Catharsis [Novel]

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

            Drinking is all I can think about, and I block everything else out of my mind.  I don't want to think about anything else.  I can't let myself think about anything else.  I especially can't think about what I'm currently doing.  And who I'm doing it to.

            As his blood courses through me, I calm down and the fever that capitulated my actions earlier eases away.  Draining this creature (I'm doing everything I can to not think about him as a dog.  Or as a him, actually.) takes much longer than the rats even if they were large.  The rats were the equivalent of a kid's juice bag, and this is more like downing a two liter bottle of pop.  It is a lot for my stomach to take all at once, and I find myself slowing.  As I slow I begin to realize what I'm doing, and I can't block it out anymore.  I'm killing a friendly creature.  No.  I'm killing a dog.  A dog that was trusting me and liked me.  I'm killing him.

            The impact of that overwhelms me.  The rats were easy to ignore as living things.  Killing them was barely a blip on my conscious.  But if I can kill this dog - a creature that is capable of liking me and trusting me - then how long until I can make an excuse to kill a human.  And that is something I will not do.  This.  Must.  Stop.

            With more effort and will than I have ever mustered in my recent life, I pull away from the red nectar of this furry flower and stop what every part of my body is telling me to do.  My brain spins from dizziness as I release his throat from the grip of my teeth.  But even through the dizziness that pounds me, I sense an odd desire to lick the wound I created.  One last taste before releasing my new-found treasure.  My tongue laps at the blood around the hole I created (Much smaller than I would have thought, too.) for a few seconds before I'm able to gather the strength to tear myself away from it.

            Falling backwards on to the grass, I hear the dog let out a low whimper.  I don't know if that's good or bad.  I don't even know if my desperate act of kindness (Whether it was towards him or my own soul, I don’t know yet.) will even be effective.  I might have drained too much blood for him to survive. 

            An especially entertaining health class years ago had taught me that the human body could lose just over half its blood and still survive.  A person would be weak, but they wouldn't die from exsanguination.  Are dogs the same?  Had I gone too far past the fifty percent mark?  Would he live or would it all be for naught?

            Sitting up, I look at the still form in front of me.  Except for shallow breathing, the dog isn't moving.  I inhale deeply and then relax.  There isn't the sad taint of death to the air that I've come to associate with my previous vermin feedings.  The relief that sweeps through me is almost tangible. 

            It's tempting to just lie on the ground and relish the feeling of the nourishing red liquid as it courses through my body (It is more exhilarating than I would have thought.  I already feel stronger than I did after the rats.), but I resist it.  I get to my feet and step over to my four legged savior and gently scoop him off the ground.  He feels much lighter than I would have anticipated, but I don't know if that is from blood loss or my renewed strength.

            Carrying him back towards the door of the warehouse, I feel the dog's weight shift in my arms.  Looking down I make eye contact with him, and there is no reproach in the wet, brown orbs taking me in.  I still sense trust...and happiness...and contentment.  The eyes blink slowly as he stares up at me, and I'm dimly aware that he knows what I tried to do.  And he's ok with it.  That thought scares me more than any other thought could.

            A shake of my head breaks the hold he has over my thoughts.  I look up to see I've made it through the back door (when did I cross the threshold?  I don't remember stepping inside at all.), and I'm now standing in the empty cavernous room that has been my playground as of late.

            Where to put him down?  I wonder.  I want him to stay safe.  And warm.  I need him to be comfortable.  And there is only one comforting location in this whole building, so I take him there.  To my closet.

            Laying him gently down on the pile of old, soft blankets that I had been using as my bed for the previous few days I step back and take in my new guest.  He is gaunt, and I can see matted, tawny fur shrink-wrapped around the bony fingers of his ribs.  He must be near starvation.  Breathing deeply and concentrating, I can hear his steady, but weak, heart beat and the tinges of desperation to his breathing.  He wasn't destined to live much longer before I attacked him, and now that I've weakened him with blood loss and trauma his chances aren't looking really great.

            But I can't let him die, I think.  If this dog dies due to my actions, then that will be an event that I -

            "No," I mumble and shake my head.  That is not a path of thoughts I will pursue.  He will live, and that is as simple as that.  If he dies, then a critical part of me dies with him.  And that...that is something I can't live with.

            He needs food.  And water.  And I now have a new reason to live.  At least for now.