Through the Break in Her Hair

Chapter 18

"Hello, John," Van smiled, tilting his head to the side.

My patience was shot, my blood pressure practically raising the height of the ceiling, and yet he had the audacity to smile at me? Where did he get off? "What is this stuff, Van?" I barked, no-nonsensically. I was tired of playing hide and seek, chasing him down into cellars and around the mulberry bush. I wanted the truth, and I wanted it then. "Tell me it's not..." but, truth seeker or not, I couldn't finish.

His eyebrows quirked. "What? Blood?" he asked, mocking me. "Of course it is."

The way he so flippantly admitted that it was blood gave me the chills. I didn't know how or where he acquired it, and I'm not sure that I wanted to, but he didn't give a frick about the person who donated that vial, and that frightened me. What kind of heartless monster had vials of blood lying around?! Psychopaths, sociopaths, serial killers? Yup, those kind of monsters.

I looked down at my palm and was caught off guard by how much blood there was. It covered my hand, filled every crease of my skin, dripped down my wrist and through my fingers. There was no way that tiny vial contained that much. I must have cut my hand when I crushed the bottle, and now my blood was mingling with his, his blood seeping into my veins. I wanted to be sick.

Bile slithered up my throat, burning a track into my esophagus, and I had to clamp my mouth shut to keep from choking on my own spit. Why, God, why did I venture down into this stupid cellar?!

Van sighed, and covered his eyes with his hand. He began to rub circles over his eyebrows, ridding himself of the headache I'm sure that I was giving him. "Really, John. Is all that necessary?"

He, of course, was peeping into my private thoughts and emotions again. And those were painting a very pretty picture of what was going on inside of me. But I couldn't help feeling sick, couldn't stop my stomach from churning. I had no control over how my body reacted to situations. For pete's sake, I could barely control how my mouth reacted to certain situations! And knowing that I had someone's or some thing's blood on my hand, well, that thought alone was enough to send me into a catatonic system-shutdown.

I flipped my hand over, shaking the blood off with enough force to detach my hand from my wrist. Several drops plopped onto the ground at my feet, some splattered the wall, but one landed squarely on a candle. The flame extinguished with a wet sizzling sound, and the faint scent of barbecued meat wafted towards me. My stomach gurgled from deep within me. It was hungry.

I gagged, horrified that my carnality could override my logical thinking and understanding. Appalled that my stomach mistook man for a meal so easily! The similarity between those scents would haunt me for a lifetime, and I would never be able to enjoy cook outs again, not without remembering this moment.

"Who's is it?!" I screamed the moment my stomach muscles calmed. "Who's is it, Van?!" But I wasn't worthy of an answer, not in his eyes.

He stood at the door, that same smug smile plastered to his face, crossing his arms over his chest casually as if we were discussing the weather. That's when I noticed the medical tape, wrapped around his wrist like a bracelet. White cottony gauze, tinged red, was sticking out of the bandage.

"Why was your blood in that vial?!" the sound of my voice overflowed the tiny, empty room, spilling out under the door and into the dusty hallway. "And why is it all over my hand?!" For his sake, I thought icily. He'd better have a good excuse.

But would that be enough? Would a "good excuse" help me to forgive the fact that he lured me into this cellar, left me to pick shrapnel out of my hands, and then allowed me to pick up, and crush, a vial of his blood? I didn't think so.