Catharsis [Novel]

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

            Calming myself down (Though it’s only after I check my body for bite marks or wounds and find nothing outside the mostly healed scars around my wrists.), I reassess the situation.

            The pool of red liquid hadn't come from me since I don't have any new holes in me that would allow for the creation of that volume of blood.  That leaves two possible solutions that I can think of: the blood was from a third person that has since vanished, or it came from the old man.

            No viable method comes to me on how to see if another person has left the blood (How can you examine what isn't there?), so that leaves checking the man for over-sized blood-producing perforations.  It’s not the most appealing of tasks, but I also don’t want to approach a police officer and report a crime that I may or may not have been involved in (or even the cause of).  Having at least some information seems like a better start, even if the gathering of said information means frisking a dead person.

            Taking a moment, I marvel at the steady progression of my rationalizing.  A short while ago I had been nearly paralyzed with fear at the sight of this guy, and here I am only minutes later willing to check him for newly-developed lethal holes.  Oh, how my night is progressing.

            "You can do this," I whisper to myself.  "He can't hurt you now."  I pause and look at the still, black form again.  "Right?"  The body looks harmless and still, but something had to cause that volcanic explosion of blood magma pooled under him.

            Looking around the alley again, I notice it has gotten brighter.  It almost feels like daylight, and I know it shouldn't because I can sense that it’s late at night.  It’s after eleven o’clock at least, and maybe even closer to midnight.  The two of us and the dumpster are at least forty yards from the street; the only visible lights coming from a street lamp.  A street lamp that’s become so bright it’s hard for me to even look at it.  My eyes hurt when I try to focus on it.  Blinking, I look back down at the ground and the pain subsides. 

            Wow, I think and shrug.  My eyes must have really adjusted to this darkness.

            Standing, I stretch my hunched frame.  My five foot two-inch body straightens (Did I mention that I'm a bit...let’s call it petite?  I inherited my lack of body mass from my dad.  I love him, but he’s not a physically imposing fellow.), and I reach up toward the stars.  My back cracks several times, and it’s nice.  Shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I experience a little tingle as my circulation accelerates and pushes nutrients to neglected parts of my body.  I must have been sitting more uncomfortably than I’d thought.  The scene looks just as macabre from a standing position as it had from a lower one, but after a few more minutes of stalling I lower myself back down to a crouch (I might have mentally decided that touching a dead body was the logical next step, but my body didn’t fully agree on the vote.).

            Using the tip of one finger to gently push the guy over on to his back, I reveal the part of him that had been hidden up until this point.  And it isn't a pretty sight.  The blood was his.  The blood was definitely his.

            Unless the chunk of steel pipe sticking out of his crushed chest cavity is completely unrelated to the massive amount of red gore decorating the both of us. 

            But somehow I doubt that conclusion.