Page 94 of Phobia
The Taste of Crimson
Hellie Heat
Crimson liquid, potent and sharp. I open my mouth to it, allow it to slip over my tongue. It smells like metal and tastes like … No. No. This isn’t right. It’snot right. I spit it out, and it dribbles over my lips and down my chin. Panic overwhelms me, sets me on fire from the inside out. I feel my heart racing, my breath stuttering. I’m dying, surely. I’ve never felt fear so real, so pure, so overwhelming. The fear is all I can feel. It’s all I’ve become. All I am.
Soon it will kill me. Men have died from fright before.
I want to scream, to fight, but cold hands hold me steady, whispered words flutter against the shell of my ear. “Good boy,”they say. “Open your mouth,”they say. “Take me in,”they say.
And even in my panic, I obey.
I drink.
The office is sterile and cold: white walls, no windows, dull and drab and colorless. I sit at my desk and type away at my computer, eyes going cross from the repeated monotony, the same cold fluorescent light from the screen. I don’t mind the doldrums. They’re safe. Sterile. Secure.
Nothing bad ever happens to the boy who keeps his head down and his mouth shut. Who does exactly as he’s told, without question or complaint. Because the doing of it keeps him safe. I’ve always been that way. Obedient. Quiet. Meek. I don’t have friends. I don’t need them. Friends only hurt you, betray you. Leave you. Or worse, trap you. Same as brothers. I’m better off alone.
No one notices me, no one seems to mind that I don’t make contact, don’t reach out. Don’t extend a hand in greeting or speak up. That I stay late into the night, well past the hour when everyone else leaves, and the moon replaces the sun in the sky.
Tonight the lights around the office flicker in warning, and the after-hours cleaning crew begins to move in, shuffling among the cubicles. The noise of the sweeper breaks me out of my rhythm. My eyes dart about, taking in the bodies moving around me.
One, a man in blue janitorial garb, empties the trash cans. The other, a woman dressed the same, is running the vacuum. They’re both lost in their own worlds, headphones in their ears, neither paying me any attention. I don’t even think they notice me.
I grab my bag, brown and faux leather, gather my sparse belongings, and shoot up from my desk. Time to go.
Heading out into the night, I breathe in the fresh air, content in my solitude. The city, though never completely silent, is still tonight, and I take a moment to revel in its weird quiet. Then out of the corner of my eye, I see a flurry of movement, sense eyes on me, heavy as they watch. But as I turn to meet that gaze, I realize there’s no one there. No face watching me from the shadows. Just emptiness and darkness. Just my imagination.
I swallow and begin to make my way home.
My apartment is only a few blocks from the office, easy enough for me to make the journey without any problem. But this time, I can’t shake that feeling. That strange, awful feeling, like pin pricks up and down my spine. Someone is … following me.
At first, my mind flashes to my brothers. Angelo. Dominic. Mickey. But … no. I haven’t seen them in years. Not since the last time. They can’t know where I am. They can’t know about the new life I’ve made for myself.
I begin to walk faster, spurred on by the fear that’s begun to crawl up the back of my throat. Someone …something… is stalking me. I can’t see it, but I can feel its presence.
I begin to run, not caring how foolish I undoubtedly look to any passersby. A man running through the darkened streets, sheer fright plastered on his face, looking as though he’s being chased.
My toe catches on a raised slab of sidewalk, and I’m down, skinning my knee, tearing my pants. I hiss at the pain but ignore the wound, knowing that seeing it will only cause further panic. I do everything I can to keep moving, despite the sharp sting, the wetness that dribbles down my shin.
Blood.
I swallow back the horror—the panic—that threatens to subdue me and pull me under. I need to focus, need to get home. I can’t succumb to fear right now.
By the time I get to my apartment door, I'm trembling from head to foot. My hands shake as I retrieve my keys from my pocket and struggle to get them into the lock.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
My heart thunders in my head … or is it footsteps? Someone racing toward me out of the darkness?
The lock clicks, the key turns, the door opens, and I’m inside. I lock the door behind me and feel myself fall against its solid frame, breathing hard. My knee aches, seeping, stinging. I don’t want to think about it. But I can’t ignore it for much longer.
Steeling myself, I turn to peek out the peephole. Nothing. No movement in the dark, no shadowy figure lingering on the stoop. Did I imagine it? Was it all in my head?
I wait another long moment before rational thought takes over. I need to treat my wounded knee, address the issue before it becomes infected. But the thought churns my stomach, makes me feel faint. Panic overwhelms me then, just thinking about it. Just thinking about the blood that now flows down my shin and colors the fabric of my pants and socks.
