The One Who Feeds Alone

By Patrick D. Atkins

A young woman burdened with the legacy of her family plays the unwitting puppet of a malevolent guardian. While friends, family, and her lover are all oblivious to the puppet master's influence, they, too, are subservient to its will. Enemies plot her demise. Law enforcement hunts her. Her family deceives her while her people, seduced by the promise of change, test her resolve with trickery. Only a miracle can save her. And he, too, wants to kill her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662413247

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The One Who Feeds Alone

Patrick D. Atkins

Copyright © 2020 Patrick D. Atkins

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2020

ISBN 978-1-6624-1323-0 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-1324-7 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Sleepwalking

The Bath

The Call

Symptoms

The Session

A Night Out on the Town

Sad News

Alison Rocca of Old

The Special Task Force

The Main Course

Death Toll Rising

The Journey Home

Best Friend or Not

The Rocca Spirit

The Village of Kimberly

Favorite Tree

The Devilish Plot

An Old Friend

The Sixth Time

Possessed

Guests

The Great Feast

Death Cries

The Next Level

Green Glows

Good Luck, Bad Luck

Alison’s Sanctuary

Something New

Honoring the Rocca Spirit

Heritage

1

Sleepwalking

The sounds were faint, distant, garbled—not like a whisper or the remote echoes of voices. They were like what one experienced in a nightmare, a horrified nightmare brought on by a real-life traumatic experience, the traumatic experience so intense the memories are garbled, seen as gibberish, a puzzle the brain can’t quite figure out.

What was more horrifying than the incomprehensible sounds were what was being unleashed on Sara Miller’s other senses. She kept seeing parts of her body, particularly what she thought and perceived were her hands, lashing out at a blur. The blur, like her hands, were drifting, warped by her eyes as if she were on drugs and the intoxication was playing tricks on her mind. She kept feeling pain throughout her body, different levels of pain that came and went randomly. She kept tasting wet, salty moisture on her lips, soft chewiness in her mouth, and brittle grains on her tongue. More revealing, though, and what really made the nightmarish experience so horrific was what she kept smelling, an alluring odor that brought out something deep within her.

In a way, the nightmarish experience had all the elements of what Sara Miller saw on a daily basis at Mercy Trauma Center—blood, suffering, and death. As a trauma nurse, she was expected to perform an assortment of medical procedures that tested her humanity over her ability to stomach the madness that helped humanity. She had no problem, though, in helping humanity. On a word from a doctor, she could, without thought, stick her hand in a patient’s chest and apply pressure to some vital organ, then, minutes later, bring a sense of comfort and reassurance to that very patient’s child while the doctor told the love ones the bad news. She was a trauma nurse with a steely resolve when it came to the life of a patient and a compassionate, understanding nurse when it came to a patient’s family.

But just like an overwhelming number of overworked trauma nurses at Mercy Trauma Center, Sara did have her weaknesses, and it was one of those weaknesses that got her into trouble every time she slept. She kept reliving in her dreams the most revolting medical procedures she had experienced. More bizarre was her dream rendition of them. Just yesterday, a man was brought into the trauma center with a severed leg above the ankle. On her break, Sara’s dream rendition had the doctor attaching the man’s leg to the man’s mouth while she argued with a second doctor over whether the man’s big toe or little toe was the right place to stitch the man’s tongue.

Sara’s eyelids flickered upward momentarily, then opened. She immediately sat up, grasping for air as she did every time after a nightmare. She clutched her chest, applying pressure, trying to calm herself down. Seconds later, she was wiping sweat from her face. She was still breathing heavily. Her vision was blurred. She rubbed her eyes. The soothing sensation it brought on was relaxing, relaxing enough to calm her senses. She felt a warm breeze drift across her face, which caused her attention to shift from the tingling sensation in her eyes. She focused on the now and what was shaping up to be another dream. She was staring at her right hand, passed it at her right leg and what it was resting on, what she was sitting on.

Not again, she gasped.

She reached for her chest and felt her breast. They were warm and moist in her hands, which confirmed the dream wasn’t a manifestation of work. She had awakened again at night from another strange nightmare naked in a strange place. She looked around, trying to get her bearings. The distant trees and abundant of grass between her and the trees suggested she was in Central Park. But where in the park? The park was two and a half miles long from Central Park South (Fifty-Ninth Street) to Central Park North (110th Street) and a half a mile wide from Central Park West (Eight Avenue) to Fifth Avenue. Sara was hoping she was close to the reservoir, which would put her in the nineties and close to where she had stashed a bag of clothes for precisely this situation.

