CHUPACABRA

Chapter Ten: The Liar

Though she tries to keep herself busy in the quiet moments between venom collection and Jane's inevitable visits to force her to eat, Forty's mind is an echo chamber. She constantly replays the vivid memories of the dying gurgles of each unfortunate animal she's forced to dispatch and the haunting grip of Thirty-Seven's hand on her neck.

Don't stop talking.

His voice visits her in her dreams more than she likes to admit. Many times her brain replays the second bite, though it quickly morphs into the first one. Otherwise, the blackness behind Forty's eyes is bathed in blood. It is everywhere, from the persistent friction burns on the inside of her mouth to the drip drop of it tumbling from some poor creature's neck. It is sanguine in her cup. Jane became avid in a mostly blood diet after the success of repeated venom collections.

Forty has filled eight cups this week, with two more left for today. She dreads Dr. Zapata's eventual arrival, the sour look on his face and the pallor marring his usual chipperness. Since the focused collection began, Forty finds herself using the walkie-talkie less and less. She isn't a huge fan of the constant burn in her throat and the soreness of her jaw, and even talking to Forty-Five is strenuous and often painful. Not only that, but Dr. Zapata seems to avoid the device like the plague. In the few times Forty reaches out to him, the line comes back silent. When he passes by her domicile Forty can pick up the faint stench of anxiety, something like burning paper and vinegar. His hair has grown out in the past month, and now a persistent beard dots his cheeks. He looks old, and worst of all, deeply unhappy.

What is perhaps the most bitter torture of this situation is that Forty, despite Forty-Five's encouragement, cannot find it in herself to fight back. Not only is she exhausted down to her very bones, but a smaller, more shameful part of her enjoys the attention. Sure, she despises having to kill a live animal and force down even the foulest of human blood, but the momentary spark of pleasure that courses through her when the monitors smile, pat her head, tell her that she's important and that she's saving lives seems to trump all the negatives. She's even found herself leaning into their touch, craving the warmth of their hands on her cheek, the ruffle of nails in her hair, a solid clap on the back. She struggles to remember a time where their hands terrified her. Now, all she thinks about is the individual ridges of their fingerprints settling on her, pulling the bird or rabbit from her mouth and pressing cold packs to her jaw. She doesn't think about their faces much, too focused on their arms, the beating of blood in their wrists. She's always seen them as higher beings, but now they worship the golden ichor flowing from her fangs, the hope for salvation in her body. An ugly, long dormant part of her revels in being a god.

Sometimes, especially when it is dark, her mind floats back to the curled fetuses in the tanks. She thinks of their blank eyes dead in the water, their long, clawed fingers curled against their undeveloped chests. It's fascinating to think that while these legions of semi-aquatic cell bundles float aimlessly in an egg-shaped womb, Forty had come from a person. Not just any person, but her mother. Forty tries to picture a mother, tries to remember the characteristics of moms in books, but ultimately her brain wanders to Jane. She supposes that if she were to call anyone her mother, it would be her, even though the woman would bemoan the idea. My real mother, she wonders, would she have liked me, or been disgusted? Would she look like Forty, have the same brown eyes and flimsy hair and long waistline? If she were still alive, would they be able to be mother and daughter. If her father was still alive, could they be a family?

Forty conjures up a picture of a blonde woman, just a few inches taller than she is now, her jaw square and eyes angry. She looks scary, Forty thinks, though there's also a warmth to her, something evolutionarily appealing about the set of her hips, the opening of her arms, the happiness hidden in those hard eyes. Forty tries to summon up the image of a father next to her mother, and to her embarrassment he ends up looking a lot like Dr. Zapata. He would have kind eyes, big hands for reaching out and patting Forty on the head, a perpetual gut that made hugs feel better. He would look nicer than her mother, even though they loved her the same. Even stranger, their love would be unconditional, a deep attachment to Forty despite her flaws.