Bleodsian

by Robert Oliver

  Part 4: Disillusionment

  I was correct in my assumptions: the police had broadcast the incident all over the television and now the community was looking for a serial killer. They surmised that the present bodies were killed by the same person, and the remains of the first girl brought tears to many hopeful eyes. The campus was buzzing daily with reporters and police officials, not to mention the countless private detectives who haunted every corner. It was a media frenzy, and there I was positioned, mop in hand, cleaning every day the halls where so many suspected so much of every suspicious figure. Fingers were pointed already, and always at the waged-based job holders; the poor, it seemed, were the only ones capable of killing. I went about my business every day, attempting to blend into the ever changing fabric that unfurled itself daily. Like all the others who were employed at the university, I was questioned thoroughly by the police officials, and seemed to pass their scrupulous inspections with ease.

  Every night on the news, more information became available to a waiting public. The guts of the kiln had been dissected and all the remains brought out; the death scenes were nearly pinpointed with some accuracy by clever detectives; the reasoning for the deaths was finally put together, even though they were strikingly off in their assessment.

  How I despised that evening, the single moment when my plan began to fall apart. I beat myself verbally for the disposal of the body in such a place; why could I not choose a more secluded location? I could hope for very little now, although no one suspected me of any crime. I faded into the surroundings like all the other faces that strolled across the property.

  My supply was still holding strong, but I noticed that it now took a larger amount of the substance to fill my needs. I thought it circumstantial at first, since we had been working harder as a result of the layoffs in our department; afterwards, however, I noticed that even during days of rest, vestiges of my old symptoms - something new in my chest - were returning. I cringed at the thought and drowned out all sentiments with more blood. I drank heartily and the ill effects seemed to fade; the supply, however, was decreasing.

  Nightly I would indulge in my liquid, but I had little time for simple comforts and relaxation; I had to create another plan, and soon. I ran some scenarios through my mind, hoping to create a new arrangement for when I went out next. The cops, I reasoned, would be thicker in force and searching for any activity that stood out from the norm. Residents, too, would be ever- watchful. I would have to be keen, clever and able to thwart any snares which might be set by the authorities.

  I would occasionally drive through the neighborhoods and out into the countryside looking for a safe place to deposit the remains. It was no easy task, as the area was becoming increasingly inhabited. While at school, I kept an eye out for a new area in which to hunt. That, also, would be no easy endeavor, as now students were walking in groups of two or more, and security had increased greatly.

  The mind, of greater rational proportions than we seldom acknowledge, is so capable of mighty endeavors that we sometimes need only to stand aside and allow it to function on its own. I had been pondering my new situation when I finally lay down to sleep, the fatigues of the day naturally overtaking me. My eyes had not yet closed fully, and sleep had barely encroached upon me when I so clearly heard the voice beckoning me. I could understand with certainty I was dreaming, as I found myself not in my room, but in a thicket, overgrown with weeds, and shaded by tall oaks whose limbs covered the sky from view. I thought the place looked familiar, but could not place it accurately. Then, the Voice spoke:

  “Move further.” I took a step, then another, and slowly pressed into a hammock densely vegetated with lush growth. Palms intermingled with the oaks in a wedding of bliss, while below broad-leafed saw palmettos covered the ground. The humidity was thick, and the ground rich and black. I looked around for the Voice, but it spoke not.

  It was growing darker and the sun was sinking, dying amid the limbs and branches of the forest. I turned several times, thinking the Voice would call for me once more, but it was silent; then I heard something just beyond the bushes. I moved gingerly, my feet treading softly on the moist dirt. I approached a palm and moved aside its fronds, revealing a clearing, and in its midst, a hole. I peered for what seemed hours; the earth had been disturbed, and in the shape of a grave.

  Suddenly, the Voice, so silent before, echoed eerily in my year, saying “Now, what do you see before you?” I tried to hazard a guess, but the atmosphere of the woods and its effect on my mind prevented me from suggesting what I knew to be a resting place for the dead.

  Finally, I managed to state the obvious. “Very good,” the Voice replied.

  “But what is this?” I asked, not sensing what this location had to do with the scenario.

  “Think. Look at this location, its trees, its soil, its saturation. Here, in this place, you shall dispose of the remains.” I looked at the location; it seemed desolate enough, though I hardly knew of my exact location.

  “Here?” I asked. “Why this location and not another? It appears to be rather inaccessible.” I saw no roads, and no entry points; it was as if we had entered our own secluded island.

  “This place, this very location, is closer than you might imagine. Look…” and I turned to see, just beyond the trunks and hordes of moss, a glimmer of light coming through the darkness like a beacon.