She got up and looked around for people. There were none, none that she could see in the dark. She started to run across the grass, south instinct or something like it had her believing. Within minutes, she came upon a pathway, then a road. She crossed both with caution, careful to avoid contact with anyone. She then found herself at the tennis courts around Ninety-Seventh Street, which confirmed she was heading in the right direction. She avoided the tennis courts even though the courts were closed. The courts were a hot spot for park police, and at the moment, park police was the last people she wanted to run into.

She followed a pathway down into the eighties, careful to stay off it. She varied off to the left when she saw an emergency call box. She then came upon the reservoir and walked south along it until she came upon a series of trees with a large rock about eight feet in height in front of them.

Yes, Sara released, the familiar sight bringing a sense of relief.

She dashed toward the rock. She dropped to her knees when she reached the bushes on the back skirt of the rock and began to feel for the bag she had placed in the vicinity little over a month ago.

Jimmy…Jimmy that you man?

Sara froze.

Jimmy…you out there?

Sara heard the crushing of twigs and leaves.

Jimmy…that you man?

The voice, a man’s voice, was getting closer.

Jimmy, answer me, man.

There was a pause, then a series of twigs breaking loud and at random. It sounded to Sara as though the man had fallen down.

Fuck, the man cursed. You see what you made me do, Jimmy!

The voice continued above Sara, slightly behind her, like it was now coming from atop the rock she was hiding behind.

I almost broke my leg, Jimmy. I’m in pain, man. I need my medicine. The medicine you promised to share with me.

The voice edged closer to Sara, who had now moved to the side of the rock facing the reservoir.

Where are you, man? I know you’re out there.

Sara looked up at the rock, trying to see precisely where the voice was coming from atop the rock. She needed to know. She needed to know if the man could see her, and if so, was he mistaking her for this Jimmy character? She moved away from the rock. She had to locate the man and know where he thought Jimmy was so she could avoid Jimmy. No telling how Jimmy would react seeing a naked woman. No telling what Jimmy would do. She took small, timid steps away from the rock, ever so cautiously looking up at it from her vantage point, hoping to see the man before he saw her.

There! There you are, the man exhaled.

Sara, thinking the man saw her and had mistaken her for Jimmy, dashed back to the safety of the rock. She slammed her back up against it and looked up, feverishly hoping the man wasn’t looking down at her. He wasn’t. The fear, though, had her adrenaline going. She was tense and breathing heavily. Unbeknownst to her, even though she didn’t see the man, she had placed herself directly below him, and he could hear her heavy breathing.

Got you, the man said. Sara heard what sounded like a zipper just as the man added, Here. Have some of my medicine, Jimmy, you selfish son of a bitch!

Before she could move, the man unleashed what Sara could only describe as a downpour. Fortunate enough, though, she was spared the brunt of the force, well, the direct force. The man had the high ground and gravity on his side, not to mention a bladder that could rival a seasoned drunk. A steady flow of piss fell inches away from Sara’s face, from her body now glued to the curvature of the rock.

Splash back from the man’s stench from his streaming manhood and from the puddle, he seemed to take pleasure in filling, showered Sara’s naked body like raindrops hitting an umbrella. The droplets felt warm and tingly, ticklish on her body. It was nauseating to her to believe that her body could be stimulated by such a disgusting and revolting exposition, especially when her nose was beseeched by an odor only found in a toilet that hadn’t been flushed for days.

Her body changed its tone, though, when the splatters landed on her lips and force of habit had her licking her lips. That steely resolve she had as a trauma nurse was shattered with a heave. She unloaded her lunch, dinner, and parts of what she had recently devoured. If vomiting wasn’t enough, when she lunged forward to do the deed, she inadvertently placed her head in the path of the man’s stream, which not only soaked her short blond hair and face but also found its way down to her private of private parts.

When the goriest ordeal was over, she looked up at the rock again, her face covered with the man’s stench, her lower jaw covered with her spew. She thought, what had she done to deserve this? Why had she chosen this place of all places to leave her reserves? Because, her conscious reminded her, for over a month now, you’ve been waking up near here naked.

Her head slowly descended toward her chest as though she was defeated, in agreement with her conscious, and ready to accept her abnormal behavior—sleepwalking, if it could be called that was not only becoming a common occurrence, but it was also beginning to endanger her life.

