Catharsis (Book 1)

by D. Andrew Campbell

  To top off my morning, my stomach is starting to cramp up and growl at me. Apparently my marshmallow-packed cereal hadn't been enough to appease the mighty intestinal gods. I was going to have to make a break for the vending machines and their smorgasbord of health foods soon (The state had taken away the school's right to sell anything with sugar or flavor to children years ago, but they allowed us to keep our vending machines. The combination of the two meant we now had machines full of bran muffins, dried fruit and warm water bottles. Only the truly desperate or malnourished kids ever used them.).

  My sunglasses were helping with the overhead fluorescent lights in the building, but they weren't preventing the pain completely. I still had my eyes nearly slitted to keep the stabbing in my sockets to a minimum.

  Reaching the door of the girls’ locker room and swinging it open, I manage to get two full strides down the hall before the raw sweaty stank of what I’m walking into reaches up and punches its horrible little fists down my olfactory organs. Dropping to my knees in the hallway, I squench my eyes completely closed and cover my mouth and nose with my free right hand. The mix of unwashed skin, used football pads (seeping through the walls of the boys’ adjacent locker room) and old, mildew-infused clothing were just the opening smells I picked out before closing off my brain from interpreting any more.

  I can't go in there, I think once my brain crawls out of its hiding place. That's worse than anything I've ever encountered.

  Other girls pass me as I crouch on the ground attempting to not breathe the noxious air that surrounds me. I hear laughter. I'm sure I look absurd, but I want to tune everything out. I want my senses to just stop working altogether.

  Reluctantly, I realize first period is going to be a bust, and I won’t be starting my day with exercise. If I can’t change clothes or participate in class, then I might as well make my way down to the nurse and get that task accomplished instead.

  The crawl back to the locker room door is short - I only made it six feet before dropping - but it’s agonizingly slow and painful. Although my movement is hindered in a crouch, it also effectively restricts any access the air might have to my senses (To misquote the kitschy monkey statue: Hear no evil, see no evil, smell no evil.). Standing isn’t worth the risk of exposing myself to another assault.

  Once in the hall, breathing becomes easier, but I can still taste the fetid blackness oozing from behind the closed door of the locker room. There’s no way I’m going anywhere near that again this morning.

  A quick scan of the hallway leads me to one of the P.E. teachers on hall duty who hasn't left her post yet. I shuffle towards her as best I can and get her attention (My escape from the hallway has sucked my remaining energy from me. I’m not tired, but I feel exhausted and ravenous.).

  "Excuse me, Ms. Davis,” I say quietly in a meek attempt to get her to notice me. “I'm not feeling well, and I have a note for the nurse. Can I take it down now?"

  "Morning Ms. Perez. You know that's something to take care of once we're in class. Now's not the time for it." She says all of this without glancing away from a clipboard she’s writing on.

  I don’t move. I wait patiently for her to look up, so I can try another tactic. It’s going to take more than bureaucratic procedure to get me into that locker room this morning.

  "Is there something else?" she finally lifts her eyes from her clipboard to take in the sight of me standing in front of her (Well below her, actually. If there is an opposite to “towering over” someone, then that was what I was doing.), and then she actually sees me. Her eyes widen slightly and her breath hitches. Her surprise leaps out of her pores, and I immediately taste it in the air. It’s an odd sensation. "Are you ok? You don't look well at all. You're," she pauses and her eyes move over my face and neck, "really pale."

  My first instinct is to blurt out, 'Duh! No, I'm not ok. I told you I didn't feel well. Way to pay attention.' But I don’t foresee that helping me accomplish anything aside from petty revenge. Plus, I really like Ms. Davis. She’s older and widowed (It was a tractor accident on their farm, I believe.). She’s also in phenomenal shape and never backs down from a challenge. She’ll out-intimidate the most obstinate kid in class or accept an impromptu three-point shooting contest. It doesn’t matter; she’ll do it all. I respect her.