  “This area is not a subtropical island, but is rather close to your home, close even to your feeding ground. Roads converge here, and only a short walk will bring you to this very spot. Take the main street out of town past the cemetery, and turn right. You will recognize and know the area once you see it. The landing is not far. The soil here is rich and will decompose the body quickly, as well as being seasonally flooded, thus concealing the remains. You see, it is very simple, and the plan can easily continue.”

  I listened intently and when the Voice subsided, I was elated at the news. I reeled with joy, then chastised myself for not having conjured such a location in my own mind. What a blissful feeling it was to see my endeavor revitalized. I now had a new place, an area which would surely assist me greatly. It did not appear to be frequented, as the cypress nubs told of standing water. I quickly ran to the hole and peered in; it was uninhabited for the moment, but from that empty, cavernous space my happiness and life would soon spring once more.

  My eyes shot open. The room, so dark and masked in a guise of obscurity, surrounded me. I sat up and tried to comprehend my surroundings when I finally realized I was home. A dream, I realized, had come upon me and brought to me a new salvation. I was not lost or set adrift in a restless, chaotic ocean, but was harbored safely in a new plan.

  The joy of the idea carried me through the next few days, and into the quest for another supplier. My stock was diminishing and I needed to replace it soon. I had spent a little time searching for individuals when I came across another athlete, this one a volleyball team member. She was tall, thin but muscular, with long locks of brownish hair that usually hung in a ponytail. She exercised regularly, but in recent weeks allowed her efforts to tune her body to decrease substantially. I followed her for several days, learning all I could about her nature and routine, very much the same thing as I did with the others. She kept rather irregular habits, thus making my scheduling much more difficult. She would sometimes travel by foot, and other times would secure a ride with a friend. Rarely did she dine alone, and often had people around her. She would be difficult, but I could nearly taste the life-giving blood that pumped through her veins. I had been feeling rather ill the past few days, and was in dire need of the substance.

  One afternoon, while watching her practice in an outdoor sand court, I was approached by a suited person. I had taken a seat in an obscure corner of the bleachers, and was engaged in taking mental notes of her, examining her movements and her behaviorisms, when a voice spoke behind me.

  “Good afte
rnoon, sir,” he said. I paid little heed at first, but when the man spoke my name, I turned around sharply to face him. He was medium height with a slight build and a square chin. He wore a suit, gray in color with a white shirt, and carried a little black book in his hand, as if he had just taken down some observations. His badge glistened in the afternoon sun.

  “Oh, hello,” I said lightly, my fear growing wildly within me.

  “I’m Detective Valerie, with the Hartford PD. I know we met before, but I have some additional questions to ask you concerning the affair of late. This is simply routine work. Is that alright?” He was stern, but professional. I listened intently to every syllable.

  “Certainly.” My words were cool, but inwardly my mind fretted. Was I discovered? Did the police suspect anything? Could some mistake on my part have led them to me? Were there any other witnesses? These questions hovered just above my reach, and in my inability to capture and explain them, I grew agitated.

  “First, your full name is Richard Cacciare, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you live at ____________?”

  “Yes, sir.” He jotted down another note.

  “Now, the night of the double murder, where did you say you were?” he asked.

  “As I had explained, I was at home, watching a PBS showing of ‘Lucia di Lattermore.’” I gave the greatest air of security and authority to my words, hoping he would sense it and leave me alone. I had just finished speaking when I heard a voice, that same voice which belonged to neither of us.

  “He knows!” it stated dryly.

  “What?” I asked beneath my breath.

  “He knows what you did. Look at his writings. Can you not see them? The keys. You used your keys to gain access to the lower level. They recently changed the locks and only house keeping and the department chair had the new moulds. All other keys were set to be distributed the next day.”

  My heart sank within me. The Voice was right; the keys I used to give me access to the kiln had just been made, and only my department had received the new issues. A faulty error prevented facilities, faculty and work-related students from gaining theirs. Only the department chair had an issue key. The officers, realizing there was no forced entry, could surmise the individual had easy access.

  “Try and get away,” the Voice said to me. “Get away now! The officer cannot hold you.”

  “Sir,” the detective interrupted my conversation. “Now, you have worked in housekeeping for how many years?” I answered him abruptly; I did not want to expel too many wavering words into the air, believing rather that silence and abruptness were sufficient.

  “With that position, you naturally have access to many areas of the campus, is that correct?” He was speaking of the keys, I knew in my heart he was.

  “And how secure do you keep your keys? I mean, could someone have access to them without your knowledge?”