Just when despair, however, was about to consume what little was left of her shattered self-esteem, a glimmer of hope came from within.

Close, close your eyes, young one. Smell, smell it. Taste, taste it. Feel, feel it. Let it out.

Sara kept hearing the same echoes over and over again. The same words uttered in the same soothing hypnotic voice. Suddenly, she felt something come over her as though the soothing voice was drawing it out, an irresistible urge that was growing with every passing second. To her senses, the man’s stench took on a sweet odor; it tasted like something she craved, which caused her to recall images of past experiences—violent, lustful, pleasing images that had her salivating at the mouth. Her chest began to beat faster and faster, expanding and contracting almost as though something in her was trying to get out.

She fell to her knees and slowly looked up at the rock, up at what she craved. She was no longer hiding from it. She began to eye it for the first time for what it really was. She could smell it as though it were standing next to her, see it in a way she couldn’t before the urge. It was taking on the form of another blur in her horrific nightmares.

Sara was fixated on one particular image from the past, which she mimicked. She flexed her body and squatted up on her legs. Her head jolted upward, up toward her craving. It heard the sound she made and saw the glowing green eyes that were looking up at it. The menacing sound and glowing illumination from below frightened it. It took a step back and stumbled.

Sara saw a white flash. She felt a throbbing pain coming from her head. Puzzling to her, though, was that she was lying on her back, covered with something, and she didn’t know why. She couldn’t recall what had happened after the man pissed on her, whether she avoided him and his friend Jimmy.

She sat up, perplexed by what had just happened. She felt light-headed and immediately fell back on the grass. She wanted nothing more than to rest there, but she knew she couldn’t. It wasn’t a luxury she had, given what she was or wasn’t wearing and where she was at this time of the night. She forced herself to sit up again, which she paid for again.

Uh, she groaned.

Oh! You’re awake.

Sara turned in the direction of the voice. It pained her to do so even though her movement was slow and all she moved was her head. Her vision was blurry from whatever had her head aching, but she was able to make out the outline of a man leaning up against the rock.

That was a nasty hit you took, the man said.

Huh, Sara groaned.

I said, the man repeated, that was a nasty hit you took. He walked over to her and dropped something at her feet. I believe this is yours.

Sara looked at it. She wasn’t sure what it was, only that it was black, blurry, and drifting to the right ahead of her feet. She rubbed her eyes in an effort to clear her vision. Her feet stopped moving as a result, but her vision got worse. She blinked repeatedly until she could see her toes.

She smiled in disbelief at what she saw when her eyes shifted from her toes to what the man dropped by her feet. It brought tears to her eyes. It made up for all that she had been through tonight. No longer was she bothered by the scurry through the park naked, the incident with the man, or the throbbing headache she now had. The bag she was after was at her feet. She snatched it up, clutching it in her bosom like some long-lost possession that had sentimental value to her. She looked up at the man with water-filled puffy eyes of joy. She wanted to leap up and plant a long wet one on the man. She was about to when something dawned on her.

By chance, is your name Jimmy? she asked him. The man laughed, which she didn’t seem to notice or care. I’m only asking because that man was calling for a Jimmy, and well, here you are. Come to think of it, how did you find my bag? How did you know this bag was mine? I mean…

Easy, easy, love, the man said, backing away, the second degree from Sara making him uneasy. "First of all, love, my name is Theo, Theo Steele, not Jimmy. I was jogging in the park and heard the homeless man. I thought he was in trouble, so I came over to help. That’s when I saw him fall from the rock and the two of you bump heads. When I got here, he was gone, and you were lying in…well, let’s just say you weren’t moving.

"I wasn’t sure if you were dead. Since I wasn’t carrying a mobile phone, I ran in that direction to where one of those emergency call things is located. I tripped over something about there, between the second and third tree. It turned out to be a bag I tripped over. Your bag. That’s when I heard you coughing, so I came back.

When I got back to you, as it turned out, you weren’t coughing, you were gagging. Long story short, I used a shirt from the bag to wipe away what was causing you to gag. I then pulled you away from the rock and cleaned you up the best I could. I covered you with my jacket and waited over there. The rest you know.

Yes and no, Sara thought. But she didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was she had her bag of clothes. Even so, she was curious why the man didn’t answer her other question.

What about my bag? she said. You didn’t say how you knew it was mine.

Well, Theo said. He turned away momentarily. It was the panty, the black thong I pulled from it.

