This Blood Is Gonna Wake the Night

The sweat was pouring non-stop across the young woman's body, oozing slowly from her pores. Her hair, drenched with the stuff, spread out over the pillow like a matted stain. Her body jerked violently with spasms as her convulsion continued. She screamed every so often as her body screamed its need out to her. And there was nothing any of us could do to help her. All we could do is grip her hand and whisper soothing words of comfort to her. I, however, simply lay back on my bunk and calmly smoked my way through a cigarette.

"Guys," I began, pausing to blow a smoke ring "Just leave her be, give her some freaking air."

"Like it'll help her." One of the dark haired men sneered back at me.

"You know what I mean." I replied apathetically.

"You're gonna' feel differently when it's your time."

I took another drag from the cigarette dangling between my fingers, exhaling slowly and deliberately in attempt to agitate him.

"Is that so?"

"Yeah."

"It's the same scene every week and you always say the same thing. But I'm still surrounded by you all when it's my turn," I said, sitting up "If you guys wanted me to feel different when it's my time, why do you automatically start nursing me? I'm not saying I'm ungrateful for it, I'm very grateful."

"We have to watch out for each other." One of the younger one's said.

He was pale and skinny, he couldn't have been more than fourteen. His sandy coloured hair hung lankly against his head in obvious need of a wash. We're only allowed to wash our hair once a week here. So most of us have hair that would be like dabbling in a deep fat fryer to touch. I observed this boy will a small smile. He reminded me of myself when I first came here. I've been here since I was a kid. They brought me here when I was eight. And I used to be into that whole voicing out the fact that we need to look out for and take care of each other. But not now. Even though I can't deny the fact that if one of us gets hurt or it's their time to convulse, we're all here for that one person.

"That's what I used to say, Matt." I said after a pause.

"Does that mean you don't care about any of us?" He questioned "Would you watch us all die if it meant you could feed?"

"I never said that," I insisted "Deep down, I care about everyone here, but on the surface I really couldn't give a toss about anything."

I've been here since I was eight. I'm twenty-seven now. So after nineteen years here, you eventually adopt an attitude that is ignorant to everything unless it really matters.

"How long have you been here again?" I questioned, looking down at the young boy.

"Two years," He replied, earning a bitter laugh from me "And it's too long."

"God, imagine if you'd been here as long as me."

"How long have you been here?"

"Nineteen years."

His blue eyes widened slightly and he gave a low whistle. I guess that meant I had his approval. He hoisted himself up onto the top bunk with me and I offered him a cigarette. He looked down his nose at the squashed cardboard box as if to say 'My parents would kill me and anyway, those things cause cancer'.

"It's not like they're gonna' kill you." I smiled dryly.

"True, but I'd rather not," He insisted "So, if you've been here since you were eight, does that mean you don't know anything about the modern world?"

"I know a little, thank you very much, they tell us stuff."

"But, you've never seen a cell phone?"

I shook my head, my longish hair flopping about as I did. He looked at me as if I were not of this world and I very much resented it. I'm not some kind of alien freak. All the other guys in my cell seem to find it hilarious that I've got no sexual history and deliberately talk about their antics from before they came here with very graphic description that makes me shudder.

"And you've never played a ps2?"

"A what?"

"You've never even heard of a ps2?" He stated in astonishment "It's short for PlayStation 2! It's an electric games console."

"Oh," I replied, uncertain of what to say "Um. . . wow?"

He laughed at my uncertainty. While we'd been talking, the woman's convulsions had come to a steady stop. She was now lying on her back, staring at the ceiling, exhausted from her screams and spasms. I looked over at her, surrounded by others who voiced their concern clearly. I've never been good at that, but I do care about them all. I've seen someone struck down by their convulsion before. I was twelve and it'd been a little kid of about ten. And I never wanted to see it happen again.

"How do you feel, Grace?" I questioned awkwardly.

Everyone in the room gave me an odd look. She didn't reply, though. She was still staring at the ceiling, exhausted. One of these days, I'm getting out of here. This life has been stringing on too long for me. One day, I'll feel grass under my feet again. And I'll breathe fresh air again. And I'll run free. I won't waste away in here. I refuse.