  “I would not think so. I keep them on me at all times. They do give me admittance to many of the campuses’ private sectors, but I do not think I have ever misplaced a key. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, just routine questioning, sir.” Then he added, with a sharpness in his voice, “I see that girl has caught your eye. She’s a real beauty, and strong too. She has a nice serve. She’ll make a good player on the team, don’t you think?”

  He knew at whom I was looking; he saw I was staring at the girl, watching her, mentally recording her movements, and now he was confronting me boldly. How I shivered when I thought he had figured me out. In his mind, no doubt, the pieces were coming together. He had only to place them side-by-side and make them fit. I shook like a man wild with fever. Then, remembering I had an appointment with the doctor, I said:

  “Sir, my apologies, but I have to go. I have a doctor’s appointment.” I gave no farewell, and quickly retreated from his presence. Once out of his sight, I ducked behind a corner, and from a safe vantage point, I stared at him, watching him as he left. That detective was dangerous to me, that much I knew.

  “He knows.” I said.

  “Yes, he does,” said the Voice. “It is all coming together for him. The keys may have tripped us up. If he were in a divulging mood, he could have explained all the facts to you. There is still much mystery, and we are safe in the ambiguity.”

  “But they know!” I shouted.

  “It is not over yet. They can only place so many pieces together now. We still have time.”

  “Time for what? Time for me to dig my grave deeper? Time for me to load the gun that is aimed at me? What time do we have?”

  “Be calm. All is not lost. Remember: they are the prey and you the predator.” And with that, the voice faded. I was not calmed by its speech, but nonetheless felt a slight deviation from my previous mood taking place within me; I was not as afraid as before, although fear still gripped me tightly.

  I did indeed have a doctor’s appointment, and in the consultation room I paced like a madman in a chamber. My mind reeled with so many thoughts, some accusatory and others derogatory. All were strictly focused on the sole issue at hand: my safety. I was so lost in thought I did not hear the physician enter.

  “Ah, Richard, how are you?” asked a jovial voice from behind me. I turned and faced the round, tanned doctor. He was balding, with wisps of hair still maintaining their hold on his cranium. A little plump from years of excessive living, if not frivolous lifestyle, he was not the best example of physical fitness, but made up for this with a personality that could woo a charging bull.

  I gave as simple and cordial a greeting as I could muster at the moment and took a seat. He moved to his chair and sat down, still evoking his happy demeanor with small talk.

  “I hear the Lakers are doing well,” he began. “They should make it all the way.” He smiled at me, but behind his benevolence I saw something, perhaps a shadow in his eye, that spoke of hidden secrets. The doctor, I knew, was concealing something.

  “The report, Doctor,” I began, not in the least concerned about my condition any longer, “how is it?” I once had awaited test results and x-rays eagerly, as a thirsty person does their first drop of water. Knowing they held my future in their report, I yearned for their arrival. I had previously anticipated only more sour news, like the initial flood of test results which bore my happiness to its knees in agony, but now looked to the future with a brightened countenance.

  The man fumbled with his chart, then seemed to draw from some inner reserve to speak what he must. Doctors and those in the medical profession naturally have an inner wellspring of power that allows them to step beside themselves in delivering horrible news. Frankness is most often desired, and this reservoir of objectivity allows them such freedom.

  “Richard,” he started slowly and with caution, “I did receive the test results. There was some marked improvement with the medication initially,” and he stopped. I had anticipated such, that the curve would come when I took matters in my own hands. I knew, believed deeply even, that my health was improving and did not fear a collapse of my physical state. Such a thing, I reasoned, could not happen, not now since I had been taking new life into my own body. I was the picture of health and strength; none would prove me wrong.

  I nodded.

  “The improvement, however, was a fluke in the initial test results. Your globin count spiked, then dropped to a level below normal. You came to us, yes, but not before there was substantial damage to your organs. Richard, your condition is worsening. I am sorry.” The last few syllables came out in such a rush that I was not certain I had ascertained them clearly. Like one leaf in a torrent, his statement was difficult to grasp as it moved past me.

  “Excuse me?” I asked. I was dumbfounded by his statement and could not understand what he said. I knew my health and body; I knew the means to which I had been driven; I also knew I was improving. I felt stronger, looked better and felt in my very veins a new surging force that could o
nly be life successfully re-implanted in me. The pain in my chest, though mild, was not increasing. I was not wrong or mistaken. I was getting better, and in me my temper was rising.

  “Sir, I am sorry. It seems your situation has taken a turn, not so much unexpected, but a turn nonetheless. I am particularly concerned with this blotch on the x-ray. There seems to be some minor internal bleeding here on the right side. I want to admit you to…”

  “What?” I shouted. “No!” It was syllabic, but it conveyed the great dismay and anguish that thundered across my brow. I stood briskly, but suddenly felt dizzy, and so steadied myself against the table. The doctor stood as well and came to my side. He gently set me back in the chair.