The black thong, Sara exhaled. She recalled placing it in the bag and now regretted that she had. She was embarrassed that the man found it, more so because she now knew the man knew what kind of panties she wore.

I can see I’ve embarrassed you, Theo said. But you did ask how I knew. If it makes you feel any better, I too was embarrassed when I pulled the thong from your bag. Come to think of it, thinking back, it was kind of funny when I pulled it out. There you were gagging and the first thing I grab is one of your panties.

Theo laughed, hoping Sara would see the humor, but quickly stopped when he noticed the look she gave him. He told her he would wait by the rock, his back to her while she got dressed. When she was done, she walked up to him, tapped him on the shoulder, and handed him back his jacket.

Thanks for your help, she said.

Hey, that’s what Brits do for Brits, Theo said.

Yeah, Sara said with a cynical smile as though Theo had struck a chord. You’d be the first, though, that didn’t want something in return. She paused then added, What do you want in return, Theo?

He smiled.

Only to know the name of the woman I just helped.

My name is Sara Miller.

Sara, Theo repeated in a soft gentle tone. He looked up at the night sky and closed his eyes. Your name reminds me of a story I once heard, the story of Sara and Eric. The story is about a man who stumbles upon a beautiful…no, the story’s inappropriate.

What do you mean? Sara asked, not that she really cared. She was just making small talk in return for Theo’s help.

I mean… Theo looked at her. I should have called 911 from that call box. You were knocked out and could have needed medical attention. I should have called the minute I knew you were alive. I still should call now.

No! Sara said, shaking her head. She grabbed Theo’s right arm and glanced at his watch. Listen, I’m fine. You don’t need to call 911. It’s almost five. By time the police and EMS arrive, EMS checks me out, and I sign the waiver form for EMS to release me, I’ll be two hours late for work. By time I get home, shower, and make it to work, my shift will have ended. I can’t afford to miss a day at work.

She placed the same hand ever so gently on Theo’s cheek and spoke like they weren’t stranger, I’m grateful for your help, Theo. But I’m fine. Trust me. I’m a nurse.

Theo gazed into her moonlit green eyes, a thought of clarity in his. You could go straight to work after EMS checks you out. Or I could drive you home then to work. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Okay, I won’t call 911, Theo said. But at least let me escort you home.

Thanks for the offer, Sara said. But that won’t be necessary.

At least let me escort you out of the park, Theo said.

No, Sara insisted. She reached into the side pocket of her bag and pulled out a pen and piece of paper. She scribbled something on the paper. This is my number, Theo. I’m giving it to you on one condition. I leave the park alone.

Theo glanced at the paper, then back at Sara.

Wow, he said. You’re willing to give me, a stranger, your number, but you’re not willing to let me escort you home, let alone out of the park.

Yes. Only for one reason, Sara said. You helped me, Theo. You could have taken advantage of me while I was out, but you didn’t. Instead, you cleaned me up and watched over me until I woke up. That shows you have a decent heart.

Yeah. He blushed. But you’re a Brit like me. What if after you give me your number, I still decide to escort you home? Or worse, follow you home?

Well, Sara said, if you do either, you won’t get the chance to tell me that story of yours over dinner.

I see, Theo said, smiling like a man who had just gotten an invitation for sex.

So you agree?

Theo nodded, and Sara handed him the piece of paper. She then slowly backed away for him, staring at him like some schoolgirl who couldn’t take her eyes off the handsome quarterback whose eyes caught hers in passing. She was smiling at him all the way up until she reached her safe zone, the point where she felt confident enough to turn abruptly and run off, knowing if he chased after her, he couldn’t catch her.

Theo shouted, Next time you decide to go swimming, Sara, try a public pool, not the reservoir in Central Park!

Will do, Sara shouted back.

Theo watched as Sara disappeared in the dark. He wanted to go after her, not because chasing after her intrigued him or the fact that he didn’t believe a word she said but because he was disappointed with himself and would have to explain his failure. He decided not to pursue her, however. He just reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of smokes. He lit a cigarette, then used the match as light afterward to read what Sara scribbled on the paper. When the match became warm to the fingertips, he flicked it in the direction of a bush by the rock at the feet of the homeless man. He then walked over to the homeless man and kneeled by the man’s body.

Do you know what this is, old-timer? he said, holding up the piece of paper. Sara’s number, you say. Wrong! He crumbled it up and tossed it at the homeless man. Bloody clumsy, fucking idiot, he cursed. You ruined it!

