Donor

by Elena Hearty

  After half a days waiting, the plan bore fruit. “Hey Rich, I’m out of food,” she said, uncurling on the sofa as he walked in.

  “What do you want? More Toaster Pastries? I told you I didn’t think you got enough food. Make a list and we’ll give it to Charles when he comes by later. Do it somewhere else, though. Get out of here.” Richard would not look at her and walked to the other end of the room as if avoiding solicitation.

  There was something off about him.

  He was hungry.

  He was hungry and warning her away. How much danger was she in, exactly? After four days, probably a lot. Lenore thought about how boa constrictors will starve themselves before a large meal. Richard was getting ready to eat something big. What had she been thinking waiting around for him like that?

  Slowly, she stood up and started backing out of the room, careful not to make any sudden moves. “He’s bringing someone by tonight, right?” she asked, hoping to remind Richard that she was not on the menu.

  “He‘d better be, for your sake. Now go.” When he spoke, she saw fangs.

  From the dubious safety of her bedroom, Lenore sat paralyzed, listening to Richard ravenously pace the hall. She stared nervously at the clock on the wall, wondering when Paul and Charles would be by with a human sacrifice. What if Richard couldn't wait that long? He seemed entirely too far gone to be satisfied with a helping from her intravenous tap. A panic was taking hold, exacerbated by the knowledge that Richard could probably hear her heart racing like a dinner bell from outside the door. Xanax. She needed to take some Xanax if only to slow it down. In spite of careful tapering, only eleven pills remained; nonetheless, she grabbed four and started chewing. Paul said that he would bring more, he just had to.

  Forty-three minutes later, and much, much calmer (had she passed out for a minute there?), Lenore heard a knock at the door. What if it was Richard coming to drag her to the laundry room? More knocking. If he were coming to kill her, would he bother to knock at all?

  “Lenore? LENORE? Fuck it. I’m not standing here forever. Paul says he’s got something for you. He’s here with Charles…take it or leave it, I don’t give a shit.” His footsteps faded in the distance.

  Paul looked genuinely happy to see Lenore when she joined them in the parlor, and he broke away from his conversation with Richard to greet her at the door.

  “You okay?” he asked. “I hope you weren’t freaking out or anything. I know we cut this a little close, but you’re home free now.” He motioned to a young woman sitting next to Charles on the sofa.

  The newcomer, who could not have been a day over twenty-five, sat quietly, hands folded, looking terribly confused. Periodically, she would turn her head to Charles as if on the verge of a question, but he would not return eye contact. Richard eyed her carnivorously from the pool table, and Lenore wondered if his subject had transmogrified into a giant chicken leg.

  “Walk with me,” Paul said, wrapping his arm around Lenore and leading her into the hallway. He put his finger to his lips, urging her to keep their conversation quiet, lest she compromise the awful conspiracy unfolding in the parlor.

  “So that girl, she’s -”

  “She’s dinner, yeah. Don’t worry about it. I know I said I was going to get you out of here, but I think I'm going to sit in on this one. I’m feeling a little peckish.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t kill people,” she whispered. Was that really even true? Perhaps it was just something she wanted to believe.

  Paul made a face. "Oh boy. Look, this doesn't count. She's already dead. I mean, Rich is going to kill her no matter what I do. I might as well eat."

  Lenore found this statement absurd; akin to eating a cheeseburger and claiming vegetarianism on technicality of who killed the cow.

  “Besides,” Paul said, as if reading her mind, “I said I usually don’t kill people. Big difference.”

  “Yeah,” she muttered absently. Sure. Why not?

  "I got your more Xanax, by the way," he whispered excitedly, reaching into his jacket and placing a bottle of pills in her hand. "That's 180 pills. Should last you a while. Haha, and it‘s a good thing, too. You look like you‘ve had a few this evening."

  Murderer or not, Lenore could have hugged him. “Thank you so much!” And yet, at this exact moment, for no discernible reason, she wanted to throw up.

  “Shh not so loud, kiddo. Now get out of here. You don't want to stick around. Rich can get pretty sadistic when he's hungry.”