  “This is very natural for your state. Your body is not producing sufficient red blood cells. I am fearful of this blotch on the x-ray. If there is any internal bleeding, it would be detrimental to you. And the tests also found extensive damage to your organs. Richard, we are friends, so forgive my bluntness, but I think, if you have not done so already, you should make whatever arrangements are necessary.”

  “But how can it be?” I finally managed to blurt into the air.

  “I said in the beginning that your condition would only…” and here he hesitated for a moment, as if the shock of the previous statements would not be surpassed by his present choice of vocabulary.

  “Worsen? Is that what you mean? How can it worsen? I was making progress; I was getting better. From the time I started -” and there I quickly halted, knowing that too much would reveal my designs.

  “I am truly sorry, Richard. We can possibly buy you time, but not a lifetime. Blood transfusions will sustain you, but not enable you to maintain a normal existence. The reality is that time is no longer with you.” He leaned back in his chair and stared at me as if expecting some ovation for his rhetoric.

  “Time? Time you say?” I repeated to him. “Time has left me? How much, doctor, how much time?”

  “A year, at very best, though I don’t think so. Weeks, at worst.” Again, he stared at me.

  I did not reply immediately, but sat and listened to nothing and everything, all the noises echoing off the hollowness of the room. I felt alone, distraught and angry; each emotion competed with each other for the proper attention of my mind. Troubled in no small way, I nearly felt consumed by the time I vacated the office and walked down the street. I could not focus, since all my emotions were engaging in a combat so severe and intense that only one could surely survive. In my mind, all the questions raged with severity. Was I dismayed? Had I been misled? Wasn’t I still getting better? Did I waste my time?

  I could feel the battle within me growing to a crescendo. I was angry, fueled by an intense hatred of my existence and my predicament; I was sorrowful for my own plight and the misery I had wrought; I was also disillusioned that my plan was not having the desired effect. I walked, but with no definite aim. The sidewalk seemed to take me wherever it pleased, and I merely followed like some ignorant youth.

  I was overwhelmed with grief when I heard the voice again. It spoke, but I did not respond; for the first time, I ignored it. I had no desire to speak. I was angry, my rage being constructed of the ashes of my failures in life and health. I slumped, like one who carries upon them the heaviest of burdens and moved toward a destination only the sidewalk recognized. But the voice was persistent.

  “Speak to me,” it said. “You cannot believe all that is said by those people. They do not comprehend; they do not perceive what you have done. They do not know what new life you have pumping through you.”

  “What?” I shouted aloud. “New life? Did you not hear the physician? How could you be so deaf? I am dying! Death awaits me now, and nothing else. Some may have happiness and joy before them, long life and health; I have nothing but the grave.”

  “You have allowed that doctor to shake your resolve. He relies on books and rudimentary knowledge. He knows only of the scientific realm. He can never understand the things we have done, or the new life that can possibly come out of such an endeavor. Do not trust the doctor and what he says.”

  I was annoyed by the Voice, but, although I kept walking, I could not shake it. It was with me in the journey, haunting me like the thin vapors that forever appear just behind the limits of human understanding. I had no recourse, no plan; all I could do was walk, placing each step before the other, all the while listening to the Voice that stayed with me.

  “And how could the doctor, the trained physician, not know my condition? How, even better, can you know my condition better than he?” My words were bold and brutal, but truthful and certainly in accordance with the sentiment of my heart.

  “Richard, why do you doubt?” it asked in a tone I had not yet heard. “Why do you doubt the only one who has remained with you for so long? All had given you up for dead when I came to your aid. Why do you forget so quickly? Have I not sustained you? Have I not been present as a means of support and guidance? Where were the others when you needed them? Or was it, perhaps, that you were alone? Could it be that you had no one to call upon, no one to assist you? Remember, Richard, your predicament when I arrived! You were alone and groveling, sinking sadly in your own self-pity. I saved you and gave you new life. Do not be so hasty to turn against me now. I am the source of your life, and I can be the cause of your death!”

  I had not heard such words before. They caused me to stop, my body trembling slightly from a fear that now momentarily conquered the warring emotions. I looked around at the neighborhood; no one was present to hear the monologue but me. The recitation fell upon my ears alone like drops of lemon juice on an open wound.

  “But what do we do now?” I asked in desperation.

  “Do you not still have another one in the wings? Was all your research in vain? You must hunt; search out your next person and prepare for the attack. Your supply is low and you will soon be out. Act quickly and do what needs to be done.”