He punched the homeless man several times. One punch caused the piece of paper to bounce off the homeless man’s chest. Theo caught it in midair and carefully unwrapped it. He then held it above his mouth and extended his tongue.

Um. He released as he licked the blood off the piece of paper, the wet, salty moisture a delight to his taste buds.

He tossed the paper aside after licking it clean of the red moisture, then squatted up on his legs and admired for a moment the dead body before him.

Before I feast on you, old-timer, he said, I’ll let you in on a little secret. That beautiful young blond you soiled, Sara’s not her real name.

2

The Bath

Sara was in the bathroom. She had been in there ever since she got home little over two hours ago. Her roommate, Linda Caver, also a nurse at Mercy Trauma Center, was at the bathroom door. This was the third time in the past twenty minutes Linda was banging on the door, pleading for Sara to come out. They both had the 8:00 am shift at Mercy Trauma Center. It was ten past seven, and Linda had yet to shower.

Sara, you’ve got to come out of there so I can shower. Sara, sweetie, it’s after seven. You know how cranky I get when I don’t shower before work. Linda waited for the door to open, and again, it didn’t, which made her very angry. Sara Miller, she shouted, "you leave me no choice! I am invoking the roommate clause you agreed to when you signed the roommate agreement with me, Linda Carver, which states, neither you nor I are allowed to spend more than one hour in the bathroom per visit.

Sara, you’ve been in there ever since I got up, which is over an hour now. If you don’t open the door in one minute, I’m going to have the super kick the door down. If you don’t want that fat, hairy, smelly Mr. Ruggiero to see you naked, you’d better open the door, Sara. Sara, you hear me! You’ve got one minute!

Sara heard her roommate scamper off. No doubt to call the super. But she didn’t care. So what if one more man saw her naked today? Even if it was the super, Mr. Ruggiero, the man who treated a bath like some ritual he performed once a month. So what if he was a fat, hairy, smelly Italian man that undressed her with his eyes every time he saw her and crept her out with his obsessive gaze like he was masturbating to her in his mind? The perverted antics of the super were inconsequential in comparison to the mystery she had been trying to figure out ever since she got home. She had been trying to replay the night’s events in her mind over and over again, trying to come up with an explanation that would explain away what she had discovered minutes after entering the apartment.

After she left Theo, the only thing on her mind was getting home as fast as she could so she could wash off the homeless man’s stench. It took her twenty-two minutes to get home. She hopped a turnstile at the Seventy-Second Street station and caught a southbound A train. She got off at Christopher Street in the village and ran the rest of the way home to her apartment on Greenwich Street. Seconds after entering the apartment, she was in the bathroom, shedding her clothes, which wasn’t much, just a loose-fitting shirt and jeans.

It was when she turned on the hot water to the tub that she first saw a glimpse of what would haunt her for the next couple of hours. It was on her right arm just below her elbow. At first, she thought it was a bruise she had sustained in the park and had rubbed at it gently to determine how bad it was. It didn’t hurt, which confirmed it was superficial. More revealing, though, was the area she had rubbed had stuck to her fingertips. The reddish brown flakes, in closer observation under the bathroom light, resembled dry blood. Being a nurse, she knew it was blood and wasn’t bothered by the little amount below her elbow. It was, however, the similar stains she saw in the mirror, the stains on the reflection of her body that bothered her. She had bloodstains on her neck, both her arms and legs, on her back, and on her face below her hairline.

Initially she thought the blood was from the bump she sustained, but when she checked, the bump had no cut. In fact, it was barely visible. She then thought it was the homeless man’s blood but quickly dismissed the thought when she recalled Theo had mentioned the homeless man was gone by time he arrived. The homeless man couldn’t have splashed her with that much blood in the time it took Theo to reach her. Then where did the blood come from? She had contemplated over and over and had come to only one conclusion. She was already covered in blood when she first woke in the park. What she had thought was sweat she was wiping from her face was, in fact, blood. The sweat she felt on her breast and the salty moisture she tasted on her lips was more of the same.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t remember how she ended up in the park or what she did to wake up in the park. She had spent the past two hours trying to remember something, anything that could explain away the blood. The only thing she could come up with was a chilling thought that she, a nurse, a dedicated servant to saving lives, had, for unknown reasons, harmed someone, possibly killed someone.

Sara, this is your last chance. I’m here with Mr. Ruggiero. He’s about to kick the door down.

