The Donation

Steven could feel the blood drain from his body.  He tried to think back to high school biology, to remember the lesson on human anatomy.  They must have mentioned at some point how much blood the human body contained.  However much it was, Steven was sure he was approaching the totality of it.  How much of it did these vampires need? 

            He was beginning to doubt their claims that this would be used for those in need.  By the looks they were giving him and the sheer number of vials they were filling up, his blood seemed more likely to end up feeding some kind of vampiric, nocturnal, cabal.  This was all some sort of conspiracy, gleefully covered up by those in charge to keep our undead neighbors satisfied.

            Steven winced as he felt the needle resting in his arm, slowly draining the life force from him.  He could feel it easily now, as tiny metal insect that had burrowed into his skin and hatched it eggs.  This had been Susan’s fault.  She had brought him here under false pretenses; promising a quick turn around and the satisfaction of helping others.  Steven felt neither for the moment.  He could only look on Susan mournfully as she smiled at him, her mouth full of crackers and apple juice.  That was to be his reward too, they tell him, as if he is somehow supposed to be satisfied with a snack fit for a 4^th grade field trip.

            He watched as the troll of a nurse came to swap out another vial.  Apparently they needed more of his essence for their ghastly experiments.  She smiled a crooked; half slit, smile to him and told him he was almost done.  Steven knew the truth.  He would not leave here until he was an empty shell, devoid of all fluids and vital parts.  It would be his turn to choose what he and Susan would do next.  Whatever it was, he was going to make sure that no needles were involved. 

Bits of Paper

Steven knew this would not be a good day.  His defeated face looks back at him in the mirror and he knew this was true.  Today would be one of those days where everyone looks at him askance.  They would all have sympathy in their eyes as they look at him the same way one might look at a sick puppy or an infirm homeless man.  The bits of paper stuck to his face told them everything.

Steven had already cut himself several times.  The tiny pieces of tissue marked his face like some sort of sadistic road map.  These were his scarlet letter, his mark of shame.  As soon as he left the house everyone would know.  They would questions his manhood and his ability to perform even the most basic hygienic tasks.  He wanted to shout out that it was not his fault, that he had been duped.  But he knew that the constraints of society would not allow him to act out in such an unacceptable manner.

It was Greg’s fault.  Greg, whom he hated, had recommended to Steven some new, supposedly superior razors to use.  Because Steven is too trusting, he believed Greg.  That had turned out to be a mistake.  These were not razors, these were instruments of torture.  Their only purpose appeared to be to rend flesh from Steven’s face in the most painful way possible.  They appeared to be completely rusted, and had no comfort what so ever.  It felt like shaving with a Civil War era bayonet.  He was surprised he didn’t look like Skeletor by now, all bone and sinew and wrath. 

He suppressed as scream as he cut himself again, and ripped off another piece of tissue to apply to his hemorrhaging face.  Mummies had less cotton on them than Steven had.  Perhaps Steven should take inspiration from them and go all the way, completely enveloping himself.  At least then he would be free from the mockery of those who saw him.  But, he knew work would not allow him to dress like that.  He sighed, and tried to finish this butcher’s work.  The Universe was again conspiring against him.

Band Practice

Leonard was making Steven very upset.  Now, Leonard was not Steven’s best friend, that was Greg, whom he hated, but they still had a relationship.  It had been this way for years, ever since college.  They always met in Leonard’s garage on Sundays to rehearse.  Steven and Leonard were in a band.  Snake Serpent is what they called themselves and Steven like it.  It was one of the few consistent things in his life that did not make him miserable. 

            Steven did not know if they were any good, and that wasn’t really important.  What was important is what this time did for Steven.  For these few hours, he was a god.  He sat his drum set and channeled angels and demons through his drum sticks.  He was Keith Moon, Neil Peart, and John Bonham all wrapped into one package.  As Leonard played bass and wailed out the lyrics to old rock tunes, Steven lost himself in his music.  No solo was beyond his power to execute.  He was immortal with his high-hat and snare.  Leonard was the perfect partner.  He never required anything.  He did not waste Steven’s time with meaningless chitchat.  He just picked up his bass and started to play.

            Something had changed now, though.  Steven knew it.  It was her.  Leonard had brought his girlfriend to band practice.  Her name was Nicole.  And Steven did not like her at all.  It was not particularly her.  Though she did have some loathsome habits, like laughing at absolutely everything, regardless of whether it was funny, and her insistence on trying to sing along with every song, even ones that didn’t have words.  No, what Steven hated most was what she did to Leonard.  When she was around, he was incapable of making his own decisions, apparently.  She sat there, like a blonde Yoko Ono with a Prada bag and insisted that Leonard should get to play more, that Leonard was amazing, that we should play the song that Leonard wrote.  All the while, Leonard just sat there, looking at his feet like a child who had just gotten caught with their hand in the cookie jar.  Steven could not believe that Leonard let her treat him like that, like he had no spine, no guts.  Steven was never like this with Susan, his girlfriend. 

            Nicole suggested that they work on a song that she had been writing, and Steven threw down his sticks in disgust.  He did not want to play another one of her annoying, vacuous pop ballads while she wailed lyrics like a cat being put through a dryer.  He wanted to jam with Leonard, and feel the power in their instruments.  Alas, the hollow shell that used to be Leonard lifted its bass and started to pound out a droll line, and Steven knew he was in hell.