Page 2 of The Cannibal

One foot, then the other, using my grip on the molding of the wall to lift myself up. My knees cracked and whined with every step like unoiled hinges.

Another swallow battled the dryness that consumed my mouth. After a rough gulp of nothing, the saliva began to form at a snail’s pace. The cracks of my lips were painful the more I moved them. If I opened my mouth any wider, my lips may split and bleed.

I coughed finally. My body was finally catching up with its irritated state.

The thirst began to register, along with the new aches that introduced themselves. A sterile smell on my skin, not unlike the patients back at the hospital from rag washing.

Before me were double French doors with ornate brass handles. Perfectly intact, clean, polished. If I grabbed them, would they open? Am I prepared for their being locked? If I am trapped once more? I was almost unwilling to find out, but there was nothing else to do but try.

My fingers wrapped around the handle, adjusting their grip. The numbness now worn off, I could feel everything. The door, the temperature, the pain in my abdomen, my head, the deep-rooted ache that burrowed everywhere it could.

The door opened with ease, not even a creak.

Scratchy, arid arrangements were swept out of the way on the other side of the door, little cracked leaves trailing in the door’s path. It settled on me, then.

The flowers covering the bed, outside of the door. These were funeral flowers, and when the flowers were fresh, there would have been a postmortem photograph taken before they were allowed to wither.

Blooms well past their prime crumbled between my toes and the stone transition of the floor.

The hallway was empty, quiet.

Rosalia marble stretched the length of it, many tall windows not unlike the one in the room, creating bay overwatch areas. Small tables within the nooks held freshly manicured arrangements. Along the wall were small displays and antique decor.

There was no reason for my hesitance other than my disorientation. Nothing seemed amiss, I was still in New York, just not where I last remembered. Yet there was very little trust that I was in good hands.

I stared down at my own hands. Pale, but I was no specter. I was as real as the crumpled foliage piled in the bed.

My palm swept across the leaves of a potted fern along the wall. It was lush and green, waxy to the touch. The light was filtered now, orange. It was afternoon, not morning. Which means it will likely be dark soon.

Move, I urged myself.

Voices echoed from somewhere, vibrating in my ears and tickling my jaw in the process.

I couldn’t walk fully, only limp. What happens if I’m seen? Will they throw me back in the room, whoever they are?

On the wall, a mounted display of pristine sixteenth-century rifles with bayonets under a painting of hunting dogs on a fox chase. I pulled one from the hooks, the gun heavier than expected, but that could easily be my fatigue.

A curdling of my stomach pinched me, along with a wave of lightheadedness. My vision blared with vivid colors in between the pulses of pain in my skull.

I tucked myself behind a curtain within a bay window area.

The voices were closer, laughing, merry chatter.

Below me on the outside, people walked along the pavement. If I shouted, would they hear? Would they see?

A cold sweat made the solid piece of wood and brass between my fingers hard to grip, the weight not as manageable, but there weren’t many other options. I couldn’t steady my heart, each beat makes me tremble, there was no satiating it. There was no point counting the beats; it was all too fast. It was loud, so incredibly furious in my ear.

Two women passed, a blonde and brunette I could only see from behind as their voices chimed, their words jumbled as if my brain couldn’t work fast enough to decipher them. Dressed in fine silks, daywear put to good use after an afternoon of parading.

The scent of something was in my nose again, different this time. It was like a rich perfume oil, except I couldn’t place any notes.

When the voices dampened, I moved. The farther I ventured down to the end of the hallway, the more voices I heard. A small crowd, I guessed. Mumbling, chattering, some laughter.

I leaned against the wall, clutching the gun to my chest.

There was no doubt now that I was in a Nest. There may be too many to take on myself. There was no gunpowder in the rifle. No, it was too clean. Display only. But the bayonet was sharp and solid, it would have to do.

My toes curled against the marble before stretching again. Don’t fail me now, throw me out the window if you have to, I thought, as if my own legs would respond back.