by Chris Behrsin
I like blood.
It draws me in
like a starved man to a juicy steak. I direly
thirst for it when it seeps out of an open wound.
Its sweet aroma nullifies the pungency of the
detergents, antiseptics and cleaning solutions.
It compels me to feed.
So I watch
from the corner of my ventilation shaft, ready to
strike at the most opportune moment.
They will soon
prepare my meal.
and the anaesthetist enter the room. They are so
naive. When they administer the sedative, they
will send my prey to sleep. She won't then feel
the pain as I bite into her soft flesh. Of course,
the anaesthetic isn't good for me it makes
me sluggish. But I've learnt how much I can take.
I am not some novice who would make the mistake
of dozing off at the scene of the crime. I am a
professional. I will not be caught.
traces a narrow seam along my victims flesh.
around the doctors' eyes are tightened with
concentration. They are so proud of the work they
do: the majesty of their art and the precision of
their hands. Yet, these things do not interest me.
I hold amour only for those crimson streams that
seep down the valleys of her body.
I am thirsty.
have not left but this does not perturb me; I am
too fast for them. I can duck and dive without
them noticing. I can strike where their foolish
eyes can't see me. They focus on the incisions
they make along her body. I only watch her ankle
they won't see
without hesitation, bite just above my victim's
anklebone, and suck her blood. I must not be too
greedy. I need to stay light and agile. I need to
anaesthetist turns his head.
I don't know
how but he knows I'm here. It does not matter. I
am satisfied and ready to retreat.
I become heavy.
I've ingested too much in blood and sedatives. My
wings beat hard. My body lifts off then sinks
towards the ground. I must focus. I beat even
harder. It's working. I'm flying, but making too
claps his hands in front of him.
he says. "They should really do something
about these wretched mosquitoes."