  “I sure can, can't I?” Richard emerged from around the corner and blocked Lenore's path. He looked at the pills in her hand. “Oh, I'm sorry. Am I interrupting your little drug deal?”

  Lenore slid the medicine into her pocket.

  Paul frowned. “We're all finished, Rich. She was just going back to her room.”

  Richard grinned, fangs exposed, unmoving. “I can see that. But I think she should join us in the living room. Let's make this interesting. Let's introduce her to Charles's friend.”

  “Don't do this, Rich. Let her go.”

  But Richard had already taken hold of Lenore's wrist. He walked her back into the living room and planted her in front of the sofa. Paul followed, shaking his head.

  Richard released Lenore's arm and addressed the girl who sat before them. “Stacy, I'd like you to meet Lenore.”

  Stacy nodded, nervously fidgeting with her hair.

  Charles started inching away from where she sat as if it was on a fault line. He exchanged glances with Paul, who raised his hand reassuringly. Something bad was about to go down.

  “Lenore, meet Stacy,” Richard said.

  Lenore looked down at her feet, shuffling them along the new carpet. What was going on?

  Richard shouted into her ear. “I SAID, 'MEET STACY'. SAY HELLO.”

  “Hi, Stacy,” she mumbled.

  “That's better,” he said. “BUT LOOK AT ME. Stop looking at the floor. Are you calm? You seem pretty calm. You've taken your medicine, right?”

  Lenore nodded, squeezing the container in her pocket.

  “Good,” he smiled. “I want you calm for this.”

  “What are you doing, Rich?” Paul asked, walking toward the bar. He leaned against the counter with his arms folded. “Where are you going with this?”

  Richard grinned at him. “Let's do something we haven't done in years. Dinner theater.”

  Lenore did not like the sound of that.

  Paul rolled his eyes. “I thought we don't do dinner theater anymore. I thought we quit that.”

  “I'm bringing it back. I think I have an interesting new spin on it.”

  "What's dinner theater?" Charles asked. He had managed to distance himself from Stacy by an entire sofa cushion and was still maneuvering.

  “You don't have to worry about it,” Paul said, shaking his head. “You aren't playing.” He turned to Richard. “He isn't playing, right?”

  "He doesn't have to play. This game will be ladies only. He should stick around, though, because he has a stake in it." Richard grinned at Lenore, clasping his hands. "So let's get started. Lenore, do you know what Charles told me? He thinks that I should give your job to Stacy and that instead of killing her tonight, I should kill you instead."

  Stacy whimpered, wringing her hands. “What's he talking about, Charles? You said they were going to turn me.” She grabbed his arm. “What's he talking about?”

  Charles wrestled free of her grasp. “There's been a change in plans,” he said. He walked over to Paul and stood beside him.

  The girl on the couch frowned as she watched him leave, and pawed the empty air where he once sat as if she might catch him still. “You said they were going to turn me.” She bent over, producing a wet gulping noise that Lenore at first mistook to be coughing. When Stacy lifted her head, however, Lenore realized that she was sobbing. Interestingly, Stacy did not scream; probably because she knew no one would help her.

  Richard eyed the vacancy on the sofa with glee. “Lenore, can you plea
se take a seat next to your competition? That should make things a lot easier going forward.” He shoved Lenore toward the empty spot, where she reluctantly sat down. “That's better. Now I can see you both. So, Lenore, what do you think of Charles's suggestion? Do you think I should give the job to Stacy?”

  Xanax replied. "Maybe you should give the job to Charles since he seems to have taken such an interest." Fuck Charles.

  Richard slapped his hand on his knee. “What an excellent idea, and very generous. You want the job, Charles?”

  “I ain't food,” Charles said from behind his bodyguard.

  Richard chortled venomously. “Like hell you're not.” He turned his attention back to the Lenore. “Unfortunately, it doesn't sound like Charles wants the job, but I like the way you think. Stacy wants the job, though, don't you, Stacy? You don't want to die tonight, do you?”

  Stacy shook her head, choking back tears.

  Satisfied with this response, Richard continued. “So Lenore, in the interest of being an equal opportunity employer, I'm going to give Stacy a shot at replacing you.” He closed his eyes. “I'm thinking of a number between one and ten.”

