Bleodsian

by Robert Oliver

  Part 2: The First Kill

  That night I could not sleep. All the emotions of the evening, the knowledge gained, and the constant revisiting of the conversation kept my eyes glued to the ceiling. Tired as I was, no amount of fatigue would allow me to collapse. I would occasionally rise and walk the floors, hoping I would find slumber in the bleak shadows of my house. No rest, however, ever fell before me.

  The next morning, and the days following, I spent secluded from view. I would work my job with silence as my companion, and keep my eyes from those of others. The Voice traveled with me and instructed me in the plan it had created; in my working and idle time, I studied the methods given to me, committing them to memory. I worked quickly, for I knew time was escaping me and soon all would be lost. As I labored, I also took note of the students around me. I viewed each of them differently, seeing them with a new sense of vision. They were no longer young academicians, but cattle waiting for their moment. I was also, on occasion, aware of their blood pulsing with that same heightened sense of hearing I experienced in the concert. I could hear the gushing and rushing, and also see the veins as they pulsated. Each person had a stream raging through them, and each stream caught my attention like no other object.

  I was counseled and trained for what seemed like weeks, when finally the Voice told me it was time to begin. I had prepared for the moment, but felt totally unready for the event as it approached. I was told it would take place that evening, after the setting sun dipped below the horizon and darkness concealed the campus. I was also told it would not start with the death of a student, but rather with the surveillance of the intended person. I was to watch first, to learn their habits and track their comings and goings.

  For many days I sat concealed in darkness watching the young girl jog around the campus. She often took this route on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, the latter being earlier than the former. She listened to an IPod, wore red shorts with a tight, form-fitting tee, and passed by my location around 7:49 PM. Her hair was in a ponytail and she seemed ever lost in her thoughts. To the eye she seemed healthy and vigorous, a youthful woman with energy and strength. Watching her muscles bend and pull convinced me she was, indeed, a perfect specimen, as her blood must no doubt be infested with nutrients and power. I was delighted with the choice, and the Voice simply nodded in agreement at the selection.

  My location was ideal, as I was concealed behind a row of hedges amidst the trees. The nearest lights were several feet away, and no buildings were within earshot. It was a park-like setting composed of tall, stately oaks and azalea bushes. The hedges were used to frame the park. This was the quietest location on campus and afforded me the primary location for my act. At the time of her arrival, no one ever visited the locale, thus leaving it desolate; it was too distant for any of the students to frequent.

  All of my observations were recorded in a book I kept with me. Every night I would transcribe the information I gathered or simply add to what already existed, if her behavior did not change. Finally, after I felt I had gained enough information about her routine, I decided on a plan of action. It would not be difficult to execute, but the disposal of the body was an issue. I knew, first, that I desired for the person a quick and painless death. The location would be quiet and vacant; the darkness would conceal all. My vehicle would be parked nearby, and I would quickly carry her to it and return to my home; there, I would extract the life source from her. The plan, I believed, was good, and I was prepared; I did not believe, however, that I could undertake the task. I had never been a person of wrong-doing, and my sense of morality forced upon my psyche a noble and virtuous nature. My act was horrid and dreadful, yet I had within me a failing system, a body that was dying, and I needed to sustain it. This, I was told over and over, was the only way. I had to believe that, and in myself.

  I still remember the night clearly: it was a night that made so forcible an impression upon the mind that one is hard pressed to ever shed its image. The night was cool, with a dark sky displaying few stars. Large, gray clouds passed over the land like sentinels, protecting the air and casting shadows upon the unsuspecting. I was huddled tightly in my position when I sighted her coming around a corner.

  Her body moved with a particular gracefulness that mimicked a prancing antelope. She seemed to glide upon the air, her steps making only the slightest of sounds. I immediately felt a tightening in my stomach as she drew near. God help me if I did not carry in my bosom at that moment all the remorse and pain of the unforgiving world. I trembled, fearing both my deed and possibly a failure on my part. The act was so degrading, so disreputable to the advancement of human logic that I flinched when I thought of what lay ahead; I knew, however, by the pressing sentiment within, that action was necessary and survival was paramount. I shifted slowly, apprehensively even, into a better posture. Like a crouching lion, I awaited the figure as she drew within range. Moments, like soft feathers, slowly fell from the watch face, and all time nearly passed itself in idleness. Finally, she was upon the spot, and the lighting faded from view as she entered the dark area. I prepared myself, and pushing all thoughts from my mind save one, I leapt forward.

