CHUPACABRA

Chapter One: The Specimen

Forty's life was dictated by finalities. Every morning at 8 a.m. the fluorescent LEDs would flood her room with artificial sunlight, stopping her REM sleep and indicating it was time for her to wake up. As sure as she had gone to sleep in it, Forty would wake up to the clinical white and light blue sheets of her bed, the mattress that was neither soft enough nor hard enough, and her pillow which was blissfully always cold. She'd look down and see her warm weather pajamas, made of the same soft but breathable cotton in a similar shade of blue to her bed. When she got up, the floor would always be cold and unforgiving on her feet, and the air conditioner which ran chilly at night would shut off the moment her toes touched the concrete. If she looked around, her room would be the same— three gray walls and a singular long, two-way glass mirror, no pictures or shelves or trinkets, just a bed and a toilet in the corner, all of which Forty kept immaculately clean.

Like all days, Forty would be hungry when she woke up. However, also like all days, Forty would have to be completely ready before she was allowed to eat. She'd have to slide the pallet drawer from under her bed and retrieve a hairbrush, comb her dark yellow locks with a total of twenty-five strokes. She'd pull on her summer day clothes: a waterproof pair of pants and a shirt which were not unlike the garb belonging to her monitors. Finally, she'd brush her teeth using the toothpaste tablet and rickety reusable brush, two minutes on each level, and spit the paste into her toilet before wiping the toothbrush down with an antibacterial towel. Only after all this would the two-way mirror part, and the face of her monitor Jane would be looking back at her, standing stalwart with the same neutral expression she always wore.

"Are you ready for breakfast?" Jane would ask, a formality she gritted out daily, and in turn Forty would nod back, let out a quiet "yes ma'am".

They would go the same route they always took, and the halls they traveled never looked any different. Cubicles like Forty's room would slowly be opening, monitor and specimen pairs retreating from the inside. The lights would always be blindingly white, the rooms vaguely smelling of antiseptic even as they neared the cafeteria. As usual, Forty was the first one there, and also as usual her tray was already waiting for her.

Jane would pull the light blue chair back, letting Forty sit before taking her place in the only other chair at the table. She'd fix her big black rimmed glasses on her nose, push back the finicky strands of her blue dyed bangs and adjust the name tag on her coat, then she'd clasp her hands on the table and look at Forty expectantly.

This was where finalities ended for Forty, as she looked down into the little glass goblet on the gray-blue tray. Breakfast was always different in some way. Sometimes, she'd get a full meal from the usual food groups. Eggs, bacon, sausage patties, biscuits, toast, fruit, French toast. Other times it was a little bowl of pills, each a different size or shape, sometimes varying shades of blue and white. Most of the time, like today, she'd be presented with this clear goblet, sitting like a chess piece on the empty tray.

And inside this goblet, there was always blood.

"I want you to try this one today, and tell me how you like it," Jane says, glancing between the thick substance in the goblet and Forty's pinched face. The smell emanating from the cup makes Forty's lip curl.

"It's human," Forty replies, and it takes all her schooling to keep her expression mostly flat.

"Yes, but it's a different type than you've had before. A different blood type," Jane explains, though she does not tell Forty what type it is.

Reluctantly, Forty lifts the goblet to her mouth, trying not to smell the liquid before sipping at it delicately. The blood coagulates in the divots of the glass, stains the rim of it. The taste hits Forty like a punch to the face, too bitter and confusing. Her nostrils flair, and she catches the scent of it, like grease and smoke and plastic. The blood sits on her tongue, and though she tries, Forty cannot force herself to swallow it.