Sara looked at the door, picturing the super barreling through it and then mentally masturbating to her naked body. She got out of the tub and wrapped a towel around her. She walked over to the door and opened it. Linda was standing on the other side alone. She walked past her roommate without saying a word, which kind of disappointed Linda, who had a big old joker’s grin on her face.

Hey, Linda said with disappointment. I thought the Ruggiero prank was funny.

Again, Sara gave her roommate the silent treatment. She just went into her bedroom. She heard Linda shout something about taking a joke and not emptying the tub. Her roommate was a blur to her, though, just like her morning routine. She got dressed, made a cup of tea, then ended up in the living room on the couch, mindlessly stirring the cup of tea while she gazed out the window. Every now and then, she would look down at the cup just to catch a glimpse of what was now a haunting reminder of something bad she had done the night before. Each time she saw a glimpse of the blood wedged between the crevice of her nails, she was hit by a daunting revelation. She kept envisioning herself in the trauma center, the first sight of blood causing her to either freeze with fear or to recall the memory that confirmed the worst.

She thought about calling in sick while on the couch, waiting for her roommate, but she was seeing a shrink about her nightly excursions. The shrink wasn’t cheap. He charged per hour, one hundred and fifty dollars. She had started out seeing him once a month, but as her excursions progressed, eventually occurring every night, she had moved the appointments to weekly visits. She had made the switch three months ago. As it stood, she was two months behind on her half of the rent, owed the shrink eighteen hundred dollars, and was sixty-two dollars away from maxing out her last active credit card.

Linda walked in the living room at seven thirty-two, pocketbook in hand, hair half dry and flat, no makeup, and visibly pissed about her appearance. All she had to do was pick up her keys off the kitchen table and she and Sara would be off to work, but she couldn’t help herself. Her prank had flopped. She was late for work and was having one of those mornings that could easily be mistaken for that time of the month. She couldn’t help but voice her subjective discontent toward the person responsible of her miserable morning, more importantly her bad hair day. She gave Sara the evil stare, which Sara responded to by rolling her eyes.

Did…did you just roll your eyes at me? Linda said, itching to unload an earful. The nerve of you! You spend all morning in the bathroom and you’ve got the nerve to act like it’s my fault. I’m the one who only got ten minutes to shower and dress. Thanks to you, Sara! I’m the one having the bad hair day. Again, thanks to you, Sara! She walked over to Sara and assumed her confrontational stance, which was hands crossed, weight shifted to one leg, and eyes blaring down. You’ve been in a bitchy mood all morning, Sara, acting like I did something to piss you off! What gives?

Like you don’t know, Sara said with attitude of her own.

No! No, I don’t, Linda said dismissively.

Okay, then let me refresh your memory, Linda. Yesterday at work I asked you to spend the night in my room just in case I sleepwalked again. You said you would, Linda. You promised me you would.

Yeah.

So what happened?

What do you mean?

I mean, I ended up in Central Park again, Linda.

Sweetie.

Linda dropped to her knees. She was caught off guard by Sara’s admission. She felt sorry and yet angry, angry at herself for not seeing what should have been obvious to her. She took Sara by the hands, fully aware of Sara’s sleepwalking problem and her promise to help.

Sweetie, tell me what happened.

Sara told Linda about last night, about where she woke up, what had happened afterward, the gory details of the encounter with the homeless man, and the stranger Theo who had come to her aid.

That’s why you didn’t want to come out of the bathroom? Linda asked.

No, Sara said. She showed Linda her fingers. It’s blood. It was all over me when I got home. And it’s not mine. I think I may have hurt someone, Linda.

Sara started to cry. Last night and all the similar unexplainable nights before had finally worn her down. She was an emotional wreck and was on the verge of having a nervous breakdown.

There, there, there, sweetie, Linda said, taking Sara into her arms. Don’t say that. You’re not that kind of person. You’re the kindest, sweetest person I know. You couldn’t harm a soul. You’re the only person in this building that says hello to Mr. Ruggiero. And that’s saying a lot about you, sweetie. If anything, I’d say some pervert tried to get his way with you and you got lucky. That it’s not your blood is a good thing.

I don’t know, Sara said, sobbing uncontrollably.

Trust me, I do, Linda said. When you’ve lived and worked as long as I have in this city, you learn to trust your instincts, and my instincts are telling me you’re the victim here, Sara.