  “I feel so uncertain about this now. What if this endeavor of ours fails?”

  “Trust me; as you have before, do so again. This is not the time for doubting, but for adhering. Now, go.” The voice was gone, fading silently into the vast openness that surrounded me. I found myself alone and in the middle of a side street. How long I remained there I do not know, but when I looked down the avenue, I could see, at a distance, the boundary of the campus.

  I had formed about three different plans in my mind while wading through a tasteless dinner, and by the time I arrived at the university, I still had no truly functional plan with which to work. Like a ship adrift in an endless ocean at night, I walked through campus, hoping she would turn up in one of her usual haunts. Luck, that goddess of the unfortunate who chooses to bless, albeit infrequently, was nonetheless on my side that evening, and I found the girl idling around the student union building, exchanging pleasantries with some friends.

  I sat on a table outside of the building and watcher her; she appeared jovial and pleasant, resembling accurately the innocence of youth. For several minutes she laughed with her friends, then finally bid adieu and began a solitary trek. My eyes followed her sharply and narrowed, as if I were ready to pounce. The area was open and active, so moving against her was not advised; instead, I waited, eagerly anticipating the moment I could strike.

  Once I thought she reached a safe distance from me, I slowly and deliberately began to follow her. She did not move fast, but sauntered slowly in the night air. Large, black lamps illuminated the pathway around the buildings, and we both utilized the light to see our way. I recognized early that at my current pace, I would overtake her, and so slowed my step so as to keep a safe and respectable distance. The people I passed thought little of my being there, though some acknowledged my appearance out of uniform.

  She crossed a university street and moved up a grassy incline, all the while with me behind her. I had, strangely enough, thought little of
the plan I would use, but like a hound on a scent, I was following that to which I was assigned. She moved closer to a dormitory, and the varied lights from the unclothed windows seemed to caress her in a glow that was ethereal. I marveled at her beauty, at the appearance of her nearly angelic form in the light. She moved gracefully, her feet touching lightly on the pavement below. I tried not to think about her, preferring rather to keep my mind on the agenda; but she seemed so animated, so alive, that she even seemed more than alive. I felt a heaviness enter my heart.

  Was my survival worth such an endeavor? I tried to focus and narrow my attention, but the question kept approaching my mind. I had indulged in the freshness of life replenished, sacrificing on the altar blood that would sustain me. The price, I believed, had been worth the effort and labor, since life was coming from death. I was living stronger and better, and the health that now inhabited my body was proof that survival is, above all else, the ultimate goal of existence.

  Everyone endeavors to survive, even at the expense of something else. If there is no fault in killing an animal to devour it, why, then, should I be labeled a monster for my own desire to live? I tried, and I succeeded in my plan; I brought about what the doctors could not. I was not wrong, but they were the ones mistaken. They lose themselves in their studies, and when real truth approaches them, they do not see it. I have not failed; this endeavor of mine is still a success, and I shall prove it to be so, even if it cost me everything. No damned world will infringe upon my right to exist! Damn them that my endeavor should not bring about my resurrection; the fault lies with them, and all the more I shall make them pay for their failure to sustain me.

  This I nearly shouted, though the sensory controls of my mind prevented such an outcry. Through my discourse I had grown angry, nay obsessed with the hatred that so many feel at the hands of their antagonists. The sorrow I felt died quickly. I began to walk faster, my fuel being my desire for revenge. Prudence, however, slackened my pace and allowed me to harness the energy raging within.

  Tall trees, some old and aristocratic with limbs covering the drive, and others, young and trimmed by the recent change in aesthetic taste, all towered above me, casting their shadows upon us and the buildings nearby. I did not allow my anger to cloud my judgment; the moment was much too necessary and much too precious to simply waste on an act of brutality. I did not want to engage in some bloodthirsty act of cruelty. I was a professional, a hunter, a trained student of the nature of survival, and I needed what coursed through human veins. I could not rush, but would bide my time until the moment surfaced. I kept walking.

  She came to a building and fumbled in her bag for a key. I stopped and stood next to a tree. The area was secluded, as she had unwisely chosen a side entrance, and one infrequently used. Only a solitary lamp hung above the door. She was having some issues locating her key when I decided to approach.

  A few steps and I was behind her, standing at the bottom of the stairs. The girl did not notice me at first, but when I cleared my throat she turned abruptly. I gave her a kindly expression, like one an aged man would render to a small child who was seen in the cutest of their acts.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Hello. Need a hand?” I asked. She seemed puzzled, but regaining herself, she continued her quest through her bag.

