Catharsis (Book 1)

by D. Andrew Campbell

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The closet proved to be my salvation. The constant ache in my brain was crippling me, but after a bit more frenzied exploration of the building (The depth of the halls of this place continue to astound me.) I located an extremely large industrial-sized fan. It was rusted, but it looked functional. After dragging it back down to my nest, I found an electrical outlet near my closet and plugged it in with little actual hope of the juice still being live in this place.

  Success! (I'm a bit shocked-ha! get it?-that there's still power in this place, but I'm not about to look a “gift plug” in the mouth.)

  After some painfully squeaky false starts, the behemoth kicked on and the thunderous roar it generated drowned out any other sounds. Placing it in front of my closet, shutting the door and shoving an old, wadded up scrap of fabric under the door allowed me to create a makeshift sensory deprivation chamber. As long as I curl up in the corner and turn away from the door and cover my head with a pile of old clothes, then I can block out enough of my surroundings to allow my brain to slow down.

  This isn't exactly sleep (On some level I'm still fully conscious.), but at least my neurons are slowing down and not popping at the insane rate they were before. I was a car being revved too high for too long, and there was no way that was going to end well. But now? Now I feel I have a chance of surviving this.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Staying in this warehouse forever is not the final solution. After a day of rest and sensory deprivation, I've gotten back in touch with reality enough to accept that. I may be safe from other people in here, but I'm going to have to face society and civilization again eventually. I can't just become a hermit and close myself off.

  I’m still afraid of what will happen to both me and others once I go out in the world, but that fear is losing its grip on me. It is strong enough for me to recognize its existence, but not so strong that it will bind me here. I either need to conquer this fear and take control of whatever I am becoming, or I need to give in to it and accept that these walls will be my grave.

  And I’m too strong of a person to give into something like that so easily.

  And if I were to be honest with myself (Because right now, who else do I have to be honest with, really?), I want to test my abilities. I want to see what I can do out in the "wild" of the streets. I'm tired of limiting and restricting myself. The hunger hasn't left my body since my encounter with the trashman in the alley. I’ve found it's possible to repress it and keep it from dominating my thoughts, but I can no longer make it go away. And I'm not sure I want to. I like it. It's warmth that flows through me like fresh chicken noodle soup for my veins. It's pulling me outside. The hunger wants me to run free and experience what the city has to give me. Embracing that desire seems to me to be the most natural thing possible.

  Running my fingertips over the bare skin of my taut tummy, I'm amazed at how quickly I've healed from the knife's violent kiss. Little nubs of scars remain where the crazy old man stabbed me, but they're fading quickly. They're almost non-existent now, and in a few days I doubt I'll even be able to locate the tight knot of healed skin where the sharp blade bit into me. It's an incredible feeling.

  As wonderful as the infusion of new blood was from the trashman, I'm slowly beginning to think there was something wrong with it. I don't know what it is, but something about it feels...off. It's certainly more delicious and richer than anything I've ever consumed (And it pains me to say it, but that even includes my time before all this started. Drinking from him was more exquisite than any pastry my grandmother had ever whipped up. Her homemade churros were always divine, but even they couldn’t heal stab wounds or heighten my senses.), but it feels tainted in a way that I can't explain. I suspect that whatever was in his blood is also responsible for my inability to quell the hunger.

  My time in the closet has helped me gain a bit of control over my senses, and their input is no longer as crippling as it once was. I can now sort and categorize what's coming in around me and make a more conscious effort to filter what I need and ignore what I don't.

  "Lazzy, come here boy," I say loudly and bend down as my furry friend trots over to me. Even though the last week has been rough, he hasn't abandoned me. When I stumbled into the warehouse that night, bleeding, delirious and carrying several bags of groceries, I also managed to leave the door open before collapsing onto the cold, gray floor. He could have left me any number of times over these past several days, but he has been a vigilant and constant companion to me.

  A number of times this week when I zoned out while just sniffing the air and listening to sounds coming through walls, it would be the cold snuffling nose of my pal that would nudge me back from the edge of oblivion.

  "Thanks little fella," I tell him as I scratch gently behind his ears. "I'm not sure I would have survived this week as intact as I did if not for you. I owe you."

  "Snurt!" he replies with a sneeze into my hand.

  "Ugh," I mutter and wipe my hand into the fur along his back. "I'll try to assume that's your version of a pleasant response. Be good until I get back. Mommy has to go out for a little bit."

  Blinking his big eyes at me, he pants happily and gives a joyful little bark.

  "You've got the run of the place. Have fun. I'll leave the door open for you in case you need to potty, and I'll try to bring you back a treat."

  Giving him one last scratch in the soft fur behind his ears (I just love that part of him. With my new hyper-aware tactile responses, the softness of it is mind-meltingly wonderful.), I stand up and softly jog towards the warehouse door and freedom.