  The moment sped past like a flying bullet, wild and shot from an unforeseen hand. All control formerly vested in my person seemed to escape into the vicinity and take on a life of its own. I quickly and quietly subdued the person, finishing her off in the bushes. The lifeless body, still vivacious and warm, rested softly on the leaves beside my knees. I had used strangulation as my method of disposal; it did the job quietly and with the least possible pain. The corpse now reclined, as if resting from the hard exertions of the route.

  I, nearly breathless from the moment, rested beside the hedge and listened for any sound that might signal a breach of solitude and secrecy. All was silent, the world laying in a deathly repose. Only my breathing, which itself sounded boisterous, floated on the night air. No one, not a living soul, stirred in the darkness. I looked around for several minutes, waiting and searching the changing shades of bleakness, yet I could detect nothing. I was safe.

  Time was pressing upon me fast, and I had to move with haste. I quickly grabbed the body and held it close to me while waiting on the passing of the distant car. In my arms, I happened to look at the face of the person, at the long locks of hair that still swayed with lively animation. The fangs of death had not so nearly crept into the veins of this corpse yet, and she still had a vivacity about her. No pulse beat within, but she still seemed so alive. I stared at her for a long span of time, my eyes slowly coating her body with a downtrodden stare. What had I done?

  I held in my arms life, life in its purest form, an existence now trampled by the desires of a cold and calculating heart. I began to tremble, and as I looked down into the eyes of death, tears fell from my face and seemed to wash away the innocence of the girl. I cried, sobbed and wept so bitterly, clutching the body with a strength that could repel the strongest violator. What manner of man had I become?

  I was lost in the reflections when a voice, so loud and crisp in clarity, shouted behind me! I froze, as if being stationary would camouflage us. Slowly, I turned to see who it was that had spotted me, and with eyes filled with terror, looked deep into the night landscape. No one was present. I could see no one spying or standing in the open. All the world was as it had been previously. I was still searching when I heard the Voice shout again. I then realized the shout had come not from without, but from within. I recognized the Voice.

  “What are you doing?!” it shouted. I listened intently, the tears still slowly descending my cheeks.

  “Move! You must move now!” it shouted again, but the spherical shape of my cranium muffled the Voice.

  I finally uttered a response. “What?” was all I could think to ask.

  “You have not the luxury of time. Secure the body and move along. There is still much work to be done.” I nodded, as if the Vo
ice was directly before me, and taking the body, I quickly made for my car. The darkness concealed my movements in a thick, dark blanket. In a matter of moments, my car was driving me far away from that awful place.

  On the way home, the Voice reappeared. “And what did you think?” it asked, less agitated than before. I was still digesting the influence the body had upon me. My fingers were still vibrating with the touch of the skin, and my heart was still pounding from the excitement and fear. I did not respond.

  “Surely,” the Voice started anew, “surely, you found some joy in the hunt?”

  “This is not joy,” I responded bitterly, “but murder.”

  “Murder? No, my friend, this is not murder. This is sustenance. If we murdered that girl, then the local grocery store has the blood of millions of cows upon its hands. Procuring food is not murder.”

  “I don’t want to discuss this any further,” I said defiantly. The Voice, for once obedient, fell silent. Only the hum of the vehicle filled the noiseless void. I was angry and disturbed; the culmination of this night was so twisted that I could hardly comprehend the action that had taken place, let alone figure what I would do next. I had previously prepared my basement for the act, and now it sat ready and waiting for the first victim. All the supplies were laid out, and the area had been cleaned and prepped. All that was needed now was the body and its most precious cargo: blood.

  I pulled into my driveway and in minutes had the body inside and down in the basement. My house was old, one of the few built on a parcel of ground high above the ever-fluctuating water table. Basements were not common, but at least a half-basement, which mine actually was, was not unordinary either. Many of the windows, which had been barred by bookshelves many years ago, needed no barricading; for that I was pleased. Only one entrance gave visitors access to the lower level, and that door would always be locked.

  I brought her into the house and got the body down into the basement. Some study on modern embalming and a short stint as a cleaning man at a funeral home had prepared me for this new endeavor. The body, I knew, contained five liters of blood. In order to store the precious substance, I would need six, 750 milliliter bottles. I had saved my bottles for many months, and was finally prepared with a store of requisite containers for the occasion.

  The process, I reasoned, would be simple: I would strap the body to an inclined metal table, feet uppermost, and slit the wrists and puncture the torso to allow the blood to drain. Large bins would catch the substance as it rolled from the table. The liquid would then be pumped into the various bottles and stored much like wine. It certainly sounded simple to my ears, but now with the task pending, I was frightened and questioned my actions.

  After several minutes of coaxing, I built up the courage to grasp the body and hoist it on the table. The thud echoed loudly off the walls and small equipment I had in the room. Like a rag doll, arms and legs flopped out, and I had to reposition them before I could strap the body down. Once in place, I began my work.

