A Hunger of Leeches and Wolves

Bloody Sink

A spoon? My tongue flinches at the metallic taste of the congealed fluid. Nerves prickling as my fingers twitch. Where are we?

Eyelids snap open, pupils dilated in the flickering dim. Darting between off-white tiles, a rusted basin, and red smeared porcelain shards. Head thrumming, as I lay crumpled against the floor. Everything cold, my nerves raw, like the time I went skinny dipping in November. This. Is worse. Putride scents burn my nose: Urine, feces, and what I hope is not my own blood.

I have zero clue where I am. Well, except a public restroom. I quip unhelpfully. This is the last time we go out on a Friday . . . or go somewhere "private" with a random girl. I groan as my mind lingers on the rose of her dark lips, and her sharp teeth at my neck. In a haze, I try to right myself. Joints stiff and sore. Strainighing as my pale fingers push off the dark splattered grout.

Crack.

Something tears. A muscle or ligament, something, in my arm screams. I gasp, only a squeak, as water trickles from pipes like iron beads. I lie, almost still, before gritting my teeth, as joints crack with every leaden movement. Slowly, I stumble to the sink. Collapsing against it as it whines in protest. I whine louder. My hand presses to my chest, as I feel my heartbeat— I don't feel anything.

I'm not breathing. I suck in a frantic breath. "I'm not breathing!" A scream rasps my throat, as I stare into the grimy and cracked mirror. Teeth bare, crusted with ruddy black. A pair of lightless eyes, watching behind a mop of matted curls. The face isn't mine. It's wrong. Prickling at my neck as it stares from beyond the blurry glass. I don't see the twenty one year old English major, the part time thrift store cashier, and purveyor of bad decisions. I see a corpse.

I feel sick. "Annie Lee Meadows, happy birthday. Also—" A sudden twist in my stomach forces up a noxious torrent of pink vodka and half-dissolved birthday cake into the bloody sink. Rainbow sprinkles. "We're so fucked."