  Lenore clenched her jaw. “No, you aren't.” Fuck Richard.

  “Excuse me?” Richard's fanged grin widened.

  She dug her fingers into the upholstery, imagining it was Richard's face. “You've already made your decision.”

  Richard brought his hand to his mouth facetiously. “Why, Lenore. This is exceptionally poor sportsmanship. We'll have to start with Stacy instead and come back to you later. Stacy, pick a number between one and ten.”

  It took nearly a minute for Stacy to sob a comprehensible response. “Seven.”

  Paul chuckled and nudged his human companion. “They always pick seven.”

  Lenore watched their exchange with a mixture of abhorrence and envy. It wasn't fair. Charles should be the one sitting in the hot seat. Charles should be the one picking a number. Charles should be the one dying in the laundry room.

  Richard snapped his fingers in her face. “Goddammit. Stop looking at them. Look at me. Pick a number. Don't make me pick one for you.”

  Her mouth curled into a half smile. “I'll pick a number if Charles plays.”

  Charles shot Lenore an icy glare. “Give up, you stupid bitch. I ain't playing.”

  "Oh yes, you are!" Richard cackled. "Get over here! We need an extra player!"

  Charles did not move and whispered something to his protector.

  Paul placed his hand on his friend's shoulder, shaking his head. “You can't make him play, Rich. That's out of the question.”

  “He had no problem putting their lives on the line,” Richard said, motioning to Lenore and Stacy. “He's playing. I insist.”

  Paul pursed his lips, mulling it over. “Okay, you've got a point there. But you have to replace him if he loses.” He waved Charles toward the sofa.

  Charles winced and grudgingly went to sit between Lenore and Stacy as if they were a pair of lepers. Lenore could feel his long legs shaking beside her, and noticed that his mouth was locked in an involuntary grimace; the frown of someone about to cry. Good.

  Paul grinned at Richard. “You turn into such an asshole when you're hungry.”

  “You're having a good time, though. Admit it.”

  “I'm definitely entertained.”

  “That's all that's important.” Richard smirked at his new contestant. “Charles, will you pick a number, please?”

  Charles looked over at Paul.

  “Pick a number,” Paul said.

  “I don't want to pick a number!” His eyes filled with tears. “You can't do this to me, Paul. I'm not food! I've done everything you've ever asked me to do. I brought Stacy here. I got Lenore her pills. You can't do this to me.”

  Richard frowned at him condescendingly. “Charles, I'm disappointed in you. You're looking at this all wrong. We're teaching you a valuable lesson here…it's…” Richard looked up, trying to determine what valuable lesson they were actually teaching Charles.

  “Empathy,” Lenore chimed in.

  "Empathy!" Richard cried as if he were calling bingo. "Thank you, Lenore! You just scored fifty bonus points! It's empathy. Yes, empathy is a valuable, valuable lesson."

  Paul snickered, gripping the counter behind him as if it were a seat on a roller coaster. He looked like he was enjoying the ride. “Jesus Christ, you two are so full of shit. But that doesn't change things. Charles, pick a number.”

  Charles sobbed a little. “One.”

  Richard smiled. “Holy shit, are you crying? Did you just say, 'one'?”

  Charles nodded.

  “Okay, great,” Richard said. “Now it's back to the high-off-her-ass Miss Lenore. Pick a number, Miss Lenore. I got Charles to play. Don't go welching on your promise.”

  She grit her teeth. “Seven.”

  Richard shook his head, making a buzzer sound. “EH. Nope. Try again. Seven's taken. I believe the hysterical Miss Stacy already went with seven.”

  The hysterical Miss Stacy whimpered in agreement.

  Lenore crossed her legs and leaned back in her seat. “Then you'll just have to choose. I'll live or die with Stacy. Charles lives or dies on his own.”

  Richard bit his lower lip to stifle a grin. “This is highly unusual,” he said, facing Paul. “I'll have to consult with the judges to see if it's allowed.”

  Paul giggled, pulling away from the counter. “I think she's calling your bluff, Rich. And I think I'm going to allow it.” He walked over to the sofa. “I'm sorry, guys, but Lenore just won't play fair. I'm going to have to disqualify her. Lenore, you are excused.” Paul extended his hand and helped Lenore to her feet.