  I paused before making the initial cuts. My life was standing before me like a child, pure and clean. With three cuts, I was about the end that life, severing it forever from the bare threads that now covered me. With some hesitation, I approached the body. It was positioned and the table was elevated. I first stared at the right, upper corner of the torso; then, feeling that no amount of courage would ever propel me further than I was now, I made the first incision.

  The procedure took far fewer minutes than I had originally anticipated, but the draining was slower than expected. The substance puddled in the bins and made a sound liken to rain drops falling on a tin roof. It was soothing and relaxed me greatly. I was being nourished, fed even, and soon I would be pouring life down my throat. Others ate, I reasoned, and I had to as well.

  I had erected a rudimentary filtering machine for the blood, composed of layers of charcoal filters, and it helped to soothe my anxious mind. Whether it worked I do not know, and what was filtered I know not, but I passed the liquid through the layers and began to fill the bottles. I filled nearly five bottles and corked them, the red liquid swishing murkily through the dark glass. I racked them, save for one bottle; it was from that selected vintage I would drink.

  As I pulled back from the rack, I turned and saw the body there upon the table. I had grown so delighted with my success and the collection I now formed that I had forgotten about the grotesqueness behind me. I stared at the body, that unsightly reminder of the extreme to which I went in search of survival. My mind had formulated a few initial plans for the removal of the corpse, but had not situated itself toward any one particular idea. Now I was confronted with the reality and had to act quickly.

  Pacing around the floor of my basement, I spoke aloud of the many options that confronted me. None, I thought, were sufficient enough to elude detection. Rivers could be dredged, woods traversed, garbage dumps explored. I needed a plan, something that would sustain me through this endeavor. As I spoke, I grew anxious and nervous, my agitation rising far above my mental capacities. I needed help, some kind of assistance, someone to guide me. Suddenly, the Voice came from the shadows.

  “The body is still here?” it asked dryly.

  “Where have you been?” I shouted. “I have been pacing and scheming, and all to no avail. What do I do? Where can I dispose of that thing?” A pleading note resonated in my quivering voice.

  “Where do you work?” it asked.

  “Work?” I started. “You already know. Why ask? I need answers, not questions!”

  “But where you work, is there not an art department?” I was growing annoyed with the passing moments, and the questioning was only proving to be bothersome. I needed a direct path for this activity, with answers to follow and guide me.

  “Yes, yes, yes. But what does that have to do with anything!?” I shouted.

  “Burn the body,” the Voice said laconically.

  I admit, the thought never occurred to me. The furnace in the art department, the same furnace used for pottery, could be my salvation. The location was easily accessible and my keys would allow me nightly access into the area. It was simple and easy, a plan that now gave me hope once again and chased from my mind the despair and agitation that had momentarily resided there.

  “Burn the body?” I asked the Voice.

  “Yes. Rid yourself of the body and be finished with this episode. It is easier than you think. Now, go.” I looked at the remains and took a step towards a chair I had in the corner. Sitting brought me a reprieve from the emotions that suddenly had taken hold of my mind. I now had one last engagement and then I would be finished with the night’s work.

  The body took some effort to reload, but as soon as it was secured in the car, I made my way to the school. My nerves were slightly rattled on the trip, as every police interceptor seemed suspicious to me.

  I made good time reaching the department. The building had been locked and secured for some hours by now, and it was vacant of any late night students. All around the area, silence prevailed in the battle with noise, and I had a deserted area in which to work. I brought the body in and placed it beside the furnace. I had no familiarity with the device, but to my good fortune it was still in operation, the flames burning and licking the interior of the pit. I knew they used the machine earlier in the day, and they must have kept it burning for tomorrow’s class as well.

  I took one last look at the figure, then carefully moved the body to the interior of the chamber. The light of the flames flashed onto the walls of the room until I slowly closed the door, shutting all inside. The pit was large and deep, with rollers on tracks. I believed the body would turn to ashes and fall to the bottom of the tank. I was rid of the carcass and was now safe. Sullenly, I made my way home.

  I had not been home long when the thought of the beverage came to mind. I looked in the mirror at my face, taking in the features caused by a downtrodden life. I looked old
, fatigued, in dire need of rejuvenation. I now had in my power the ability to bring about that renewal, to force upon this tired frame a renovation that would surely sustain and invigorate. I could not control the passage of years, but I could surely reinstate some of the energy that had been sapped from my body. I went down to the basement.