  It's time to go out and see what the night has for me.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The outside air is thick with scents that beg me to chase them down. The fact that each tempting trail originates with a person somewhere is only a dim awareness in my mind. The hunger is strong in me tonight, but I'm still the one who ultimately gets to call the final plays. My goal tonight is to run and stretch my legs and see what I can do and not to try and end another human's existence. The strength pulsing through me is limitless as opposed to the weakened power I was subsisting on previously from the rats and Lazzy. I felt strong then, but I could always sense a finite supply running through me. Tapping into what I could do back then made my limited supply dry up even faster. But now? Now I see no end to the electrified joy that spurs me on. My intoxication with this is complete.

  Of all the temptations that pull at me, one stands out stronger than the others. One particular scent has a taste to it that sparks something primal in me. Its scent is a siren's call that dares me to disobey. It's in luck tonight; I have no intention of straying from wherever it wants to lead me.

  Pushing away from the warehouse's gravelly front lawn (I'm not really sure you can call a debris strewn and overgrown parking lot a "lawn", but if I am to consider this place mi casa, then a “parking lawn” will do the job.), I fire myself down the sidewalk and between buildings in a run. Pushing myself up to a speed that is just below sprint - or at least a good long-distance stride - I settle into my pace and enjoy the sensation of movement. Wind pulls at me as I tear through the standing air like a football player through a paper banner. Snorting heavily (How incredibly unladylike I feel while doing it.), I force the cool night air through my nostrils and adjust my course to keep the scent flowing through me as strongly as possible.

  Erupting from between two buildings, I approach an empty street and decide to test my legs. As I step onto the sidewalk, I settle my weight and strength into my right leg and then release it in a single burst and fire myself across the street like a long jumper trying to clear the pit. Automatically my body adjusts my balance in mid-air as I clear the street and my feet move from behind me to in front of me in a fluid motion and catch me on the far sidewalk. With only a slight stumble (More from my shock in being able to do it than from any fault of my muscles.), I pick my speed back up and continue running.

  "That was ama
zing," I think. "That was more than I could ever do before. But it's also only the beginning of what I'm going to do tonight."

  Slowing at a corner, I notice I've moved into a more residential area of the city. Squalid one- and two-story houses line each side of the street with broken-down, windowless cars and partially dismantled kitchen appliances as the primary outdoor decorations. Whatever has been driving me tonight is leading me here. Leading me to one of the most run down sections of the city. Once again, this should scare me. Being alone in this part of town, at this time of night should cause me to soil my panties. But it doesn't. It thrills me. Inside, I'm ecstatic and bursting with energy. On the outside, though, I'm a nearly invisible occupant of the night.

  Turning slightly as my sense of direction settles, I speed up and run towards a derelict house that only has faint smells of life coming from it. It's been occupied recently, but not tonight. Without breaking stride, I leap onto the covered porch over the front door and then propel myself up and over the lip of the roof until I am perched on the rotting chimney of the building.

  Surveying the surrounding houses on the street, I'm able to locate the source of tonight's enticing scent: a heavily boarded up two-story brick house with multiple cars parked out front. Cars that haven't been burnt up or trashed. These are newer cars that are completely intact, and a few even have people sitting in them.

  "That's certainly curious," I whisper and let the wind gently carry away my words. "What do we have here?"

  Adjusting my position so that it is slightly more comfortable, I lower myself onto the roof and watch the house across the street and try to discern what exactly it is I'm seeing. Activity around the house is slow but consistent.

  As I watch, expensive-looking, late model cars pull up to the curb every twenty or thirty minutes and someone gets out (Even from my distance, I can smell the fear, trepidation and worry obscuring the scent of raw desire and need that taints the air as they walk.) and cautiously walks up to the front door of the large house that originally drew me here. After knocking on the door a number of times (Patience does not seem to be a virtue with this crowd.), a small portal in the door is opened and a brief conversation will ensue. The words spoken are hushed enough that even with my enhanced senses I can't make out more than a few words of what they're saying.

  "Lots of numbers," I say to the chimney, my only confidant right now. "What is up with all those numbers?"

  After a short conversation through the hole, the visitor will shove something through the door (Every time it has appeared to be an envelope.). The object gets quickly swallowed up in the hole which closes like a tiny whale's mouth gorging itself on a meal.

  Minutes will pass with the visitor just standing on the front porch (Every one of them appears to be quite nervous and agitated, too. Constant wiggling. Weight shifting back and forth. It does not appear to be a pleasant wait.), and then the little incandescent bulb above the heavy front door flicks off and on a few times (Usually it’s only once or twice, but a few times I counted as many as four or five. And once it went all the way to ten times before stopping the off-on pattern.). The flashing light seems to be the signal for the visitor to leave the house.

  Once the light has done its coded flicker (It must be a code of some sort. What else could it be?), I watch as the visitors run across the lawn to the neighboring house (A run-down two story with all the windows boarded over - even the ones on the second floor.) and knock on its door. After a moment's wait, a slot in the second house's door opens and a small package is pushed out (The more times the first house's light flashes, though, the larger the second house's package seems to be. The ten-flash trip produced multiple packages that were spit forth from the door's wooden womb.). With the package in hand, the visitors bound back to their cars and pull away without another word.

