Drain Me *SAMPLE CHAPTERS ONLY*

Chapter 1

I hated when people sugar-coated things.Straight and to the point was how I preferred it—and a rather infamous lack of bedside manner was the reason why I had elected to see Dr. Wallis in the first place. ­­

“I feel that it’s best not to trivialize the more serious diagnoses,” he warned, living up to his brutal reputation. “So I’ll just come right out and say it: you’re dying, Eleanor.” 

He sounded so formal. Hell, he could have offered me a handkerchief for all the emotion his voice held: “Here, miss. It’s clean.”

I felt tempted to laugh, but that pesky meaning couldn’t be ignored. 

Dying.

It took me only a second to process it.

Dead.

Dying.

Dead. 

It took even less for the words to sink, like a stone, to the pit of my stomach and settle there, heavy and solid, but I wasn’t surprised. Startled, perhaps—it was devastating news—though, in a sick way, I figured I'd always known that, rather than pass away peacefully in my bed of old age, I would die a horrible death. My own mortality had fascinated me ever since I’d smuggled my first horror film from the servant’s break room as a teenager and watched it while huddled beneath my blankets.

 ‘That will be me,’ some cynical voice had whispered inside my head, and I had known then, as surely as I knew my own name that I would die just like the unfortunate bimbo at the mercy of the knife-wielding psychopath.  While I hadn’t expected said death to come in the form of a terminal illness that would turn my own blood into the murder weapon, I had to admit that it was pretty violent in its own right.  

“Hemohemorrahgia,” the doctor began, reiterating the speech he’d given just minutes before. “It occurs in less than one percent of the world’s population, but it is fatal in ninety percent of all reported cases. There is no cure, and—”

I stopped listening.

Hemohemorrahgia. Ironically, I had never even heard of the cause of my impending demise until a few months ago—and the disease had been a guess, thrown out by a frustrated doctor as the potential cause of a bevy of symptoms. 

Why was I so tired all the time? 

Why did even breathing exhaust me? 

Why had a paper cut required a blood transfusion, donated platelets, and stitches to stop the bleeding?

After months of tests a team of medical professionals had all reached the same grim conclusion. 

“The prognosis is rather bleak, Mrs. Gray,” the doctor continued, “but I think it’s better if we honestly discuss your options—”

“Miss,” I corrected absently. 

Dr. Wallis wrinkled his nose, causing the black frames of his glasses to twitch. “Pardon?”

“It’s Miss Gray.” I unlaced my fingers and held up my unadorned hand. “I’m not married.”

“Oh.” 

From the way he swiftly glanced me over, I could tell that he had never looked up from my chart long enough to give me a good appraisal before—despite this being our tenth meeting. I could guess what registered now as his gaze took me in: dull brown hair, sallow skin, and enormous green eyes that took up too much of my small face.

“Oh,” he repeated and his tone revealed what even he was too polite to say, despite his reputation: no wonder. “Well, Ms. Gray, I can arrange a consultation with social services or grief counseling. Whomever you need to help you through this very difficult time—”