Morbius

by Brendan Deneen

  “Enjoy,” Thaddeus said, and he turned to walk away. The other men had already vanished. “We’ll be back later to clean up your leftovers. If you leave anything behind, that is.”

  Morbius crawled closer to the woman. Her blood smelled so good. So fresh.

  “You okay, man?” Jake asked.

  “Don’t look at me!” Morbius screamed, peering at the hole in the wall near his bed. Jake didn’t respond. The quiet that descended was almost unbearable. He could hear the woman’s breathing, a delicate sound, precious. Fragile.

  As his mouth drew closer and closer to her neck, Morbius’ mind cast back to the first time he had drained the blood from a living human. It had been an older man, shortly after the experiment, after he had murdered Emil. Morbius had fled the boat upon which Martine still slept, had even attempted to kill himself in the ocean, but was unable to do so. He’d swam for a long time and had finally come across a boat.

  Sneaking aboard, he attacked the first person he saw. Acting purely on instinct. The man had looked at him with an expression of such shock and betrayal as Morbius sank his teeth into his flesh. Had yelled a single word as Morbius fed.

  “Please!”

  But Michael’s mind had gone bright red with hunger, with desperation. He wasn’t able to fully comprehend what he was doing—what he had done—until the man was a lifeless husk on the deck in front of him. When he came to his senses, Morbius fell to his knees, shaking the man gently, imploring him to wake up. But he knew. Knew the old man was dead.

  Knew what he had done.

  What he had become.

  A monster.

  All these months later, here he was again. You don’t have to do this, a part of his brain cried out. You can control yourself.

  No, you can’t, another said. Louder.

  Morbius’ teeth met flesh, hesitated for the briefest of seconds, and then pierced it, the sweet warm blood immediately filling his mouth. He thought it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. Hated himself because of that fact, but the self-loathing didn’t stop him from digging in deeper, from sucking down the hot liquid even faster. The woman moaned slightly but didn’t wake up. Morbius silently thanked the universe for that.

  He drank and drank as the woman’s breathing slowed. He wanted to stop. He tried, but he was so hungry. Had been so hungry for so long.

  “I’m sorry, Michael,” Jake said, his voice far enough away that Morbius knew the man in the other cell wasn’t watching. The apology was agonizing regardless.

  Damn them! he thought fiercely. I will make them pay. Despite his determination, tears streamed down Morbius’ face as he fed. He choked back sobs, fresh blood dripping from the corners of his mouth, but slowly felt the strength returning to his body.

  A strength he needed, and loved, and despised.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CATHERINE SAINT had been a happy child.

  She was born to Myrna and James Saint, both teachers at the same high school, both in the same social studies department. They had met because of a shared love of history, brought together by a mutual friend during college who thought they might get along.

  An understatement.

  They hit it off immediately, retreating to a corner at the party where they’d been introduced and falling into a conversation that spanned centuries. He was obsessed with forgotten or misinterpreted dynasties and leaders who came in second in national elections, while she found the “bad boys of history” as she said—like Genghis Khan and Hitler—at the same time interesting and somewhat baffling. Their often unlikely rise to power, their ability to sway otherwise good people to do horrible things, their undeniable charisma.

  When Myrna and James kissed at the end of the night, James had thought to himself how unlikely their pairing was. He was about as far removed from a “bad boy” as one could get. He was a meek academic, someone who lost himself in books, never in action. He was a classic example of a passive-aggressive person. James literally feared confrontation, and would complain about something minor when he really wanted to dive into something much deeper.

  Regardless, they fell madly in love, helped each other pass their classes, and found teaching jobs at the same school immediately after graduation.

  Catherine arrived a year later.

  She was the apple of their collective eyes. They spoiled her, took endless pictures, bought expensive and ridiculous outfits upon which strangers would stop and remark, much to their pride. At night, the three of them would lie together in the queen-size bed in their tiny apartment, Catherine nuzzled between them, snoring softly, her parents staring at her until they, too, drifted off.

  As the years passed, James was quickly promoted to department head after the existing head quit unexpectedly. There were rumors of an illicit affair with a student, but these whispers were quickly silenced by a heavy-handed administration. Myrna was a little surprised that they had chosen James over her, especially given how much he had started to drink after the arrival of Catherine. But then again, she wasn’t really surprised by his promotion at all.

  He was a man.

  She wasn’t.

  The first seed of bitterness toward her husband was planted deep in Myrna’s mind.

  On Catherine’s second birthday, her parents told her that they had a surprise for her. In her young mind, she thought it would be a pony, or something equally amazing. But it wasn’t. Not even close. It was something she had never wanted.

  A sister.

  She had cried. On her own birthday. Screamed at her parents. Had an absolute meltdown. Told them she didn’t want a sibling. Everything was perfect the way it was. They’d had to tell her friends’ parents that the carefully planned party was canceled. It was embarrassing, but less so than having the guests all arrive to a screaming, sobbing birthday girl.

  Catherine’s behavior eventually recovered, but the level of happiness she’d felt—up to the moment of her parents’ revelation—never did. Not really.