  Instead I go for the simple repetition of my previous question, "Can I take my note down to the nurse? I don't feel well."

  "Of course. Of course. Let's do that." Almost like magic, a yellow hall pass appears in her hand, and she scribbles out some information on it before handing it over (Most likely it had been under a paper on the clipboard, but she’s still impressively quick.).

  "We'll see you tomorrow, Catarina. I doubt you're coming back to class today looking the way you do. Feel better, kiddo."

  "Thanks Ms. Davis. I will." And I give her the best smile I can muster under the circumstances (Great teachers just make life more bearable.).

  With the pass in hand, I head down to the nurse and what will be one of my last hours ever in a public school building.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The nurse and I have only met twice in the time I've been at this school. The first time was after some bad seafood had its way with me (Turns out leftover shrimp in a brown paper bag for lunch the day after a birthday dinner at the local lobster shack is not the strongest idea.), and the most recent time was for a jammed index finger suffered during a particularly rousing science lesson about biomes (It's a long story, and it involves a squirrel, a two by four and a broken slinky. I'll save it for later.). A five foot tall, one hundred pound Hispanic girl is easily forgettable in a school this large, so I was guessing she probably wouldn’t remember me when I came in.

  Nurse Pritchett is with some skinny freshman kid when I come into her cramped office (Kids always refer to her as "Nurse Pritchett" and not "Mrs. Pritchett". I'm not sure why.). The room has a distinct chemical smell that’s refreshing after my previous olfactory excursion. It’s almost relaxing. I can smell sickness in the air under the chemicals, but it is subtle and easy to ignore. She absently waves me to an empty plastic chair next to the door, and I happily sit down. It’s a relief to not have to worry about adding moving to the list of things I’m trying to accomplish all at once.

  The room isn’t large - it’s about the size of two bedrooms smashed together – and it’s nicely soundproofed (Probably to keep any kids' annoying cries of pain from bothering the office ladies next door.). The combination of the two features work together to give me a pleasant reprieve from the awfulness of the locker room and the school hallways.

  Closing my eyes, I pass the time connecting smells and sounds to what I guess they originated from.

  Insect buzz? Her computer on the desk in the corner.

  Repetitive chick-chick sound? Wall clock.

  Biting alcohol scent? Disinfectant for cleaning.

  And something delicious. Almost like meat? That would be -

  "Young lady, how can I help you?" Her friendly voice interrupts my thoughts and then morphs into a more suspicious tone. "Why are you wearing sunglasses in my office? Are you high? Or do you have a black eye?"

  I squint at the woman standing in front of me. Nurse Pritchett can’t be any older than her mid-twenties, but she has called me "young lady" every time she's seen me (Ok, all three, but still. That's enough for a pattern.). That combined with her severely pulled back hair fastened into a classic librarian's bun makes me wonder if she’s trying to project an image of being older. It must be tough to play nurse maid to a bunch of hooligan teens all day.

  "Neither, ma'am." I pull out my dad's crumbled letter I'd kept in my pocket all morning. "I have a note for you."

  "Very well, then. Thanks." She unfolds the paper I had pressed into her palm and quickly reads my dad's scrawl about my eyes hurting and my not feeling well. She "hmmph’s" once she finishes and sets it on her desk.

  "I'm going to need to see your eyes for myself before I approve of anything, yo
u understand."

  I nod. "Ok."

  "And judging from the pallor of your skin I'm guessing there might be something else wrong with you. You look pale. Are you feeling alright aside from your eyes hurting?"

  "Uhm, well." I consider how much to say. This is probably as close to a doctor as I’m going to get. I might as well open up a bit and see what she can tell me. Can’t hurt, right? (This is where we insert the quote, "Famous Last Words".) "Actually all my senses have been acting weird. They're sensitive. Super sensitive. Painfully sensitive."

