The Scars He Left: A Second Chance At Happiness

The room was freezing.

It was a chill that had nothing to do with the snow outside; this freeze radiated from the marrow out, a hollow, rattling cold that settled deep in my bones.

I lay on the gurney, shivering uncontrollably.

Dr. Evans didn't bother with the gentle bedside manner he usually reserved for the Made Men.

He tied the tourniquet around my arm, pulling it tight enough to bite into the skin.

Then he slapped the inside of my elbow, searching for a vein.

"Make a fist," he muttered, his voice devoid of sympathy.

I looked past him to Floyd.

He was standing on the other side of the sterile room, holding Jaylah's hand. She was crying softly, her forehead resting against his shoulder.

He was stroking her hair, his lips moving near her ear.

It's going to be okay. I've got this. I'll save her.

He was offering her the very comfort he had denied me while he watched his men beat me into submission.

The needle pierced my skin.

It was a thick gauge, designed for rapid flow. I flinched, a small, ragged gasp escaping my lips as the steel invaded my vein.

Floyd didn't even turn around.

I watched the clear tube turn dark crimson.

My blood.

My life.

It flowed out of me, cycled through the machine, and pumped directly into the arm of the woman lying on the adjacent table.

I felt the drain almost immediately.

I was already weak from the cold and days of starvation. The sudden loss of volume hit me like a physical blow.

The room began to spin.

The harsh fluorescent lights overhead seemed to stretch and blur, creating halos that hurt my eyes.

"Doctor," I mumbled, the word feeling thick on my tongue. "I feel dizzy."

"Keep squeezing your hand," Floyd commanded from across the room. His voice was sharp, cutting through the haze. "Don't stop."

He wasn't worried about me fainting. He was only worried the flow would slow down.

I squeezed.

My fingers felt like lead, disconnected from my body.

A wave of nausea rolled over me, heavy and suffocating.

My vision started to tunnel. The edges of the room turned to black smoke, encroaching on the center.

Through the narrowing aperture of my sight, I saw Floyd lean down and kiss Jaylah on the forehead.

He looked so strong. So vibrant. So alive.

And he was feeding off me.

He was draining me dry to keep his new life breathing.

"She's stabilizing," Dr. Evans announced, his eyes fixed on the Matriarch's monitor.

"Good," Floyd said, his tone flat. "Take another pint to be safe."

"Boss," Evans hesitated, glancing back at me. "The girl's pressure is dropping fast. She's barely ninety pounds soaking wet. Another pint might..."

"Did I ask for a medical opinion?" Floyd cut him off, ice in his voice. "Take it."

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to rip the needle out of my arm and run until my lungs burned.

But I couldn't move.

My limbs felt like they belonged to a corpse. The cold was spreading up my arm, seeping into my chest, freezing my lungs.

My heart fluttered.

It was a terrifying sensation, like a bird trapped in a cage that had suddenly become too small.

Thump... thump... thump...

Slower.

Weaker.

I closed my eyes.

A single tear leaked out, sliding hot against my cooling skin and into my ear.

I realized then that I was dying.

Not dramatically. Not with a bang.

I was just fading away in a basement, being consumed by the people who were supposed to be my family.

The darkness rushed in, absolute and final.

The last thing I heard was the steady, strong beep of the Matriarch's heart monitor-powered by my stolen blood-while my own faded into silence.