  She learned that she should act happy about her incoming sister, but she didn’t actually feel that way. And when they moved into a new house so that they would have enough room for their growing family, she resented the baby even more. That little apartment had been her entire life, and it became just a memory.

  When Amanda arrived six months after the move, Catherine was shocked to discover that something changed inside of her as she stared into those tiny little eyes. She had wanted to hate this new human, and still did on some level, but she also realized something else, something that dismayed her.

  She loved Amanda, too.

  The convergence of absolute hatred and deep love confused Catherine profoundly, and she would often cry herself to sleep at night because of it. She would feel the rage building in her when she watched her parents doting on the helpless infant, but then laugh out loud when Amanda’s chubby fist wrapped around one of her fingers.

  One night, about a year and a half later, when her father had passed out early after consecutive sleepless nights, Catherine found herself in the nursery, standing over Amanda’s crib. The baby was asleep, a cute pink smile curled up into her cheeks, her small eyelids fluttering with some delightful dream, Catherine assumed. The smile enraged her. Even asleep, the baby’s life was better than hers.

  Without realizing what she was doing, Catherine reached out and slowly wrapped her fingers around Amanda’s neck. Gently at first… and then less so. The baby was so fragile in her grasp. Catherine tightened her fingers around the soft flesh.

  Amanda’s eyes suddenly burst open, her forehead wrinkling with concern and confusion.

  Catherine squeezed more. It felt so good.

  Amanda managed to suck in half a breath and tried to cry out, but couldn’t. Catherine realized that all her problems could go away if she just held on for a few seconds more. But then their eyes locked again, and she thought back to the hospital, to the first time she’d seen her sister. Those beautiful blue eyes and the hidden depths behind them.
r />   She loved her sister.

  Catherine let go and stumbled back. There was a moment of absolute silence in the house, and then Amanda screeched louder than Catherine had ever heard a human scream before.

  She scrambled out of the nursery and sprinted down the hallway, hurtling into her room and collapsing into bed. Pretending she was asleep but keeping her eyes open just enough to see what was going on. Seconds later, her father hustled past her door, calling out to his daughter. Catherine could hear him in there, soothing her. It took a long time for the crying to subside. She watched as her dad passed by her room once again, holding Amanda tightly against his chest.

  Catherine wondered vaguely where her mother was. Amanda looked at her as they passed.

  The baby was probably too young to fully understand what had happened, but Catherine could have sworn she saw a question in her sister’s expression.

  Why?

  After that, Catherine made a silent resolution to herself—to be a better person, a better sister. She spent as much time with Amanda as possible, playing make-believe and hide-and-seek and super heroes with her, much to the delight of Myrna and James.

  * * *

  TIME PASSED.

  Even though they were nearly three years apart, they became as close as twins. When Amanda was bullied in school, Catherine would get involved, putting the fear of God into those mean little girls, having her friends say hi to Amanda in the halls, elevating her sister’s social status. A third grader who was acknowledged by sixth graders? Immediate badge of honor.

  However, their friendship grew more strained as Catherine’s entrance into middle and then high school relegated them to separate buildings. Catherine became more and more popular while Amanda turned in on herself, no longer under the protection of a cool older sister. Her peers became aware of it and the bullying resumed. Amanda grew quiet and studious, and eventually found Liz Green, another quirky kid with a big imagination.

  When Catherine was a senior in high school, Amanda was a freshman. It was the first time they had been in the same school in six years, and it would also be the last.

  Too much time had passed.

  Catherine was the queen bee of the school, was dating the most handsome guy, was the envy of everyone. Amanda was a shy book nerd who walked the hallways with slumped shoulders and downcast eyes. Catherine would see her sister and wrestle with whether she should say hi or not. Despite the years that they had been close, deep inside of her was the complicated love-hate she still felt. For the girl who had stolen her parents from her; for the girl who knew her better than anyone else in the world.

  Everything changed one Saturday night.

  * * *

  THEIR PARENTS were out of town for the weekend, at a teachers’ conference in another state. Catherine took the opportunity to throw the party of a lifetime. Dozens were invited; hundreds showed up. Amanda tried to stay out of it, retreating to her room and losing herself in the fantasy book series she was reading.

  The noise of the party was deafening. Things were breaking. Amanda wondered how Catherine would explain this to their parents. She loved her sister so much, looked up to her. She didn’t want Catherine to get in trouble. But what could she do?

  As the night progressed, Amanda realized she couldn’t hide forever. She had to go to the bathroom and had no idea how much time would pass before all these strangers would vacate their home. So she slowly unlocked and opened her door, and braved the hallway. The bathroom was only a few dozen feet away.

  Then he appeared. Scott. Catherine’s boyfriend.

  As she reached for the handle, he opened the bathroom door from within, stepped out, and smiled at her. Not a kind smile. He was drunk. Swaying.

  “Hi,” she said quietly. He’d been over before, for dinner, and had always been extremely polite, answering her dad’s probing questions with tact and humor. He was on the football team and was a scholar.

  “Hi,” he responded, and then quickly reached out and grabbed her hand. She’d resisted but he was huge, had pulled her easily into the bathroom, and shut the door behind them. His lips were on her neck before she knew what was happening.

