Bleodsian

By Robert Oliver

When impoverished, middle-aged janitor Richard Cacciare is diagnosed with a terminal, hematological illness, he falls into despair. His spirits are revived, however, when a voice only he can hear dictates a plan to restore his health at the expense of others. The Voice states life is NOT sacred and health can be restored when consuming the blood of others. Mr. Cacciare then embarks on a sacrilegious murdering spree, killing victims and bottling their blood. Will this plan actually succeed? How long and how far will Mr. Cacciare go to prolong his life, and will the Voice allow him to stop?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Oliver
• Release date: Jul 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476200798

Robert Oliver

Robert Oliver is a writer of general works of fiction involving cultural issues that he feels needs to be addressed. By his writings, he hopes to open up dialogue to the issue and enliven a debate that must be had, the ultimate goal being the necessary change for a better future. He lives and works in Florida, USA.

Book preview

Bleodsian

By

Robert Perry

SMASHWORDS EDITION

(c) 2012 by Robert Perry

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only, and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Please do not reproduce, copy, and/or distribute for commercial or non-commerical purposes. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons (living or dead), places, events, or locations are coincidental and are products of the author’s creativity.

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Table of Contents

Prologue: The Tale Must Be Told

Part 1: Necessity Begets Invention

Part 2: The First Kill

Part 3: This Cup Runneth Over

Part 4: Disillusionment

Part 5: Cacciare's Last

Part 6: The End of All Things

Epilogue: The Blessed Speaks

Prologue: The Tale Must Be Told

I do not expect you to believe me; I only expect you to listen. This is not my story or the story of anyone dear to me. It is a story conveyed to me on the direst of nights, under the most torrential of circumstances. I have an obligation to speak, a solemn obligation to transmit what I know. I will not be held accountable if my lips are silent, and no harm will befall anyone if what I speak resides forever in the realm of isolation. I do feel, however, a certain prodding in my being which compels me to vocalize that which was given…

Part 1: Necessity Begets Invention

My name, if ever I were called by such, is Richard Cacciare. I am an employee at Hartford College, and what I speak now is the truth as best I can relate it. I was not always as I am now: a man of lowly means and income, living off of the miniscule salary the school offers to all its facilities members. I was once educated, intelligent and in control of the events surrounding my life. All of that, however, came to a close, and when the dust of the fallout settled, I found myself at the sour end of a mop, clearing the debris for others to pass. For several years I dreamed of regaining all I had lost, but as time dripped through the veins of my existence, I realized that my age and infirmities were slowly gaining on me, and the dawn of my being was drawing to a close. It took only a visit to my practitioner to confirm such; I was dying of Thalassemia, a rare blood disorder found in Mediterranean men. My family hailed from southern Italy, and with them traveled this most devastating disease. Anemia is a common side effect, but more commonly there is an underproduction of the normal globin proteins. In very, very rare cases it is fatal. I was just such a case.

I may sound medically proficient in this manner, but let me assert now that my knowledge was not gained in medical training, but rather in the library computer at the college. I found it prudent to research as best as I could the nature of this beast, believing, like most Americans, that an informed patient makes for the best of medical situations. My studies further educated my mind, but brought despair to my heart. I saw in my body and nature very little hope. All of that changed one night when I was attending a free musical concert performed by the school orchestra.

The lofty and voluminous halls of the chapel were always resounding with the melodious tones of young musical artists. I frequented these events for their amusement and financial availability. I found joy in them all, whether modern jazz or Bach’s sonatas. On this particular night, the School of Music was performing a medley of John Williams’ best movie scores, one of two concerts a year when the students would relax and have fun with their talents. Although the mood was light in the audience, I felt beyond the limits of sobriety. I ached with a pain few in the world would recognize to be the pain of one suffering from a diminished existence. I had only recently received the news that my life, already painfully sore from years of mistreatment, would come to a quiet and subtle end. I tried to focus on the Chords, tried in vain to focus on anything save the thoughts passing through my mind, but I could not escape the horrid feelings that swelled within me.

Life, I thought, seemed so unbalanced. The stakes were always in favor of those with the upper hand; those same people who held all the cards also always had their boot upon my neck. I lived a life of trepidation and travail. My existence was meaningless, and now my death would only bring out the culmination of all past miseries. On these things I tried not to focus, but a wandering mind is always prone to search the darker recesses of the psyche. A sharp string from one of the instruments brought me back to the chapel and the concert. They were still playing; the crowd was still listening; I was still sitting, half in the darkness caused by a misplaced lamp, running the sword into my mental wound over and over again. Tears welled in my eyes as the Imperial March resounded across the ears of the audience. I remembered fonder times, times lost in the fading fabric of years. Now I was older and fading as well, occupying a pew to myself in a far corner of the chapel.

My heart was only mildly entertained by the tunes, yet I watched the students as their nimble bodies conformed to the demands of the instruments on which they played. I tapped my fingers on my leg, keeping beat with the trumpeters. The chapel allowed seating on three sides of the stage, and I was naturally on the farthest side, disappearing into the shadows. I enjoyed the nature of my self-imposed isolation; it allowed me a freedom seldom expressed in any other form of my existence.

I looked at some of the other attendees and wondered if their lives were slowly pulling into the train station of death? I had long pondered the question of personal demise and had taken an interest in the subject when it was roughly thrust upon me. Death had been brought to my door, and medical science -my bastion of hope- failed me terribly. There was little left for me in the sciences, and my mind, in an effort to salvage its body, conjured the idea of alternative sources. Was there any hope for me in the medical efforts of the Asian arts? Could acupuncture bring relief and salvation, or herbal remedies? I searched, but found nothing.

By degrees, I became engrossed in the movements of the students as their gentle swaying seemed to rock me into a lulled state. I stared for some time, moving from one musical piece to another, when suddenly an idea pressed itself upon me. Startled, I sat back in the pew and shook my head, thinking I would awaken my slumbering mind. The notion, so strongly making an impression on me, was bold, and yet grotesque. It fluttered before my eyes, hovering just over the heads of the students on stage. I thought through it for a moment, then shuddered at the reality and gravity it presented. I briskly stood and quietly removed myself from the darker shadows of the chapel and went to the restroom.

It was quiet in the bathroom, with only the softly falling notes of the orchestra wafting their way into the room. I splashed water on my face and stared at my soaked countenance in the mirror. The idea, still pressing and still forming, was ever before my eyes. I could not shake the thought, try as I might. I knew it was too bizarre and disgusting to even comprehend. The laws of humanity dictate that such notions be separated from the realm of logical reasoning and be suspended in a cell of forgotten knowledge; there is no place among the populace for such an action as the one that floated in my soul.

I pulled back from the mirror and dried my face, wiping away the droplets still clinging to my brow. My mind reeled from the images that flowed with rapidity across its screen. I could not succumb to its precepts; to do so would be to risk what life I had remaining in me. I threw the towel away and returned to my seat.

The show progressed with steadiness and I moved along with each piece, rising and sinking according to the individual Chords. Vestiges of the notion still lingered within me, but I pushed them as far away as my mental power would allow. I thought I had finally freed myself from its confines, when a voice sounded from behind.

The Voice echoed my name softly, and I turned to see