Catharsis

TWENTY

Crickets, shadows against pale light. The webbing of tree branches overhead. Bones cracking, joints popping. I'm dying, dying! No, don't lose it. Keep it together, Aaron. Stay in the light ...Fingers jammed in the dirt. It hurts so bad. It hurts!

At some point, I tip onto my back. The agony shocks me to my senses. Gently, I roll onto my side and blink myself awake. The white light of day shines through the small window and off the holes in my left arm. Wet and gaping open, they secrete gooey blood in shades of pink, red, black. It trickles down over my pitch-black skin. The mere sight of it makes me want to throw up. I lay still as the fingers come to life, twitching. To my senses, it's my hand. To my rational mind, it's alien.

I'm utterly alone in this place. By the shaking in my legs I can tell that I'm wearing loose pants made of thin fabric. Everything is covered in dirt and bits of sawdust, including me. Blood drips off the whipping wall to my right. Blood is drying up underneath me as I lie here on my side. How much can one person bleed? I was so stupid to think there was a chance for a cure. I was so fucking stupid to think this was a good idea. When I get enough strength, I bury my face in my hands and fight the impulse to bawl my eyes out. How could I have been such an idiot?

My tongue obsessively touches the tips of the fangs in my mouth. I've lived my whole life with my teeth fitting together a certain way when I bite down. My lower teeth have never been perfectly aligned, but I was used to it. Will I get used to this, too? This is going to become some kind of horrifying new normal.

Heavy footsteps tread across the ceiling above me. They clomp down the stairs and finally down the hallway. The lock on the door clatters then it is swung open and I'm struck with a powerful stream of icy pins-and-needles water. I cough and sputter, shielding my head from the blast.

"What the hell?" I shout and the water ceases. At least I don't feel tired anymore.

"You're filthy and dehydrated," Kaman says. He's in a clean sky-blue scrubs with a similar blue surgical mask covering half of his face. Twisting the nozzle of the hose in his grasp, he clicks from one setting to another. "Here," he tosses a plastic water bottle in my direction and it lands with a thud next to my head. "Drink up."

I'm parched but I don't want to give him the satisfaction. I'm going to keep putting up a smartass front that I don't care. If he doesn't get what he wants out of me, maybe I will be able to buy enough time to escape somehow.

"I think I just had my fill of water." Lying on my aching back, I peer at him upside down. "You still owe me a drink, too. A real one."

"Don't hold out hope," he says. "I don't indulge murderers."

I should be having withdrawal from alcohol, and maybe I am. With all the pain it's hard to tell where exactly the symptoms are coming from. He directs the hose to the whipping wall. Blood washes away, down the cinder block and across the floor past me. Light trickling sounds out as it drips down the drain. The water stops and he turns again to me.

"Are you hungry?" He pulls a paper bag out of his pocket and offers it to me.

I glance between the food and his face that is empty of any expression.

"You want me to take that?"

He still says nothing. I bite my knuckle, holding back a smile.

"You think this is the fucking Taco Bell drive-thru?" What the hell has gotten into me?

Finally, his expression breaks and he chuckles while he pitches the bag on the floor near the water bottle.

"You're lucky you're getting that much."