Turning

I stared at the girl in front of me, screams piercing my eardrums each time her pale pink lips spread. Her skin was losing it's color, the pink blotches draining from her cheeks. Her black hair was sleek with sweat, her dark green eyes squeezed shut in pain. Her mouth was wide open, another scream ripping through the air. Her wrists and ankles were strapped tightly to the wooden chair.

"Enough," I said finally, tapping the older woman on the forehead. She stepped away from the younger female, her mouth dripping with blood. The two marks on the girl's neck were leaking blood, the red liquid smeared across her once clean throat. The other three young girls in the room, skin pale and eyes sparkling red, hooked up the three dark blue, almost black, bags to the ceiling, slipping the tubes into the girl's arms.

"Is this the last treatment?" The older woman, mid fifties, looked up at me with her blood red eyes. I nodded in response and looked back down at the younger girl in the chair, withering and sweating in pain. We waited in silence for a few moments, her groans and shaky breaths the only thing audible. Finally, she stopped. Her eyes flew open, the dark green now replaced with a sparkling red. She stared at us for a minute or so, heightened senses taking in our new appearances, before a smile spread over her lips.

"How may I serve you?"