Drawing Blood

Chapter Forty

Ava's body would have been cold on that slab. It would have been cold and lifeless. There was something disturbing about that image which stuck with me every time I closed my eyes. It was something haunting, malevolent, as though it was I who were meant to suffer.

I would see that image of her in the darkness, in those moments where I teetered on the edge of unconsciousness. I would see her in my dreams like a trauma yet to be resolved. I would carry her face with me throughout time; an unsightly scar, not unlike those scars which I now bear. Like her death, those scars are there because of someone else. They have not been put there through my own doing. Given the choice, I do not want them. And I do not want to think about her anymore. I have seen enough of what I considered her body to look like. I have put myself through enough affliction. I ought to leave her in the past, buried alongside all those other misfortunates. I ought to imagine who she was before they had turned her. I guess, that was my punishment. I suppose, I am not meant to forget her. Maybe, that image of her is the reason I do not give in to my own unquenchable thirst. Perhaps, I am meant to remember.

The coroner, I suspect, did not suffer the way I did. He probably slept soundlessly during those long nights which followed. For him, Ava would have been just another person to examine. Another puzzle to decipher. Any thoughts he had of her, would have been put to one side once he had done his job. Any questions, tucked away in the ravines of his mind. He would not revisit her death, like I did. He would not open that box and allow her to intrude upon his life. She would have been consigned to oblivion once he had left the building. She would have been tagged, signed off, case closed.

I can sometimes picture him reading his newspaper, skimming over published articles about those awful events. I can even see him doing the crosswords, checking the financial index, maybe chuckling at those cartoons laced with satire. On those dark occasions, when I can no longer tolerate my own skin, I imagine him touring his garden peacefully, watching his children play on the swings, smelling the roses. I reason, he does not see her face when he views himself in in the mirror. Nor does he does gaze at his reflection in a glass panel, and notice a shell of a person staring back. That small voice inside him, that curious voice, is not heard in all the everyday noise. It is silenced under the pretence he had done the right thing. I resent him for being able to do that. I hate him for his lack of conscience. It is my own feeling he should have done more to question the order that had been handed down to him, that day. He should have done more to protect the man I loved. But none of that matters anymore, I guess. Even through the bleakest of times, it would be the truth I held on to.

"Stray dogs have taken bites from her. Even foxes. Animal saliva was found on the open wounds, but it was inconclusive..."

That was what he had said. That was his opinion. He would have spoken in a profound manner. In a clipped and polished tone. He would have studied at a prestigious university. He would have had letters after his name.

.... "It is likely in these parts. A sort of expectation. They have clawed away at her, as though she were another meal - see? When a body has been lying on the ground for around ten hours, even the most timid of creatures will go over to investigate."

Ava's body would have presented as it should have done. If there had been any signs of her duality, he would not have said. The monster she could become, would not have been visible to the untrained eye. There would have been no questions. His word would have been fact.

"Of course, the others will come eventually," Jonathon had said, on that miserable Sunday afternoon. "Alex will want blood for what happened to Ava. It will not matter whose."

He and I exchanged a look. Luke would not have seen. He was too preoccupied with his own thoughts, too wrapped up in those prior events to notice. He made his way over to the fireplace and stared into the flames. I remember the glow did a strange thing to his appearance. He looked tired and dishevelled, as though he had not slept for a week. It made me feel nervous. "You mean an eye for an eye?" he asked quietly.