Page 14

I’m nine years old when I watch Silence of the Lambs on the VCR in our living room. Mom is asleep after coming home from working the swing shift at the Sizzler, and Dad has already left us, so I take advantage of the lack of parenting by watching our collection of R-rated movies.

I see my first naked woman in a movie called Zapped with Scott Baio. It also teaches me what experiencing true fear is like. Adult fear. Hannibal Lecter is no boogeyman; he’s evil incarnate. Someone who I never imagine I’ll be able to relate to.

Ten years ago, I never would’ve believed that he would become my reflection, that doctors would strap me to a bed, clamp a muzzle over my face, the same kind Anthony Hopkins wore in the movie.

To them, I’m not just dangerous. I’m Hannibal Lecter-dangerous, a ravenous, inhuman thing, shackled in medieval restraints.

But I was not trying to kill Dr. Carter. Not really. I didn’t want to maul her, didn’t dream of peeling the skin from her neck like some feral animal. I just needed… a taste. A single, fleeting sip.

It isn’t about domination. It isn’t even about anger, not entirely. But she’s cold. Calculating. A condescending bitch who eyed me like I was a monster. So I lunged.

And yeah, maybe Dr. Finnegan would’ve been the logical choice, but the idea of sinking my teeth into some old man’s neck? No thanks. Some hungers have standards.

I no longer smell bleach. I miss that smell because the mask I’m being forced to wear smells like rotten meat.

I don’t think they’ve ever cleaned the damn thing.

Dr. Finnegan and Dr. Carter speak endlessly about rehabilitation, but the hospital’s protocols, or lack thereof, seem to support punishment in subtle ways.

Contrition requires forgiveness and empathy.

Look, I know I’m a selfish beast, but if Finnegan and Carter truly care about me, they’d work with the toolset and framework nature gave me. Being forced to stand, while tied up and muzzled, has me contemplating suicide.

I close my eyes and try to sleep, but the bastards always keep the lights on in my room. I’ve lost track of time. I never know when it’s day or night.

Then comes the familiar clang of the metallic door.

I have a visitor. As soon as the door opens, Don steps aside and in walks Frank Scolari, my attorney.

He’s been appointed to me by the court since I can’t afford my own attorney.

But I assume I’ve seen the last of him when they whisked me away to the hospital after my sentencing.

His cologne is an obnoxious scent that I grew to loathe when sitting next to him for weeks in the courthouse. However, in here, with my muzzle’s nastiness, it’s most welcome.

He’s grown a beard that enhances his square jaw and thick lips. A handsome fella, Frank is pretty sharp for a public defender.

“Aaron, what have they done to you?” Frank frowns while placing his briefcase on the floor and reaching for my mask.

“Don’t touch him.” Don stands just outside the door.

“It’s my fault. I couldn’t help myself, Frank,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“I fought for you because I thought this was where you belonged.”

“I’d rather be on death row.”

“Believe me, you wouldn’t want to be in prison right now. In prison, there are violent animals waiting to tear you apart. At least here you have a chance, but you have to work with them.”

“Why are you here, anyway?” I ask, my voice muffled.

“Because I truly believe you’re no murderer. But you need help, Aaron. A lot of it.”

“They’re not helping me. I need blood, Frank. I don’t care where it comes from. I’d be willing to show restraint if they gave me some. I don’t care if it comes in a bag or a Dixie cup.”

“Aaron, buddy, no one’s ever going to authorize medicating you with blood.”

“I’ll make do with pig’s blood, cow’s blood, any blood.”

Frank lets out a heavy sigh. I can see in his eyes that I’m not getting through. Just like everyone else in this sorry excuse for a hospital. They don’t believe I’m truly a vampire.

“Has the medication they’ve given you eased the violent thoughts?”

“You mean what you believe are delusions? How many times do we need to go over this? For the hundredth time, Frank, I’m a vampire! Do you like the taste of blood? Have you tasted your own blood?”

Frank shrugs. “Yeah, but I wouldn’t say that I liked the taste of it.”

“Well, to me, it tastes fucking amazing.”

Frank grows frustrated with me and I with him. Despite having my interests at heart, he’s starting to piss me off.

“You’re in here for at least 15 years before your next parole evaluation; actually, make it 25 now, since you thought it’d be a grand idea to attack Dr. Carter. You’re in here for a long time, my friend. What do you want to do with your time here?”

“I want to be myself. Let me be me and I promise I’ll be good. Just give me access to blood and I’ll be a model citizen.”

“Aaron,” Frank says, as he begins pacing the room with his hands on his hips. “You’re not going to be given any blood, and you know why.”

“Humor me… Why?”

Frank sighs again, much more deeply this time.

“Because you’re not a freaking vampire. Get it through your fucking thick skull, kid!”

Frank turns away from me, shaking his head.

“Why do you care so much? Why are you here, anyway?”

“I put my career on the line for you, man,” he says. “I’ve made some deals with the D.A. Shit you wouldn’t understand… And now the word’s out about your attack on the doctor. It makes me look like an ass, because I convinced the judge and everyone else that you could be rehabilitated.”

I’ve never considered myself an opportunist. But when there’s an opportunity that presents itself that could help me quench my bloodlust, I’d be an idiot if I don’t pounce on it.

“Frank, I didn’t know things were that hairy on the job.”

“What?”

“I’ll make a deal with you. I swear, I’ll be the best patient in Fulton if you can arrange to give me some blood. Once a week even.”

“It’s not happening!” Frank scowls. “Who in the hell do you think you are, Aaron? You think prison is some glorious summer camp where you roast marshmallows and tell ghost stories all day? A twink like you would have a sore ass every waking minute if you were sent to prison. I did you a favor by keeping you out of there… so get over yourself!”

“I’m not trying to be an asshole… just trying to find a way to survive.”

“Your time here at Fulton is what you make of it, Aaron. Don’t fuck with them and they won’t fuck with you.”

“I can’t change who I am, Frank.”

“You are not who you say you are.”

“Well, fuck you too.”

Frank picks up his briefcase and glares at me. “I’m going to do what’s best for you and me.”

“What does that mean? You can’t make decisions for me!”

“Yes, I can. As your attorney and only advocate and, since your mother has refused every single one of my phone calls, someone has to make your decisions since you’re no longer of sound mind.”

He calls for the guard and exits the room, leaving me alone, tied up and unable to fend for myself.

I cannot let Annie down by trying to pretend I’m someone I’m not.

And, I can’t dampen my bloodlust even if I try.

Before Don slams the door shut, I hear Frank tell Don, “Tell Director Redfield to go ahead with the procedure.”