  “Nah. I got it,” She replied. “I know my keys are in this bag somewhere. Just got to find them.” I climbed up one step.

  “Here,” I said, and I pulled out a key ring from my belt hook and turned them over in my hand, finally resting at the necessary one for her entrance. “I have keys to all these buildings, and this dormitory. It’s one of the perks of working here.” And I chuckled, giving an air of lightness to the mood. She laughed lightly, but unconvincingly.

  “You work here?” she asked me.

  “Yes, I work in House Keeping. My nightly walks sometimes find me on campus.”

  “It is a pretty place to stroll,” she said.

  “It certainly is. Now, if you will excuse me, I will open the door…” and by design, I moved to the door but dropped my keys off the side of the stairs and into the dark bushes below. I gave a slight curse, then leaned against the railing, shaking my head at my faked stupidity.

  “Oh, dear,” she said.

  “Damn,” was my reply. “Well, I do apologize. Let me see if I can recover my keys. So much for my helping,” and I laughed as I slowly descended the steps.

  “Here, let me help,” and with that, I found the girl by my side. I was the first to enter into the dark bushes, rummaging for the object whose location I already knew. The girl came in swiftly after me, and together we stood nearly waist deep in the thick brush surrounding the building. I would disappear occasionally, only to reappear with two empty hands. Carefully, she also dove into the limbs and tried to uncover the keys. Together, like two pearl fishers, we worked at the routine of diving and surfacing for several minutes.

  I kept watching her and waiting for the moment to strike. I was like a sea serpent lying prostrated upon the ocean floor, waiting for my prey to swim along and enter within striking distance. I made a joke or two, expressed my gratitude repeatedly, and tried to make light of the situation as best I could. She followed my lead and loosened her demeanor.

  “Here, I think…Oh, damn. I thought I had them in my hand. It was only a branch,” I said. In our searching, I continually kept myself close to her. I did not want to allow distance to come between us.

  “Wait,” she began. “I think I have them. Oh, look!” she exclaimed, and held aloft the ring of keys. She was standing beside the steps, and in the light they were illuminated dimly.

  “Oh, good. Thank you so very much. You have greatly helped an old man.”

  “It was nothing. Least I could do.”

  “You are too kind,” I said, still moving closer. “You have helped me more than you could possibly ever know.”

  She looked at me squarely in the face as if she was not certain how to take my statement. The keys were lowered and her hand tightened around them. I could almost sense the fear. In the wild, animals can sense the fright of a person under duress. It is an aroma to their nostrils which has upon them a rather intoxicating action. They become wild with rage, and lunge after the object that expels such a scent. I was lured in by the smell of her fear like a wild dog to blood.

  She finally muttered a syllabic “what,” as if she did not understand or had not heard what I said. I smiled at her, again showing her the kindly face I first presented. One more step and I was within arms reach of her. The area was still secluded, and no doubt she was beginning to see her folly.

  “It is nothing. Forget I said anything. I am just so grateful to you, that is all. Now, at least allow me to help you out of this jungle.” I presented to the night air a laugh that was hollow and cold, a laugh that had no joy in it save the sinister elation that is felt just prior to the act of blood letting. She smiled, then at my urging, moved forward, with me taking my place beside her.

  I saw that the moment had come. She was beside the steps, still mostly concealed from all prying eyes, and the lamp was too weak to throw sufficient light upon the scene. When she had turned her head to look at a branch beside her waist, I quickly grabbed her by the arms, and put one hand over her mouth. With great force, I brought her head in contact with the side of the stairs. She did not scream, but succumbed to the blow and melted into the darkness at our feet. Hunching now, I did not rise, but listened and watched for any sign of movement. As in the cases before, nothing gave rise of suspicion.

  I could hear her moaning lowly in the brush; she was not dead, but merely unconscious, or at least very close to it. I had not reckoned on such a plan, but now it appeared to me that I would be taking her alive to my home. There, it would end.

  Taking a cloth, I tied it around her head so as to keep her from yelling; then, I quickly ran and brought my car as close as I c
ould to the location. Through the darkness, I carried her body to my trunk. Unlike the previous times, on this occasion I did not feel the remorse or the agitation that hampered my joy; I felt no such feelings, save the anger that had resurfaced when I made the attack. Within me the rage still boiled like a cauldron; it rolled so violently that I could not even feel the slightest happiness at obtaining another supply. I was consumed by it entirely. Closing the trunk, I slipped quietly into the car and drove home.

  I had only laid her on the floor of the basement when she began to awaken. I paid little attention at first, as I was getting my supplies ready. I had my back to her, and could not clearly see her, though the slight movements she made alerted me to her arising. The girl was silent, either from fear or stupefaction. When I finished preparing everything, I turned to face her.