  “Oh my god, you smell so good,” he slurred.

  “N-no,” she stammered. “Stop.”

  Her protestations only made his kissing more feverish. He moved his lips to her face and then her mouth. He tasted like beer and cheese, and Amanda felt like she was going to throw up. She had never wanted her first kiss to be like this.

  She pushed against him but he was too strong. He wrapped his arms around her and shoved her up against the bathroom cabinet, a cabinet that housed her toothbrush and dental floss and cold medicine. She tried to scream but couldn’t seem to catch her breath. He was thrusting his hips against hers.

  And then, suddenly, he stopped.

  Amanda blinked, confused, relieved, and noticed that he was staring at the door. Which was open again. In it stood Catherine, a look of shock and anger on her face.

  “What. The. Hell,” she said in a clipped, controlled tone that was more frightening than if she had been screaming.

  “She pulled me in here, babe,” Scott said, shrugging.

  Catherine turned her gaze to Amanda, a look of hurt appearing in her eyes.

  “What? No, I…” Amanda said but she was having trouble finding the words. She hadn’t done anything wrong, so why was she feeling a crushing wave of guilt? Catherine just shook her head and walked away. Scott turned back to Amanda with a look of contempt.

  “Your loss,” he said, and then he walked out.

  Amanda made it back to her room before bursting into tears. She fell face-first into her giant pink beanbag and heaved out deep, wet sobs, blocking out the increasingly bacchanal sounds of the party.

  Hours later, when she woke up to a silent house, Amanda realized she had never used the bathroom. And wouldn’t, not until the safety of daylight arrived.

  * * *

  CATHERINE TRIED to hide all evidence of the party, but their parents were too smart for that. A slightly askew window shade was the first clue, which led to a landslide of others, their father too much of an amateur detective to ignore the increasing trail of evidence. When Amanda was questioned, she feigned ignorance even though Catherine had been placed in another room for the interrogations.

  Eventually, the facts were just too hard to ignore and Catherine confessed. Her father was furious, accused her of betraying their trust. Their mom appeared unfazed by the incident, oddly so. She seemed almost proud of her older daughter.

  That didn’t make sense.

  Regardless, Catherine was grounded for a week, including a dance she later claimed she hadn’t wanted to go to anyway. After the punishment had been doled out, she quietly made her way upstairs and shut the door silently behind her. No teen meltdown, no claims of unfairness, not even any bargaining.

  To her credit, Catherine dumped Scott the next day, but nothing between the two sisters was quite the same, ever again. When Amanda explained what had happened in the bathroom between her and Scott, Catherine said she believed her, but there was still something more. Amanda assumed it was sadness at Scott’s betrayal—and it was. At least some of it. But another part was the rage Catherine had felt as a child, the rage that had led to her wrapping her fingers around a helpless baby’s throat.

  The rest of Catherine’s senior year went by without a hitch. Breaking up with the most popular boy in school only increased her social capital, and she went on to date a string of other jocks, all while maintaining straight A’s. In contrast, Amanda sank farther into herself, relying on Liz to get her through the perils of pubescence.

  Catherine’s college years were a blur. She joined a sorority and did certain things of which she was not terribly proud, but she maintained her excellent grades and found herself on a similar track to her mother, perhaps influenced by Myrna.

  But Catherine’s interest in history ran even darker than her mother’s. She found herself going beyond the ob
vious flashpoints and digging deeper, into Hitler’s obsession with the occult, the writings of Algernon Blackwood, the more obscure philosophies of the Marquis de Sade. The list went on and on. She looked beyond what she felt were the caricatures of these men and into their often supernatural endeavors.

  After college, Catherine took a mindless office job that paid incredibly well, assisting a man who destroyed other people’s dreams for a living, and she used the money to rent an apartment that was eerily similar to that first one in which she’d grown up. The one before Amanda. She visited home now and then, had dinner with her parents and sister. Amanda was dating someone, seemed incredibly happy. Her parents, less so. Her father had lost his job at the school, possibly because of his drinking, and took on whatever work he could find—though he refused to talk about it to his daughters.

  Catherine tried to engage with all of them as best she could.

  Yet as each day passed, she sensed that something was missing. For her whole life, she felt as if she had an itch that she just couldn’t scratch, no matter how hard she clawed at her own skin. As if something inside her was desperate to escape. And then one night, after a visit from her mother, it did.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CATHERINE HAD just arrived home from work, had just poured herself a generous glass of wine, when the doorbell to her apartment rang. She headed toward the front hallway, down the two steps, and opened the door.

  It was her mother. Looking windswept and dazed.

  A suitcase wrapped in her fingers.

  “Mom?” Catherine asked. “Are you okay?”

  Myrna didn’t answer, just made her way inside and drained the contents of Catherine’s glass without asking, then poured herself another.

  “I’m better than fine,” she said finally.

  Catherine glanced at the suitcase on the floor nearby. “Are you… are you leaving Dad?”

  “I’m leaving everything,” Myrna said quietly. “Except you.”

  “Me?” Catherine took her mother’s hand, confused. Even a little scared. “I don’t understand. What’s happening?”