  "What do you mean by 'sensitive'?” She asks me with the first real hint of concern in her voice. “How sensitive are we talking here?"

  "For starters, if I take off my glasses I can't see because of how blinding the light is. I currently have my eyes squinted behind these glasses, and it’s still a bit painful. Actually," I pause and reach behind me for the light switch and snap both tabs down, "that will make things a bit easier on me. Thanks."

  I can see her frown at me, but the darkening of the room is a sensory relief. It only cuts down on the lights; it doesn’t completely extinguish them. All the rooms at my school have emergency lights that are permanently lit. It's like creepy educational mood lighting.

  "Plus my ears are picking up a lot more sound than I'm used to. As an example," I stop talking for a moment so I can pick out some minute detail of sound to prove my point. But like I mentioned before, the sound proofing on the room is impressive, and there’s little for me to listen to in the room. I can hear the computer and clock, but neither of those is very impressive.

  "Hang on. There's not much in here to listen to. It's actually rather nice." Then I pick up a faint whooshing noise that had been so light it had been imperceptible until now. After listening to it for a few beats, I discover what it is. The discovery both thrills me and disturbs me a bit.

  "Ok. This might sound weird, but I can hear...your... uhm...heartbeat."

  Her previous frown tightens even more, and I don’t need to smell her skepticism to know it’s there.

  "My heartbeat? Ok."

  I take off my sunglasses so she can see my eyes. The emergency light makes me blink. It’s still brighter than I want. "I'm going to close my eyes. Use your fingers to feel your own pulse, and I'll let you know when I hear it."

  She doesn’t move at first; she just continues to stare at me. After a few seconds of this, she straightens up and puts her right index finger to her carotid artery in her throat.

  Closing my eyes, I focus on the woosh-bump sound I heard earlier. Now that I know it’s there, it’s easy to pick out. I just listen to the soothing rhythm for a moment before breaking the silence.

  woosh-bump. "Beat," I say softly.

  woosh-bump. "Beat," I say again.

  woosh-bump. "Beat," I say and continue through several more before stopping.

  "Those were dead on every time. Those are sensitive ears. Now you were -"

  "You had peanut butter and jelly this morning," I interrupt her, anticipating her next question. "Raspberry jelly. I can smell it on you." I breathe deeply through my nose a few times and try to nail down the next scent. I then realize it’s not one, but two similar and competing scents. "You have two cats. One is a male. The other I can't smell as well. It's either a female or you haven't been around it recently." I open my eyes and squint at her. Her increased heart rate and breathing and open eyes tell me I don't need to ask my next question, but I do anyway.

  "Am I right?"

  "Yes," she stammers. "Roscoe and Bill. Bill didn't come home last night so I haven't seen him since yesterday morning. How'd you know that?"

  "I don't know. Actually, I was kind of hoping you could tell me. Is this common? Will it go away? It's rather annoying. Is there a medicine I can take? I just want it to stop." The words come pouring out of me faster than I had planned, and I'm sure they sound a bit on the crazy side. But I don't care right now. I hold out hope she might be able to help.

  "I've never heard of it before. How long has it been happening?"

  "Since last night. I, uh…" I start and then let it trail off. No point recounting last night's adventures even if they are relevant. That is a can of worms that shall stay firmly closed. Luckily she doesn't notice.

  "Anything else aside from those changes?"

  "Well, I'm a bit stronger (But saying that feels like bragging, so I quickly move on.), and, oh, my appetite is awful. I can't get enough to eat. And food has no taste. None whatsoever. Everything is unflavored oatmeal."

  She continues to just stand in one spot and stare at me long enough that I begin to get uncomfortable. I wiggle a bit in my seat under her gaze.

  "I'm going to take a closer look at your eyes," she finally says and turns and steps over to her wall of cabinets and begins opening drawers until she finds a long, black and silver cylinder and brings it over to me.