  She stared at me with wide eyes, slowly taking in the room while still looking at me. In her eyes was a dazed look, like thick fog had descended upon her and remained, slicing her visibility to shreds. Still feeling the effects of the blow, the girl tried to stand, but was not successful. I looked upon her sadly; not as one about to lose life, but sad in the manner that her existence was ever brought about. It would have been more suitable, I reasoned, if she had not been born. Humanity, I had learned quickly, was cold and calculating, like ancient reptiles in the depths of the swamp, lying still and waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Ever advantageous and opportunistic, humanity would sulk in the corner until the prey came to engage the sympathies of that beast. I had suffered long and hard at the hands of the monster; but now, when the rules of nature swung in my favor and I found a means of sustenance by their life source, I came to a position of power I had never felt before. Now I was the empowered one, the mighty one. It was someone else’s turn to suffer the blow.

  I quickly approached and finished off the girl, I drained the substance and had everything cleaned and bottled in a few hours. When I finally finished, I leaned against the table and beheld the remains. I felt it then, like before, but more powerfully this time: there was within me a singular feeling of pain, a striking pang ringing violently. I thought nothing of it at first, believing myself to be exhausted by my undertakings. Similar attacks had come in the past few weeks, but not of this magnitude. I felt weak and tired, fatigued even, and the suffering that came upon me was so tremendous in size that I did not feel I would survive the moment. It surfaced from within the right side of my chest and bounded freely through my limbs. Sweat droplets formed on my brow. The pain then threw me to the ground, causing me to curl my body into a lump. I stayed in this manner for several minutes until the severity of the issue subsided.

  Slowly I arose from the ground, pulling myself out of the posture I previously occupied. My body still rang from the blow it received, and I swayed slightly from the dizziness that now took the place of the pain. I staggered to the nearest bottle of blood and, with hate in my fingers, grabbed the cork and pulled it out.

  I suffered mildly, but inwardly I was an explosion of incendiary missiles, all converging upon the plan I once believed to be the most natural and best-selected option left to me. I cursed humanity, cursed the gods above, my own stupidity, and finally, with much remorse, the plan that I thought would save me. I was persistent, however, and took a swallow of the substance, still desiring to believe the liquid would bring salvation.

  I was momentarily quenched, and so sat down for several long minutes, my mind wandering over the past many weeks. Was failure truly upon me? Was I to die soon? Was this plan really the fault of my overestimations of the salvific nature of blood? I dropped my head upon my chest and tears began to roll down my tired face. I yearned for relief, for life, and believed I had located my own Fountain of Youth. As the explorers of old searched the new land for riches and the fabled fountain, I, too, looked into the abyss of science, that unfathomable recess of unknown knowledge, and searched for my own spring. Now, upon the floor at my very feet was the spring; only, this spring gave what I now considered with uncertainty: the flowing life source necessary for my sustenance. My plan seemed to breech the impregnable walls of modern medicine, but in the final throes of victory, I realized that disillusionment was all that awaited the victor.

  I tilted my head over towards the remains; there, below me, was the body, the vestiges of my ill-fated plan. It was a remnant, a razed temple foundation, a scar that would not heal. I tried to look away, but my eyes felt compelled to examine the corpse in every detail. The hair, though disheveled, was still vibrant with color and seemingly teeming with life. The skin still retained a hue that bespoke of animation. The eyes, with their skyward-cast gaze, stared as if peering into the deeper regions of the starry night. Every aspect of the body exhibited life, though I knew that no such vivacity existed in the girl. She was dead, a sacrifice to one man’s inflamed passion.

  As if expecting the body to react, I gently nudged the figure with my foot. I had tried, and all but failed; the body before me was evidence. But how is success measured? How does one gauge the advancement of a certain project? Can one set goals, or implement peripheries to see if they are surpassed? Was my health just such a periphery? And what if, despite the detailed and over-cautious nature of the individual, the test in question is faulty from the beginning? What if certain items are brought to the table in less than a satisfactory nature? I turned my eyes again upon the girl.

  What if she was defunct? What if she was missing the natural element that would sustain me? Was I to blame for choosing a faulty product? I had thought of this idea earlier, and was told it was plausible; I doubted, however, its authenticity until now. Humanity, so wicked and vile, could not sustain life; they only take life, sucking it from the depths of all creation. I was not to blame. Society, with all its ills and inabilities to create a worthy character, is to blame for the misfortune that has befallen me. A more worthy specimen would have enabled me to live.

