6.
He was hungry again.
He could fee the tingling in his legs, his hands. His heart began to race. He
could barely sit still on his lab
stool. And each movement made it worse.
Not again. Not now. He looked at the log
sheet he was keeping. He read the black lettering on the top of the page.
Carthage University, Department of Animal Research. He checked his notations,
counting in his head.
One, two three, quatre, cinq...
No. Not French.
He closed the notebook. Looked at the
beaker where chemicals were interacting. Watched bubbles rise to the surface.
One bubble. Two. Trois.
He shut his eyes. Bit the inside of his
cheek. Tasted blood.
Groaned.
Making sure the experiment he was
monitoring was at a point where he could leave it unattended, he went into the
bathroom down the hall in the research building.
He checked the stalls first, then
leaned over the sink, staring in the mirror.
He spat in the sink.
Blood.
He looked at his hands, Then he rolled up his sleeve on his left arm until he could see the bruises and the scratches and cuts and punctures.
There were two fresh cuts from last night.
He looked into the mirror.
The thoughts flooding his mind.
She was pretty. Maybe 13. On the verge of womanhood..
Words, French words, commanding her. His words. He understood each one although he knew no French.
She began to sob. Not to do what he wanted.
He slapped her. .
No, she sobbed. Please she begged. He
struck her with the back of his hand, the force of his blow knocking her to the
ground.
He reached out again....
The bathroom door opened.
He quickly lowered his sleeve and ducked into a stall.
Someone went to the urinal. He listened. He
struggled to control his breathing.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
For one moment, he thought, why? He had
never done such things before. The girl. Who was she? Where had he seen her?
When? Somehow he knew a long time ago, before he was born.
But this was no fantasy.
This was memory.
He could smell the hay. The smoke from the
burning house. How did he know a house was burning? How could he think in
French?
The urinal flushed. Someone washed his hands, then the bathroom door opened and closed.
He peaked out of the stall. The he went back to the mirror.
Those eyes. his eyes, Those eyes.
Deliberately, he rolled the sleeve back up. He took a pin out of his pocket, looked at, rolled it between his fingers, then, grasping it, stabbed himself in the arm.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Un. Deux. Trois.
The girl opened her mouth to scream. He
held out his knife. She put her hands in front of her face.
He smiled. He sneered.
She screamed. With his knife he slashed at
her throat. The blood spurted him. Yes. He cut again. Again. The head came away
in his hand. The spurting.
He held up the head. The head in his hand. A sound
behind. He turned. A woman - her mother? - pitchfork in hand. She snarled and
thrust. The pain. The tingling. Blood.
He looked at his arm where he had stabbed himself. There was blood on
it. He swore under his breath. He grabbed some paper towels and pressed against the new wounds.
He started to cry.
Why did he keep thinking of a girl he'd
never met? Why was he remembering such a thing? Why did he keep coming back to
it and doing this? And what about those nights when this was not enough?
Suddenly, he threw up.
Damn. Why was this happening to him?
He rinsed the sink, wiping it with more paper towels, He went to another sink and splashed water on his face. He looked at his
face. He was grinning. That's not me, his mind screamed.
Carefully, he brushed his hair. Looked at
his clothes. No vomit. No blood.
He checked the wounds on his arm. They had stopped bleeding..
He carefully rolled down his sleeve, waited for a moment to see if any blood leaked through, then left the bathroom.
Back at his lab table, the reaction
continued in the beaker. He shook as he watched it.
He tingled.
He was hungry.
Pax et bonum
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