  The bottle was opened and I poured the liquid into a glass. I sat upon a chair before the bottle and glass, staring at the contents. There was a moment when I was prepared to indulge, but then a fear more powerful than any I had ever experienced came over me, creeping steadily from the depths of my being. The realization of what I was about to do slammed into my mind, and I shook nervously. Was I becoming a vampire, a maniac? Would this forever transform me, and not for the better? Would I ever be able to return to this virgin moment prior to indulgence? I kept up this constant inquiry until at last I felt compelled to act. I knew death was approaching and I needed more life to continue living. I needed assistance, as the medical field had abandoned me. The Voice spoke once, then twice in convincing me, and slowly my hand extended and I grasped the glass.

  I held it tightly as if it were a viper, then I quickly replaced it. I placed my head close to the table and stared anew at the liquid. At that moment I could not partake, I simply could not. My eyes became heavy staring at the drink.

  “And what are you doing now?” asked the Voice, newly emerging from the silence I had around me.

  “I can’t do it,” I said aloud.

  “Why not? You worked so hard to reach this point. What is stopping you now? All the work is accomplished.”

  “I just can’t drink that stuff! It’s, it’s blood!”

  “That’s no excuse!” the Voice roared. It was the first time the Voice had ever risen to such a tone. “Now listen,” it began more calmly, “we have come so far. Let us not give it all up now in the final quarter. Before you is life. Take it in your hands and feast on it.”

  I slowly obeyed and took the glass into my trembling fingers. With care and caution, I raised it to my lips and poured some of the blood into my mouth. The taste, both salty and thick on the palate, was so difficult for me to swallow. I quickly gulped it so as to remove it from my mouth. It was horrid, disgusting and awful; like vomit, the new scent and taste lingered for far too long. I thrust the glass back onto the table and pulled away from it.

  I stared long at the glass and its streaked edges, the slimy substance oozing down the sides. My first impression was horrible, but I knew I had to continue no matter what difficulty I had with the endeavor. I had indulged in foods I did not like many times before and had grown accustomed to them. The same would eventually prove true in this case, or in my calculations I had reasoned incorrectly. I took the glass once more and swallowed. The same effect fell upon me, but this time I was not as shocked as I was previously.

  The blood slid down my throat, coating my mouth and esophagus with a salty, grimy flavor that no food could replicate. I shook, trembling with a fear that came naturally. I was engaging in a most grotesque action and from it I drew terror. I had only emptied the glass when I felt a queer feeling inside my stomach, like one who ate too many greasy foods. My stomach rumbled softly, then quieted.

  I sat stationary for a moment, keeping my body as still as possible. I was afraid to move, feeling that the slightest jarring would upset some delicate balance within me. Moments passed and nothing occurred. I felt normal, and save for the taste still lingering in my mouth, felt rather fine. I finally stood slowly and paced, each step being cautiously placed. Nothing happened in the way of medical injury or emergency. Each step brought about a greater satisfaction to me.

  I moved around the confines of the basement feeling better as I went. The room, I then found, was too small, and I ventured upstairs to explore the house, thinking that a good test would be further exertion. The stairs, and then the floor were mastered and I still felt no injury.

  I had gone as far as the bedroom when I stopped short; I was feeling something emerge within. Bracing myself against the door jam, I tried to articulate the sensation coming from my own depths. It was warm, like a wave on a beach which had been sunning itself all afternoon just off the shore. I could feel it originate in my bosom and then spread through my limbs. Muscles were tightened, sinews were stretched and bones tingled. Little fingers seemed to caress my person, causing a tickling sensation along my back and shoulders. Even my hair molecules stood on end, evidently charged by some electro-magnetic feeling. Finally, everything ceased.

  It took the passing of some moments to force me to realize how good I actually felt. I pulled away from the jam and looked at my hands. Perhaps the light was dim, but to my eyes there seemed to be new energy coursing through them. I felt a stiffness in my legs, a certain strength, that had been absent for years. Even my spine lacked the curvature that marked it. My breaths were deeper and less heavy. I was invigorated with power, a strong feeling pumping through the veins and arteries of my body. I was, to say the least, reaping the benefits of another’s life-giving substance.

  Walking briskly, then jogging, I moved around the rooms of my house reveling in the joy of my new day, my new way of being. If there was a “top of the world,” I was on it. I leapt over the ottoman and twirled frantically. I laughed out loud as I moved with new excitement in my limbs. The plan, so delicate and uncertain, succeeded enormously. I had an ample supply of the goods, and I was secured for several weeks.

  I danced a little more, then, feeling fatigued, made my way to bed. Before falling asleep, I bid a silent thank you to the Voice who so greatly assisted me in reaching this point. A gentle nod and I was fast asleep, my body resting in the glow of its new vivacity.