  "This flashlight will let me see how dilated your pupils are. I have a feeling that's where your light sensitivity is coming from. I won't shine it in your eyes, though. Just above them so I can see them better."

  I nod and say, "Ok."

  She points the flashlight away from me and towards the opposite wall before clicking it on. The sudden donut of whiteness makes me jump, but as long as it isn't in my eyes it's tolerable. She moves the white circle along the wall to my right and then the wall behind me until it is just above my head. It hurts, but as long as I focus on another part of the room instead of the beam then it's bearable.

  "Wow!" She says softly and steps even closer to me and bends down so that she is about a foot from my face. It's hard to focus on another part of the room when she is filling my entire field of vision. "Your entire eye is pupil. Your iris and sclera are gone. Hmmm. Look down please."

  I do and try to focus on the chair between my knees.

  "There it is. I can see the white of your eye now, but just barely. No wonder the light hurts so much. Your pupils are so dilated they are letting in all the light around you without filtering any out. I bet you can see really well in the dark right now, can't you?"

  I hear her words, but I'm no longer listening. I finally pinpointed that delicious meat smell I had picked up earlier. Its intoxicating aroma is making my stomach lurch hard enough to make me nauseous. Almost as nauseous as the realization of where it's coming from. That delicious meat smell is coming from Nurse Pritchett.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  "Did you hear what I said? I think I have some eye drops that might help."

  She's moved back to her cabinets and the distance helps, but it doesn't stop it completely. My left hand is damp, and lifting it I realize I've been salivating. Drool is dribbling from the corners of my mouth and has splashed onto the back of my hand (Thank the holy heavens it's dark in here and she can't fully see me.). It’s disgusting.

  "Are you ok back there?" Her back is still to me as she moves small boxes and bottles in the cabinet. "Cat? Is something wrong?"

  I guess that answers my question about whether she remembered me from my previous visits.

  My brain wants to answer her, but my mouth is having trouble forming the words now that my appetite has found a focus. My jaw moves, but no sound issues forth. I slow my breathing for a moment and try again.

  "I don't know. But please don't come back over here. Stay there." I can tell she isn't listening to me by her body language. "Please," I manage to get out before she turns and steps towards me.

  I hear her heart pushing the blood through her body, whoosh-bump whoosh-bump whoosh-bump, and each pulse intensifies the desire to taste it. Something deep in my gut tells me that the flow of it will make me better. Healthier. Stronger. I need it more than I've ever needed anything before. My brain focuses on her neck as she approaches me. With fascination, I see that I can pick out the slightest rise in her throat as her carotid artery swells and releases with blood. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I'm attracted to it like a pre-teen girl to a British boy band.

  Standin
g up, I close the distance to Nurse Pritchett in a single step. I can't deny myself the pull I'm feeling. It's all I can think about. It's everything right now. I move to within inches of her before she can react.

  "What are you -” she begins.

  "stop," I say quietly cutting her off, and my voice is deeper and thicker than I've ever heard it before. I need her to stop, and I can feel my need for that to happen in my own voice. I don't want her to move, and I force that desire into every word. "just stay there," I say, and she does. This twenty-something year old nurse just stands in front of me motionless staring into my eyes.

  Either I don't know what to do next or I do know but my brain refuses to accept it, so I just stand in front of her breathing. My brain is nothing but fog and clouds. I'm moving on instinct. I'm a starving person who has left the desert only to stumble onto the Pilgrim's first feast. It's too much. It's overwhelming.

  As she stands in front of me not moving, it dawns on me what I'm wanting. What is driving me towards her. What is making me salivate enough to dampen the front of my sweatshirt. I can smell it, and I'm scared.

  It's her blood. The drug that is compelling me forward is the blood of our school nurse.

  And the worst part? I don't think I care.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Or is the worst part the fact that I don't know how to get at it? I can see the throb of the artery in the curve of her neck, but I don't know how to get to it. I hunger for it, but I don't know how to break the fragile container that is her skin.