Page 9 of Blood Lust

“Every minute. Of every day.”

“Aaron, do you believe you are a vampire?”

I don’t move. Not at first. But then the left corner of my lip curls up, revealing a small section of the mammoth tusk that hangs from my upper jaw. I nod and keep on nodding.

“Oh, yes. Very much so.”

Chapter Nine

I haven’t lived long enough to be cynical. But I’ve lived long enough to know the only person who gives a shit about you is yourself. So, I guess I am cynical in that sense.

I look out my cell door window and see them drag in another one. This time, he’s gagged and swaddled up in a straitjacket like a psychotic nightmare. There are yammerings of a crazed individual, conspiratorial in nature to that of an insane mind.

“You sons of bitches ate my corn dogs!” he yells at the men who drag him by his restrained arms.

“There’ll be plenty of corn dogs to be had during your stay,” replies Don, Fulton State Hospital’s largest security guard. Don looks as if he just stepped off the WWE tour bus with his long, blonde ponytail, villainously trimmed goatee, and shoulders that look as if they could stop bullets in their tracks.

“Will the corn dogs protect me from the witches?”

“Yeah, sure, why not? The corn dogs here are kryptonite to witches. What do you think, Terry?”

Terry, the other security guard, is older and smaller, but looks as if he was a spry linebacker in his youth.

“Yeah, just the other day I saw a corn dog jam itself into a witch’s nose and suffocate her to death.”

Terry nods with a smirk and then opens the cell door across from mine. It’s a holding pen of sorts. A bench, a toilet, and not much else. Not even a goddamn book to keep anyone from losing his mind even further. But this is to be expected in the maximum-security wing of the hospital where they keep the worst of the worst… including me, apparently.

I don’t belong here. Being bombarded with every type of mental illness imaginable makes me long for the comforts of a normal prison population... even though I’ve never stepped inside a normal prison before. I’m not crazy, and if I am anddon’t know it, I sure as hell am not as demented as the hogtied fellow in front of me who’s still rambling on about corn dogs and witches.

“The witches... are bad, man. I need some corn dog sticks,” he continues. “Let me sharpen some. I already cut one of them witches.”

Don releases his grip on the man’s arm and watches Terry escort him into his cell.

“That lady was no witch. She was your landlady,” Don says.

“That’s her front, man! She has a cauldron in her bathroom. I seen it with my own eyes.”

“It’s a bathtub.” Don rolls his eyes. Terry shakes his head and stifles a snicker.

Blood droplets that have soaked through the ends of the man’s sleeves, and minor scratches on Don’s bulky forearm, tell me why the ’corn dog man’ has to be restrained. Terry inspects the buckles binding the patient, making sure he can’t loosen the straitjacket. He secures the belts behind the man’s back, and closes the door before heading off with his hulking partner.

The clamor ceases soon after the latch thunks closed and locks the thick and impenetrable cell door. I continue staring through the small window, trying to make eye contact with the new resident. The top of his head bobs in and out of sight as he paces the small room like a caged animal.

I figure if he makes eye contact with me, perhaps he’ll dial down the crazy a bit. The place is lonely, and I need to talk, or at least make eye contact with someone who doesn’t think I’m a monster.

Waiting for him to quit pacing, I notice a smell that needs addressing. The faint stench of bleach permeates the room and the hallway outside. Yes, this is a hospital, but I have yet to see an actual cleaning crew mopping the halls and making sure it remains sterile in the few days I’ve been here.

Perhaps the smell is there to keep our minds off things, obsessive things, like corn dogs, and in my case, the sweet, sweet taste of blood. I compulsively indulge in my desires and become a slave to the sanguine and scarlet liquid. Yet, my vampirism comes without the benefits of immortality, flight, or shape-shifting.

I unforgivably screwed up the night I lost my virginity. I never imagined myself a murderer or someone capable of hurting someone. But I did.

A part of me will always feel remorse for stopping a beating heart, but the events that night helped me come to terms with what I eventually could become.

There’s a reason God gave me these teeth, unless he has some kind of morbid sense of humor. I would hate to think the Almighty takes pleasure in seeing me suffer on Earth. I think of the way people cover their mouths as they whisper to their friends while throwing judgmental glances my way, as if I’m some loser playing Halloween on a Wednesday in January.

Nah. On second thought, I doubt the Creator is playing a cruel joke on me. After all, He blessed my taste buds, too. I was manufactured to ’seek neck and suck.’ Annie, who I cared for and who cared for me, paid the ultimate price so I could recognize who or what I am.

The crazy guy finally stops pacing in circles and gives me a blank stare through the small glass window. I smile and I believe he catches a glimpse of my teeth. He immediately frowns, and his emotionless eyes pool with tears. He begins pounding his head furiously against the window.

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