  This process continues without fail until an older gentleman in a nice suit tries to shove money through the hole instead of the envelope I’ve grown accustomed to. That does not go over well. Whoever is on the other side of the door gets irate and starts yelling about “police” and “idiots” and “getting busted” and tells the nicely dressed man to beat it before he gets beat himself.

  I can hear Mr. Nice Suit apologizing and attempting to smooth things over, but it doesn’t go well. He keeps talking and asking for another chance, but he won’t leave the front porch no matter how much the man inside the door yells.

  Then it gets real quiet for several seconds and the inside man stops making any noise and Mr. Nice Suit slowly walks back up to the door (He had moved off the front porch as the argument ensued.). As he gets closer to it, the little hole opens up again and something long and black slides out of it. Nice Suit stands very still while the whatever is poking out of the hole points at him. He starts to say something quietly, but he’s interrupted by hidden guy counting down from five.

  The nicely dressed guy waits until he hears “three”, and then he turns and sprints back towards his large, shiny black car. He peels out from in front of the house, and whatever was poking out from the hole slowly retreats back into the house.

  "Now that was certainly fascinating!" I breathe heavily into the crisp night air. "What could that possibly mean?"

  After watching the houses for several hours, I've come to the conclusion that whatever's occurring down there is most definitely shady. Shady and illegal. The combination of the two only intrigues me more.

  These two houses must be part of a drug operation; nothing else makes sense with what I’m seeing. And if that is true, then I have found my chance to test my abilities. This will become my playground. I will destroy these houses and everyone in them. I will make them suffer for their choices and what they have done to others with their poisons (Images of my best friend, Marie, flood into my memories no matter how much I try to block them out. Marie and what happened to her on the streets was why we had to move last year. I will never forget her, or forgive those who were responsible. These might not be the same men who killed her, but they are just as bad.).

  After running through scenarios in my head about different ways of staking out the houses from a closer vantage point or interrogating the visitors after they leave, I come to a much simpler solution: the direct approach. I'm just going to go up to the front door and knock and see what happens.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Once I've mentally committed to the approach, I stay and watch the two houses a bit longer and wait for the traffic to die down. I want to involve as few people in this inquisition as possible. Just me and door dude, if possible.

  Watching a shiny red sports car pull away from the curb and no other cars waiting in line, I leap at my chance to move forward with the plan (Quite literally, actually, as I softly propel myself off the roof and onto the house's sparse lawn.). Staying as alert as possible for the unexpected, I jog straight towards the front door of the first house and rapidly pound on it three times.

  "How much ya need?" grunts a strong male voice through the door as the thin slot in front of me slides open.

  Hmm. Tough question.

  "Well, to be honest, I'm not sure," I say brightly to my mystery conversation partner. (This is only the fifth person I've spoken to in weeks, and two of the previous ones I attempted to kill...or succeeded in doing so - that's up for debate. But I'm happy to be speaking to someone and not really worrying about the consequences. Whatever is still in me after I met the trashman has really boosted my confidence and lack of restraint. It's refreshing.) "I was kinda wondering what you have to offer. So whatcha got in there?"

  Whoever is on the other side of the door doesn't answer, but I can hear him moving. After a moment, his eyes appear on the other side of the rectangular hole and briefly look me up and down.

  "Go 'way," the man barks before sliding the little opening closed and dismissing me.

  "Well, that was rude," I say to the closed door and commence to pound on the door a bit more vehemently. I will not be ignored tonight. Nope.


  I continue to pound on the door with increasingly heavier blows until the man unlatches the little peep slot again.

  "Seriously witch (He doesn't call me a wart-nosed broom-rider, but I'll substitute that here to save him from being judged too harshly.)," he yells through the opening. "I'm done with you. Scram!"

  Before I can even reply, the scritch of the opening sliding shut hits me like a slap.

  "Now it's going to get fun," I say to the closed door and smile. Running through some of my favorite Krav training techniques (I miss you dad.), I prepare myself for whatever's going to come next. Practice with my dad and his friends was rough and at times quite painful, but now I'm about to see how well it works in what I am assuming is about to be a combat situation (Where did this side of me suddenly come from? I'm not sure I’m ready to embrace it, but the aggression and confidence I'm feeling are certainly stimulating.).

  "open the slot," I say quietly to whoever is on the other side of the door, and I push every bit of my desire to see that hole opened into my words. They will open it. This is not a choice for them.

  I can hear somebody behind the door, and I wait patiently for them to react. Nothing happens.

  Hmm. Well, I certainly can't have that. Let's try this again.

  Stepping up to the door, I rest both my hands against the cool wood and gently lean forward until my forehead is just touching the door above the three-inch high slot. Focusing all my concentration on whoever is behind the door and tuning out all other distractions, I listen intently until I can single out the person's breathing and heartbeat faintly pulsing less than a foot away from me through the solid oak. I then breathe deeply through my nostrils until I can pick their scent out and separate it from everything else (They reek of arrogance, but it’s drowning in confusion and fear. The smell is a delicious nectar to me.).