When it came to matters of wisdom, especially in living in New York City and surviving its savagery, Sara always trusted Linda’s judgment over her own. Linda was thirty-four, ten years older than Sara. She was born in Benson Hurst, Brooklyn, the eldest of Eric and June Carver’s four children. After graduating from high school, she moved to Manhattan where she worked as a waitress while putting herself through nursing school. Her first and only job in the profession was at Mercy Trauma Center.

She met Sara almost a year ago when Sara was being interviewed for a nursing position at Mercy Trauma Center. She was one of the nurses who interviewed Sara. When Sara started at the trauma center, it was her job to train Sara in the procedures of the trauma center. At the time, she was looking for a roommate. Sara, a foreigner who had recently moved from Great Britain to the Big Apple, was also looking for a roommate. In that first week of training, they hit it off. She had found Sara’s British wits and humor delightfully refreshing. Sara, looking for someone just to call a friend in the Big Apple, someone to trust, found that person in her, and her willingness to be honestly candor in everything she said and did. Midway through Sara’s first week at the trauma center, they agreed to room together.

In the months that followed, Sara and Linda’s friendship grew. Sara became more and more dependent on Linda. Linda’s fondness of Sara’s British humor matured into a big-sister, little-sister relationship. Being the only daughter of Eric and June Carver, Linda saw in Sara the little sister she never had, which Sara didn’t mind playing the role of. In fact, when they went clubbing, they would introduce themselves as sisters to men. It didn’t matter to the men that their little white lie was obvious, that Sara had a British accent, Linda didn’t, and that both ladies didn’t look anything alike. Men being men only concentrated on and cared about what really mattered to them. Sara was a blond, Linda was a brunette, and both women were beautiful.

Were you raped? Linda asked Sara.

No, Sara replied as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

Are you sure? Linda said.

Sara took a moment to clear her nose before saying, I’m positive.

Linda studied Sara for a moment, trying to see or spot any indication, emotional or otherwise, that would refute Sara’s claim. She saw no telltale that suggested Sara was lying, but she had a feeling. Her gut instinct was telling her Sara wasn’t telling her everything about last night.

Sweetie, she said, I think you should stay home today.

If I do, all I’ll think about is last night. I need the distraction, Sara said.

Then let’s both call in sick and spend the day shopping.

You know I can’t, Linda. I’m…

I know, sweetie.

Sara’s financial problem was a conflict of interest for Linda, a sore spot in their relationship that bothered Linda. Even though she felt comfortable in the essence of the role as big sister, Linda was motivated by a greater obligation, and it was that obligation that reminded her of the painful truth at times. Sara wasn’t her sister. Sara was her tenant.

Okay, Linda said. You can come to work. But I want you to take it easy today.

Okay, Sara said.

No overdoing it today. No going out of your way to help patients you’re not assigned.

Okay, Sara said.

I mean it, Linda said. No going off on one of your humanitarian relief trips.

Okay, I get it, Sara said testily.

Good, Linda said.

Linda stared at her for a moment, again like in one of her moments of concern. This time, it wasn’t clear to Linda what concerned her. The thought escaping her, she got up and headed over to the kitchen to…

That reminds me, Linda said. She turned around. You are seeing that shrink of yours today?

Yes, Sara said.

What time? Linda asked.

Four o’clock, Sara answered.

Good, Linda thought out aloud. I’m available then. I wanna see this so-called miracle worker my ex referred because it’s clear to me that whatever the hell it is he’s doing, it’s not helping you.

Linda mumbled something about a Dr. Berman and then continued to the kitchen to retrieve her house keys. On the way out, she brought up the Mr. Ruggiero prank. This time around, Sara found the prank humorous. They joked about it and the fictitious roommate bathroom rules on the way to work, creatively imagining scenarios that would have been embarrassing to Sara if Mr. Ruggiero had, in fact, kicked the bathroom door down. What Linda never brought up, however, and never gave reason for Sara to question again, was why she wasn’t there for Sara last night. Sara was in good spirit and joking about the prank. There was no point bringing her down by telling her she never made it home yesterday.

3

The Call

Mercy Trauma Center, a facility of Northern Care Alliance, specialized in critical care, the treatment of trauma-induced injuries resulting from but not limited to amputation, fire, and gunshot. The facility was located on the lower west side of Manhattan, on the riverside of West Street in easy walking distance of the MTA, Chamber Street station stop. The facility employed 251 medical professions, had the long-term capacity to care for 380 patients, the short-term capacity to treat 96 critical-care patients per emergency incident, and the city and statewide catastrophe capacity of 662 patients.

