Page 17 of Blood Lust

“Yes, I truly am.” I almost mean it.

“So, you are aware of your actions?”

“I believe so.”

“You claim to be a vampire,” the doctor says, raising his eyebrow skeptically.

“In the flesh. I’d show you my official membership card, but I’m strapped down at the moment.”

“Quite the dubious claim.”

“That depends on who you have been talking to,” I mutter, almost incoherently.

“Mr. Parker, I run a tight ship,” Dr. Redfield continues. “I’m also facing severe budget cuts. Keeping you in isolation requires a tremendous amount of resources that I do not have at my disposal. At present, I have two others in solitary confinement. One, a sexual deviant who wants to screw everything that moves, and who has tried assaulting everyone, and I mean everyone, including Don here, who is by no means a lustful target. No offense, Don.”

“None taken,” Don replies.

“I have another patient who believes he’s a werewolf and has bitten ten times the number of people you have, but he’s been here three months.”

A werewolf? I’d be a hypocrite in saying I don’t believe in werewolves. Of course, I don’t believe in them. What kind of crazy fool would believe they’re a werewolf? But I have to ask.

“A werewolf? Wow, does he mark his territory on fire hydrants? Get zoomies at 3 a.m.? Do you have to buy extra-strength lint rollers? And does PetSmart even carry flea collars in his size?”

“Shut the hell up!” Don hisses, squeezing my shoulder.

I would’ve bitten his hand. Meanwhile, the more this Redfield fellow talks, the more arrogant he seems. Underneath his lab coat, I glimpse an expensive gray suit and a lavender tie. As my eyes regain focus, I notice his hair and beard are an unnatural black.

“Mr. Parker, when I look at you, I don’t see someone severely ill or handicapped by his condition. We’ve assessed that you might be suffering from a milder condition, an identity crisis of sorts. Similar to those suffering from homosexuality.”

“Oh, you’re one of those guys. You’ll be happy to know I am as straight as they come, but it wasn’t for me giving it the old college try for a wild weekend or two. Just saying, never go to a college theater party without a ride home. If you know what I’m getting at.” And I give him a big wink.

I briefly had a gay friend in tenth grade. He never told me he was gay, but he was the most effeminate guy I’d ever met. Nice, too, and he never made a move on me. I mean, who would? I’m not sexy. I have the build and posture of Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree. But he accepted me for who I was, fangs and all, and because of that, I thought he was a cool dude, and nowhere near the mental case Dr. Redfield insinuates he might be.

Redfield’s choice of a colorful tie seems odd, in light of his prejudices. I notice a pendant hanging over it. I can’t make it out as it’s too small to decipher, especially in my drugged state. I’ve been hanging out with goths over the past year, and its shape and inscription seem almost occult-like. Perhaps he belongs to some kind of secret cult.

“Mr. Parker,” he says, calling for my attention as I lean forward, squinting at his pendant. “Mr. Parker?”

“Yes?”

“Have you involved yourself in any activities one might consider satanic in nature?”

“No, sir. I’m a man of God.”

“Really? I’ve always thought a man of God wouldn’t go around killing young women and biting their necks without their consent.”

“God would not have created me this way if He didn’t have a plan for me.”

Dr. Redfield sits back in his chair, absently stroking his beard. “Mr. Parker, I am a man of faith myself. However, this is 1998, two years before the new millennium begins. I’m also a well-read man who trusts in the tenets of science. I believe your physiology... and that your teeth are a result of a rare genetic occurrence.”

“So be it,” I say. “It remains God’s will.”

“Regardless… while you are here in this hospital, your teeth are a dangerous weapon that must be neutralized for the protection of my staff and the patients we serve.”

Perhaps this is a chance to make a deal. After all, he doesn’t think I’m as mentally ill as his other patients. Maybe he feels I’m coherent enough for compromise.

“Mr. Redbull,” I slur.

“Redfield...”

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