Page 19 of Blood Lust

“See these,” he says, lifting his hands, showing me his crooked and bent fingers. One of them almost at a 90-degree angle and another on his other hand that looks as if it should’ve been put out of its misery with amputation. “I still can draw, paint, and sculpt better than anyone in this hell-hole.”

I look at his hands and shake my head. “How’d it happen?” I ask.

“How do you think?”

“I don’t know. It happened here?”

Bruce raises one of his ratty eyebrows.

“Who did it?” I ask.

He then nods toward Don, who stands watch by the main door leading to the recreation area outside.

“Don?”

“Kinda,” Bruce says. “It was his father, Clive. The most brutal motherfucker to ever roam this hospital. Let’s just say I’m lucky I even have any fingers left.”

“Where’s Clive now?” I ask.

“Dead, dead as my left ring finger.”

Bruce’s eyes freeze as he dips his spoon for a giant scoop of oatmeal with his mangled digits. I can still see the fear in his eyes. Even though he says Clive is deceased, it’s as if his ghost still haunts the dining hall we’re in.

“Well, I hope for your sake he didn’t go out peacefully,” I add.

“You got that right; something got him. Something got him real good.”

“Something got him?”

Bruce doesn’t answer and freezes for a second at the table. He clears his throat and moves his eyes away and toward Don, who’s now approaching our table.

Don struts behind me like a peacock, and I hear his large hand grip the leather handle of his baton as he passes by.

“How’s Bitey doing?” Don asks Bruce. “Is he finally eating?”

Bruce shoots me a glance that says ‘play along’ before turning over his shoulder and saying, “I’ve seen him take a couple of hearty spoonfuls.”

I haven’t, but it’s nice having him vouch for me so I can head outside, too, for a bit of sunlight.

“Perfect. I think a little bit of sunshine would do the kid good.”

Bruce looks at me and nods before reaching for his spoon.

In line with the bully he is, Don abruptly changes the topic of our conversation to prod us a little more as he asks Bruce, “Doesn’t that thing get in the way?”

“What thing?” he asks in a slightly perturbed tone.

“That mangled-up worm you call a finger.”

I can see the anger in Bruce’s eyes as he keeps quiet and continues to eat.

“You know, I can order that removed for you,” Don says.

Bruce is used to the abuse. He shows a tremendous amount of restraint, more than I ever could. I take someone’s life in the heat of passion, and I can’t imagine what I’d do to Don if I were in Bruce’s shoes. I’d probably be dead by now.

Don plods around the end of our table and creeps up on Bruce, who still works on his bowl of oatmeal. He then catchesmy glance.

“What?” he asks me. “You think I’m gonna hurt your new friend or something?”

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