cold shiver raced down my spine. It rattled me enough to where the confidence Annie just elicited disappeared just as suddenly, replaced by the image I always had of my unusual exterior. That of a misshapen, snaggle-toothed wimp who’d been bullied and cursed with semi-poverty all his life…

“Snap out of it,” said a man’s voice.

As his voice grows louder, Annie’s own trails off...

Then I feel a familiar cold bite at my ribs. The simmering heat from inside the warehouse has been replaced by a strange sensation. As if I’ve awakened naked on the sleet-covered hood of my mom’s Oldsmobile.

I turn on my side and a man and a woman stand overme, both in their mid-thirties and both wearing spectacles. The woman sounds like Annie but looks nothing like her.

In my groggy and blurry-eyed state, I ask her, “Annie? Is that you?”

“No,” she says with a smile.

“Aaron, we’re here to give you an assessment. How are you feeling?” asks the man.

I’m dreaming, and these folks bring me back to my reality. I answer their question as honestly as I can. “Like crap,” I moan.

The woman then asks, “Do you need a glass of water?”

“Please.” I moisten my dry lips with my tongue.

“We’re here to ask you some pertinent questions,” the man adds. “But we want to know if we can trust you. You’re currently sedated, but we’re worried it might wear off before our initial counseling session is over. We’re here to help you, and if you work with us, you might not be stuck in this small room for long.”

What the hell is going on?

“What do you mean?” I say. I sit up on my bench, feeling as if my head is ready to explode.

The man says, “I’m Dr. Finnegan and this is Dr. Carter. We are both clinical psychologists for the hospital and we have a few questions about your condition, and um, your physical attributes.”

Euphoria envelops me for the first time since that last blissful moment I shared with Annie. The combination of refreshing water entering my lips and the gentle and caring, though clinical, words from someone else makes me feel like a human being once again.

Chapter Eleven

Finnegan looks like a chubby-cheeked chipmunk stuffed into a scarecrow’s body. His face is oddly bloated, as if someone inflated it just a little too much, while the rest of him stays gaunt and wiry. His glasses—thick as bulletproof glass—magnify his wide, unblinking eyes, making me feel like a bug pinned under a microscope slide.

“I feel like hell,” I mutter, pushing myself up against the wall. My head swims, thick and slow. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re dosing me so you can have your way with me once I’m out.” I shoot the female doctor a lazy, knowing nod. “So what’s the deal, Doc?”

“You only received a half-dose of Thorazine, which is why you can still talk and sit up. The effects should last for another thirty minutes or so,” he says.

“Thora-what?”

“Thorazine. It’s a tranquilizer.”

“You tranquilized me without my consent? Damn, you players don’t mess around. My ass isn’t sore yet, so I’m guessing you went first.” I say pointedly to Dr. Carter.

Dr. Carter, lanky and with a frizzy head of hair, stands taller than Dr. Finnegan. She also comes across as bookish, cold, and clinical. She bends down, studying my mouth and says, “You gave up consent when you took Annie Hox’s life, Mr. Parker.”

They remind me again of my crime, as if I haven’t known what I did. As if I haven’t felt a tremendous amount of guilt for my actions, minute after minute, hour after hour, and day after day since I committed my most dark act. The constant accusations and reminders from attorneys, to the judge and jury, police, and now physicians, make me want to explode. I feel the urge to act as the villain they insinuate me to be.

“And I’d do it again,” I say, with a hiss and a grin.

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