Mercy Trauma Center was Northern Care Alliance’s latest acquisition in a string of strategic acquisitions. It was acquired eight months ago by NCA, and besides going through the typical NCA after acquisition reorganization, the facility was in the early stages of a major expansion. The first of three new wings to be added to the south side of the facility was in its second month of construction.

Theo was sitting at one of the few benches on the south end of the facility that wasn’t removed to make room for one of the new wings, a five-story prosthetic treatment center. Like every morning since he started watching the south entrance, he was sipping on a cup of tea and pretending to the read the New York Times while he waited for a certain nurse to enter the south entrance.

It was a beautiful summer morning. Nature, where it could be heard outside the construction zone, was buzzing with life all around the trauma center. The sky was blue as far as the eyes could see, and the temperature and humidity were seasonably comfortable for late July. It was shaping up to be an all-around lovely summer day. Theo, however, wasn’t feeling the radiance of today’s summer bliss. He was kind of itchy in the nerves. There was a storm brewing, a potential hazard on the horizon an overcoat and an umbrella couldn’t protect him from.

The nurse he was waiting for had yet to arrive. He always spotted her approaching the south entrance ten to fifteen minutes before her shift started. She was already twenty minutes late. He had an important phone call to make this morning that required he knew precisely where she was when he made the call. His nerves, however, weren’t rattled as much by the nurse’s tardiness as it was by the importance of the phone call. He knew where she lived and where to find her if she didn’t show up for work. In fact, in the state she was, he knew her better than she knew herself. It was he who was responsible for her sleepwalking, as she knew it.

Like many animal species, Theo had the ability to emit a scent that only attracted those that recognized it. On every occasion she had sleepwalked, he had left a trail of his scent for her to follow, either by the south entrance to the trauma center, outside her apartment building or the Christopher Street station. On every occasion, her subconscious, the urge within fighting to regain its dominance over her conscious, once again had picked up on his scent and had willed her to follow the enticing aroma. It was the urge within her that compelled him to do what he was doing. He was trying to free it. It was the true her, her former life before the trauma over a year ago had suppressed all memory of her past. By baiting her urge with his scent, he had lured her to places where he could entice her urge with offerings, offerings that would gradually return her memory by exposing her to similar experiences, which would ultimately free her urge.

Last night’s escapade was to have been a dramatic step to freeing her urge. It was to have been her first human kill in a long time. He had lured her to Central Park and had, for the better part of the night, hunted and fed on wild animals with her as he had done on all other occasions leading up to last night. While she rested from the fifth feeding, he had gone on a personal hunt. He had returned with the right arm of a man. He had smeared the blood from the arm over her body, then left, leaving a trail of his scent for her to follow. His scent luring her urge to her first human kill in a long time, coupled with the scent of fresh human blood to entice her urge even more, almost worked. If that homeless man he had lured her to hadn’t been so clumsy, then she would have experienced a sensation no form of amnesia could suppress. Once tainted by the taste of human flesh again, the craving of her urge would have left a lasting imprint, a desire that consciously she couldn’t resist. Gradually, with every human feeding, her urge would grow stronger and become more frequent. Her memory would gradually return as her urge grew in strength. Ultimately, it would be the return of her memory that would allow her urge to dominate her conscious once again. But instead of her urge having a conscious awareness again, last night’s escapade had accomplished nothing more than to raise his anxiety level. She walked away from the escapade still the same blissful soul that had no memory of the past and no recollection of what she did while under the influence of her urge.

He had a lot of explaining to do on the call. He had promised on the last call substantial progress in her recovery. He had gone as far as to assure those on the call she would be a flesh eater again by time he reported in the following Tuesday. Today was the following Tuesday, and she still wasn’t a flesh eater as he had promised, and she wasn’t available to speak to her mother as he had also promised.

Theo saw her and her roommate approaching the south entrance to the trauma center from the west sidewalk. She appeared to be carrying on a conversation with her roommate, laughing and in good spirit. It was obvious to him she wasn’t rattled by last night or giving any indication of the shock signs of awareness in the form of reclusion or confusion that she had remembered anything. It appeared she was still suffering from amnesia even though he had made a desperate attempt to make up for the clumsiness of the homeless man.

He was in a tree above the rock last night when she and the homeless man bumped heads. He had immediately realized the blunder and the impact it would have on today’s call. In an effort to correct the mishap, he had killed the homeless man and had tried to