Page 20 of Blood Lust

I give Don another quick and cold glance before lowering my stare toward my bowl of oatmeal, which I begin to stir.

Don then reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a four inch by six inch photograph and lays it out on the table in front of Bruce.

Bruce then says, “Nice boy.”

“Thank you. He looks exactly like Pop when he was Tyler’s age.”

“Very nice. I had no idea you had a son,” Bruce says.

“He’s three. Drives his momma crazy. He took her lipstick the other day and scribbled it over every door upstairs and then gave himself a pair of devil horns, too.”

“Boys will be boys,” Bruce says as he catches my eye.

There’s a sudden awkwardness to Bruce. Gone is the meek submissiveness I see him display around Don. He apparently doesn’t know what to make of Don’s sudden bout of humanity after showing him a photograph of his young son.

“I know I’ve given you shit,” Don says, his brows easing into a tranquil flatness, “but since you’re the best artist I’ve ever seen and all, you think you can stencil something out of this photo? For a tattoo? I wanna get some ink of my son Tyler’s mug on my chest.”

“Yeah. Sure. I think I can make this work,” Bruce says. “When do you need it by?”

“Take your time. No rush. Bring it to me when it’s done. I want to make sure it’s your best work.”

Don nods and looks up out over the dining hall and catches a couple of patients arguing over a biscuit. He hurries over to them and that leaves me alone with Bruce to discuss what just transpired.

“Let me get this straight,” I mutter. “This guy treats you like something he scraped off his shoe, then expects you to play Picasso for his kid’s portrait?”

Bruce shrugs. “You want me to tell him to take his commission and shove it? That’d go over real well during my next parole hearing.”

“Could’ve at least negotiated. Made him sweat a little.”

“How about basic human privileges? More yard time? A cell without rats? Maybe some biscuits that don’t taste like sawdust?”

Bruce wipes his pencil on his jumpsuit. “Better to be the good little artist now and cash in favors later. Ask for too much upfront and suddenly my ’masterpiece’ looks like a kindergarten doodle... and we know how that ends.” He mimes snapping a pencil in half.

“True,” I concede. “Something tells me you’ve had the occasion to bargain with Don once or twice before.”

“Maybe,” Bruce replies, swirling his spoon through the glue-like oatmeal with a humorless smile. He takes an exaggerated slurp before continuing, “See, this place runs on a simple rulebook. Page one says ‘learn fast.’ Page two, well, that’s where Don and his crew demonstrate what happens to slow learners.” He leans in slightly, the plastic spoon pointing at me like a warning finger. “My free advice? Take the temperature down from boiling to simmer. Keep your ears open, your eyes sharper, and for Christ’s sake... learn before you end up as the next object lesson.”

“That’s not me, though, Bruce,” I say. “If I’m going to make it out of this place whole, I have to stay true to myself.”

“No, you don’t,” he snaps back. “That’s the quickest way to making sure you never get out of here. A smart person would give them what they want so they’ll give you what you need.”

With that, the crooked-fingered man stands up, picks up histray, and walks away from me and the table. I’m left alone to think about Bruce’s words. I hate myself for it, but I can see the logic in what he says.

Chapter Fifteen

It isn’t until I stand in the middle of the fenced-in half-acre the hospital designates as an exercise yard that I understand Bruce’s advice.

I feel like someone just put me in front of a huge blood bag buffet as I soak in the bright sunshine. It warms my pale skin and the blood beneath it, making me feel tingly and happy. I’m sitting with Bruce in a corner of the yard, watching him sketch out the beginnings of Don’s tattoo, when the guards push a guy through the gate, lock it and turn away. He seems harmless enough, hugging himself in the straitjacket they’ve left on him. Quietly, he moves over to a bench and sits.

“That’s Kevin,” Bruce says, looking up briefly from the sketch pad. “He’s harmless enough, but if they don’t get the meds in him on time, he turns into a real firecracker.”

“Hmmm,” I reply. “Firecracker, huh?”

“Yup, and trust me, it isn’t pretty.”

I feel relaxed, recharged, and completely calm by the time Don and Terry escort me back to my cell. It doesn’t seem to matter to Don that my canines are long gone; all he has in his mind is the picture of what Dr. Carter’s neck looked like after I took a bite out of it. I guess that’s where the not-so-clever nickname ‘Bitey’ comes from; as far as Don’s concerned, I’ll always be ‘Bitey,’ teeth or no teeth.

As they lead me down the corridor back to my cell, I notice the Clorox smell has been somehow diluted with the scent of pine disinfectant; not much of an improvement by my standards. While I stand outside the door waiting for Terry to open it, I glance across the corridor into the room where Corn Dog Guy suffered his self-induced coma; the floors are spotless. There’s a new guy in the cell, and he paces just as much, like a caged wolf.

---