Page 4

I walk the courtroom through it.

I was making dinner for me and my mom. I like to make dinner, like to cook.

Hell, I like doing anything that keeps me indoors and out of sight.

I was chopping onions and wiping my eyes and not paying attention.

.. when the blade went straight through the side of my index finger.

It hurt like hell. The cut was to the bone.

And there was blood. Lots of it. As I bled, I just stood there at the kitchen sink, dripping, doing nothing to staunch the flow of blood.

“And what happened next, Aaron?” my attorney asks.

“I tasted it.”

The attorney sucks in some air, and so do a lot of other people in the courtroom. One or two even turn their heads.

Wimps...

“You drank your own blood?”

“Yes.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Oh, yes.”

The lawyer pauses and turns again to his notes, and my tongue darts out between my canines.

Like a snake’s tongue. In and out. In and out.

Another bad habit, and one my tongue has seemingly evolved to accommodate, for it’s itself now long and narrow.

If I wanted to lick the bottom of my chin, I could.

“So what did you do next, Aaron?”

“I began cutting myself.”

“And sucking your own blood?”

“Yes.”

“Did you only cut yourself?”

“No, sometimes I used my teeth.”

The attorney pauses and looks pointedly at the jury box. I know what the look is meant to say. The look is meant to say that I’m clearly crazy, and how could they possibly condemn a crazy man to death?

I’m not crazy. I just want blood...

“So, you bit yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Mostly my wrists. But my whole arm was and is fair game.”

The attorney looks slightly ill. “And then, what would you do?”

“I would suck my blood, of course.”

“Like a vampire.”

I nod. “Like a vampire.”

The attorney gives the jury another knowing look. “Aaron, could you please show the court your arm?”

I fight my initial reaction to rebel, to hide, and instead sigh deeply and unbutton my cuff and push up my sleeve. I display my forearm for the jury to see. Nearly hairless, my pale arm is crisscrossed and dotted with puffy white scars, some fresher than others.

“Would you say, Aaron, that you finally found a use for your teeth?”

I grin. “You could say that.”

“Aaron, could you please describe for us the process of biting yourself and drinking your own blood?”

And so I do. Once I puncture my flesh with my own teeth, I draw the blood straight from my veins and into my mouth.

Often I gargle the blood and swish it around like fine wine.

When I’m done sucking and drinking, or feeding, as I refer to it, I’m left with the most incredible hickeys that last sometimes for months.

“Of course,” I say, finishing my recounting, “I always keep my arms covered in public.”

“To hide the scars and hickeys.”

“Yes.”

“Some of these wounds look fresh, Aaron.”

I nod and point to two scabby holes just inside my elbow. “Sure. I was sucking here just last night, in jail.”