  I did not realize it, but my voice had superseded the confines of my head. An audience of silence listened intently as I vociferated my heart’s madness and pain. I was enraged, excited by the torments of the truth which echoed loudly in my head; then, I beheld the body once more. I stared child-like at the corpse, as if my eyes had never beheld such a creature. The beauty, the figure, the gentle curves of the face, the slight shading around the eyes and the way the light fell upon them all touched me deeply. Life, like a candle, had been blown out so violently, and for a cause that could no longer be sustained.

  I sat for a moment, calming myself after securing the girl in a wrapping; it would be the only funeral shroud she would wear. I was deeply moved, with tears rimming my eyes. Death had come at last for this poor soul, a death brought about by my hands. She fell victim to a cause which was ill-advised and ill-sought; for life does not come out of death -at least not in our cycle. Death is death, and life is life; the two sit on opposite ends of the field, staring at one another, daring each other to cross the expanse and attack. For nature it is not so, the cyclical nature of the created order has death relieving life, and vice-versa; for humans, we simply live a fable, believing that death is for the elderly alone. Death, like life, is for everyone; and soon, mine would come. This I now knew to be true.

  I took the remains and carefully lifted the body onto my shoulder. I stumbled and staggered under the weight, but managed to get the body into the trunk of my car with little noise. The area was just as the Voice described in the vision: tall oaks studded in moss with palms filling in the forest gaps. The air was hot and moist, like most nights in a subtropical environment, and it hung heavily upon the whole scene.

  The rage which erupted in the basement settled into some hidden cavern in my bosom, and I felt melancholic and sad. I carried the body almost reverently, as if the Virgin Mother were enshrouded in its folds. I advanced a few paces and found a spot beside the small marsh; here the grass was high, and the humid environment and soil would al
low for quick decomposition. I thought it at least a pretty place for interment and started to dig. I had not completed a foot’s worth of excavation when I heard a voice behind me. I spun wildly around, shovel ready to strike, but saw no one there.

  “How apprehensive you are,” stated the Voice somberly. I recognized it at once.

  “Oh, you,” I said, assured of the familiarity of the Voice.

  “Yes, it is me. And I see you have found this location easily enough. Good.”

  “It was right where you told me it would be. I had little trouble reaching it.”

  “I figured such,” said the Voice. “Now, if I recall, you were having a bit of a conversation in the basement. What was that?” I had not realized my doubts were so loudly expressed, or that the Voice had managed to capture the monologue.

  “That? Oh, nothing; just my usual rambling.”

  “It seemed to me to be the expression of doubt once more. Did I not tell you our plan would be successful in the end? Did I not tell you to let loose your fears and reservations, to totally give yourself to this? Why, then, do you still doubt?” I concealed my feelings deeper, trying to hide them not only from the Voice, but from the very atmosphere.

  “It was nothing!” I reiterated.

  “Actually, my friend,” the Voice began coolly, “it seemed very real to me. You doubted, then wept, didn’t you? Those tears were not only for your own condition, but for hers.”

  A pang of anger, smoldering in my chest, exploded violently against the Voice and its accusation. “How dare you!” I shouted. My voice, like the booming of a cannon, threw its verbal shot across the damp land.

  “Excuse me?” replied the Voice.

  “Yes, you heard me! I have listened to you long enough!”

  “You have, have you?”

  “Yes, I have! I was dying, and you gave me life, and what life it was! Look at me, here in the swamp, an innocent lying at my feet, and my body still in ruins. What have we accomplished? What have you accomplished?”

  “You would be a dead fool without me now! You would be in some gutter, like the trash from which you came, rotting and cursing your own existence. Look what I have done for you. Look what I have shown you. You see the order of things, the nature of all creation. You have the knowledge of good and evil, the same knowledge that placed the race of people into slavery and bequeathed to their children damnation. What could you expect from this? What did you desire, if not the destruction of the ones who placed you in this condition?”

  “If not for you, I would die like a man who faced his own end bravely. Because of you I will die a miserable murderer, enshrouded in blood and laid in an unmarked grave, where only the demons will frequent. That is what you have done for me!”

  “How dare you!”

  “No, you damned fool, how dare you mislead me and direct me in a path of your choosing. You wanted blood, you wanted revenge on society; and you used me, a simple man yearning for salvation and life, to bring about your means. You are a damned bastard, and I damn you to the hell from which your blood-stained soul emanated!”

  There was silence.

  I waited, but heard nothing more. There was a stillness which weighed down the air, and it hung in my ears heavily. Every passing moment restored a bit of confidence to my tattered being; the Voice, if not dead, was at least quiet. I straightened myself, feeling an energy both invigorating and secure. I hastily, but reverently buried the body, saying goodbye to the girl.