  She followed him to the wet bar. “Well played,” he whispered, patting her on the back. “Can I make you a drink?”

  “No.”

  “Do a shot. I think I'm in trouble when this is over. Do a shot for me.”

  Richard continued to antagonize the pair on the sofa, who had drifted apart from one another with almost magnetic repulsion. “And the number I was thinking of was…it was seven! Stacy won that round, Charles, but lucky for you, we're going with the best two out of three…”

  “Tequila,” Lenore said, wincing at the belligerent rampage.

  Paul placed a shot glass on the counter and filled it to the brim. “Done.”

  Lenore swallowed it down.

  "Good girl." He signaled the ringleader on the carpet. "Hey, Rich? You don't need Lenore anymore, right? She can go back to her room, right?"

  “Nah, let's make her stay,” Richard said. “Hey Lenore, want to see what happens to the loser? How would you like a free empathy lesson?”

  Paul shook his head. “I think you've dragged this out long enough.” He raised his voice and spoke with authoritative flair. “Charles, you have been disqualified. You are excused.”

  Charles nervously looked at Richard, who motioned for him to stay put.

  “We still have two rounds left!” Richard protested.

  “NO,” Paul yelled. “GAME OVER. STACY LOSES.” Stacy began wailing, and he slammed his hand on the counter. “That is my final judgment. Charles, get up. It's over.”

  Charles shot from his seat like a man out of a cannon and landed beside the pool table. He leaned against its edge, wiping the sweat from his forehead with trembling hands. Lenore noticed that he would not meet Paul's gaze; he looked over to Stacy instead. Perhaps Charles had learned empathy after all.

  Paul placed his hand on Lenore’s shoulder, interrupting her analysis. “Go,” he whispered. “I'll handle Rich.”

  She hesitated, eying the quivering girl on the sofa. “You're going to kill that girl now, aren't you?”

  He nodded, licking his lips. “Get out of here if you don't want it to be you.”

  ✽✽✽

  Lenore wandered trance-like back to her room, cupping the bottle of pills in her pocket as though it were a blue ribbon from the state fair. Now with the Xanax economy in ful
l swing, she chewed two more tablets in an effort to make peace with what was about to take place. Did this make her an accessory to murder? What, if anything, was her responsibility to a total stranger? Even if she had wanted to help Stacy, what could she do?

  Screaming in the hallway.

  Angela had screamed like this. Undoubtedly, and soon, Lenore would be dragged to the same fate. Would she scream too? Would Paul join in if he were feeling ’peckish’? Would Charles stand by and watch, mocking her? It was only a matter of time. Terrible images crowded Lenore's mind like weeds overrunning a garden. Images of Stacy being ripped to pieces. Why wasn’t the Xanax working to make it all go away? How many pills would she have to take until the rest of the apartment faded into oblivion?

  More screaming.

  Lenore was helpless to make it stop. Exasperated, she shoved her fingers in her ears and repeated to herself this will be over soon.

  And it was all over soon.

  When the hall grew quiet again, she looked up to see Paul standing in her doorway. He stepped into her room, characteristically chipper, wearing a fresh set of clothes and his million-dollar grin. "I wanted to swing by to see if you were okay," he said. "I could hear you talking to yourself in here."

  Badly shaken, Lenore did not speak for a full minute. When words did finally find her, they emerged with Xanaxy cool. “I was trying to block out of the sound of the screaming.”

  He nodded. “You’re really upset, huh?”

  She met Paul's eyes, noticing with revulsion that speckles of blood decorated his left cheek like so much poorly applied rouge. “Yeah, Paul. Yeah, I'm really upset.”

  “I knew I should have gotten you out of here for this,” he said. “I had every intention.” He cocked his head to the side. “What happened, though? You seemed okay when you left.”

  Lenore curled up on the bed, hugging her pillow. “I guess it didn’t seem real until she…um….she started screaming.”

  Paul groaned. “You know, I could rattle off a dozen ways that she had it better than you do right now. She probably had a really good life. The last half hour just sucked. You, on the other hand, who knows how much of your life is going to suck because of this bullshit.”