Wicked Hunger
Page 21
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Pulling into the driveway, I notice both my parents’ cars are here. That’s odd. Dad doesn’t usually get home from work until after six, and Mom is supposed to be at her book club today. What are they both doing home already? There could be a dozen logical reasons for them to be home, but as my feet plod toward the house, the quiet seeping out of it chills me. Our house is never quiet. Even with me and Van gone, Mom loves music. She played cello all through high school and college. I can hardly think of a time when classical music wasn’t filling every nook and cranny of our home.
The smell hits me when I reach the front door. I don’t even have to open it. It seeps through the tiny spaces around the doors and windows and crawls under my skin, seeking out my hunger like nothing else can.
Blood.
My hand is frozen on the handle as my hunger claws at me, screaming in a psychotic frenzy to be let loose and feed. It’s so much blood. Even the smallest amount will usually set me off, but this time is different. My hunger can’t sink its teeth into me this time, not knowing that on the other side of the door is where I’ll find my parents. Fear of opening the door outweighs everything else.
I have no idea how long I stand there. Time vanished the moment I caught that horrible scent. I don’t even make a conscious decision to turn the handle and push forward. My body moves as my head shakes back and forth, begging it to stop. But it doesn’t.
The metallic tang of blood douses me from head to toe. It’s so much, I never would have been able to control my hunger if I hadn’t seen Mom at the same time. Her beautiful blond hair is fanned out around her head. Each lock slowly turns red as it soaks up the blood seeping from her body. There are a dozen different wounds, but most disturbing are the tears not yet dried on her cheeks, the pleading expression in her eyes.
Maybe I should hold her, though I know she’s already dead. Maybe I should close her eyes. My eyes turn away as they blur with my own tears. I force myself to continue through the house. Everywhere I step there is more blood. My shoes stick to the floor with every step, and the small effort it takes to peel the soles away from the wood drains me of energy. I’m stumbling when I turn into the living room. Dad lying face down on the blood soaked rug drops me to my knees. I can feel the wetness dampening my jeans, but it’s all I can feel. The rest of me shuts down. My senses have abandoned me and made room for sickening shock. Feeling anything ever again seems impossible until a noise draws my eyes to the couch.