Catharsis [Novel]

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

            Staying in this warehouse forever is not the final solution.  After a day of rest and sensory deprivation, I've gotten back in touch with reality enough to accept that.  I may be safe from other people in here, but I'm going to have to face society and civilization again eventually.  I can't just become a hermit and close myself off.

            I’m still afraid of what will happen to both me and others once I go out in the world, but that fear is losing its grip on me.  It is strong enough for me to recognize its existence, but not so strong that it will bind me here.  I either need to conquer this fear and take control of whatever I am becoming, or I need to give in to it and accept that these walls will be my grave. 

            And I’m too strong of a person to give into something like that so easily.

            And if I were to be honest with myself (Because right now, who else do I have to be honest with, really?), I want to test my abilities.  I want to see what I can do out in the "wild" of the streets.  I'm tired of limiting and restricting myself.  The hunger hasn't left my body since my encounter with the trashman in the alley.  I’ve found it's possible to repress it and keep it from dominating my thoughts, but I can no longer make it go away.  And I'm not sure I want to.  I like it.  It's warmth that flows through me like fresh chicken noodle soup for my veins.  It's pulling me outside.  The hunger wants me to run free and experience what the city has to give me.  Embracing that desire seems to me to be the most natural thing possible.

            Running my fingertips over the bare skin of my taut tummy, I'm amazed at how quickly I've healed from the knife's violent kiss.  Little nubs of scars remain where the crazy old man stabbed me, but they're fading quickly.  They're almost non-existent now, and in a few days I doubt I'll even be able to locate the tight knot of healed skin where the sharp blade bit into me.  It's an incredible feeling.

            As wonderful as the infusion of new blood was from the trashman, I'm slowly beginning to think there was something wrong with it.  I don't know what it is, but something about it feels...off.  It's certainly more delicious and richer than anything I've ever consumed (And it pains me to say it, but that even includes my time before all this started.  Drinking from him was more exquisite than any pastry my grandmother had ever whipped up.  Her homemade churros were always divine, but even they couldn’t heal stab wounds or heighten my senses.), but it feels tainted in a way that I can't explain.  I suspect that whatever was in his blood is also responsible for my inability to quell the hunger.

            My time in the closet has helped me gain a bit of control over my senses, and their input is no longer as crippling as it once was.  I can now sort and categorize what's coming in around me and make a more conscious effort to filter what I need and ignore what I don't.

            "Lazzy, come here boy," I say loudly and bend down as my furry friend trots over to me.  Even though the last week has been rough, he hasn't abandoned me.   When I stumbled into the warehouse that night, bleeding, delirious and carrying several bags of groceries, I also managed to leave the door open before collapsing onto the cold, gray floor.  He could have left me any number of times over these past several days, but he has been a vigilant and constant companion to me.

            A number of times this week when I zoned out while just sniffing the air and listening to sounds coming through walls, it would be the cold snuffling nose of my pal that would nudge me back from the edge of oblivion. 

            "Thanks little fella," I tell him as I scratch gently behind his ears.  "I'm not sure I would have survived this week as intact as I did if not for you.  I owe you."

            "Snurt!" he replies with a sneeze into my hand.

            "Ugh," I mutter and wipe my hand into the fur along his back.  "I'll try to assume that's your version of a pleasant response.  Be good until I get back.  Mommy has to go out for a little bit."

            Blinking his big eyes at me, he pants happily and gives a joyful little bark.

            "You've got the run of the place.  Have fun.  I'll leave the door open for you in case you need to potty, and I'll try to bring you back a treat."

            Giving him one last scratch in the soft fur behind his ears (I just love that part of him.  With my new hyper-aware tactile responses, the softness of it is mind-meltingly wonderful.), I stand up and softly jog towards the warehouse door and freedom.

            It's time to go out and see what the night has for me.