I’m thinking about it…
Ityped the message and sent it to Doctor Orson. I couldn’t find anything on him. He had no social media footprint, no webpage, no fucking nothing. He was nonexistent and it was making my brain itch.
Add on to that he always insisted we meet at night in a building entirely empty—besides him and Katie, the receptionist who I hated. She had a digital footprint at least. I had a nice notebook with all her details written down in case they came in handy. Her social media names, her relationship status, her phone number, her address…
The info wasveryhandy right this minute. I stared at the beige luxury apartment building. Her boyfriend wasn’t over tonight because they’d taken a break.
My phone meowed and I looked at the screen.
Drinking blood?
What else?
Well… him I guess. Him and blood. I wasn’t very creative or varied in my thoughts. I liked obsessing—latching on to something dangerous and never letting go. Blood and Doctor Orson. Doctor Orson and blood. What else was there to care about in life besides those two things? Everything else was unimportant, like shedding hair. You just pinch the strand off your clothes and let it flutter to the ground forgotten. Family, work, morals… pinch it off and let it flutter away.
Yes, blood.
With a sigh, I looked back at the building and walked across the parking lot in red platform heels. The straps around my ankles had golden chains. The wind blew right through my black chiffon mini-dress. Clothing and makeup were a distraction, not an obsession. I’d binge watch shows about werewolves and online shop when I had money.
Fuck, I shouldn’t be doing this. Nerves were starting to kick in, reminding me that the last time I brought a weapon to a friendly little chat I’d ended up making an embarrassing failed attempt at murder. Which had left me with a migraine’s worth of shit to deal with. Like jail time, parole, court-appointed therapy…
If I got caught this time there was going to be no leniency. Straight to jail, do not pass go. Goodbye, Bree Hamilton, have fun spending your young adulthood locked up. And yet I didn’t stop walking across the parking lot. I just had to not get caught, how hard could that be? And maybe I wouldn’t kill her. Maybe I wouldn’t really try to taste her blood.
That’s right, I just wanted to scare her. That’s all this was, even if my mouth was watering to rip open one of her veins and indulge.
Never drink someone else’s blood.Doctor Orson’s words rattled around in my brain like shaken pennies in a mason jar. It was grating and headache inducing. I ground my teeth and pushed the memory aside. Was I really so pathetic to listen to my therapist’s demands?
Katie was smaller than the first person I pulled a knife on. Still, she was bigger than me and I was running on two hours of sleep, a spoonful of peanut butter, and two highly caffeinated energy drinks burning holes in my intestines.
To put it simply, I was tired and starving. I was always starving but food just didn’t feel right. The textures and tastes—ugh. There were only so many safe foods and let’s be honest, I was shit at taking care of myself so sometimes I just skipped instead of bothering with a meal.
With a thick swallow, I thought of what it would feel like to have Katie’s blood in my mouth. Thick and warm… god it would taste just right. I’d besatisfied, full even. When had I ever felt that way? I couldn’t remember.
That fueled me forward. She lived on the first floor, unit 108. I had to walk past the stairs to find it. The white numbers were nailed to the dark gray door and the light above me hummed as I stood there. Cicadas screamed like dying yard sprinklers.
My phone meowed again.
I’m glad you messaged me.
I bit my bottom lip, gnawed on it really. The drip-fed drop of praise made me feel warm and gooey. I wanted more. I wanted him here. He’d come, wouldn’t he? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe he’d just call the police but I was wildly hopeful he wouldn’t.
Are you at home?
I’d test him. I had to. This mild obsession with him was irritating me. Honestly, I wanted to stop thinking about him and end whatever fascination I had with him as fast as possible.
I’d been in weekly sessions with him for two months now. I could imagine how his voice would sound speaking his texts aloud—a deep purr. I lifted the phone and snapped a picture of Katie’s door before sending it to him.
I’m visiting our mutual friend.
He’d either call the cops and help kill this fixation or he’d show up here himself. Show up and see just how fucked up I was, scream at me, and say he wasn’t going to be my therapist anymore. Or worst of all, show up and make it clear he was fucking his receptionist.
I had to test him. I couldn’t keep this infatuation up. It was weird and disturbing and he didn’t deserve my thoughts like this. Right? Little arguments sprouted up—about how hot he was, how understanding, how pleasing. He was like no one else I’d ever met. He made my senses purr and my mind numb. But he was my therapist and he was way older than me.
Would a man near forty even want to fuck around with an eighteen-year-old? Some would, for sure. Him though? I didn’t know. Which was weird—women had a sixth sense for this shit and I couldn’t get anything off him. He didn’t feel entirely safe… but I couldn’t figure out why. If he didn’t want to fuck me then what did he want? What made him feel not entirely safe?
I pressed my ear against the door and listened to Katie’s apartment, holding my breath. There was some banging around. I could smell the scent of pasta sauce.
Dinner time… maybe for me too. Shit, don’t think that. But the thought had been here the whole time. All my shitty excuses of only wanting to scare her were sinking out of sight while the need inside me surged to the surface.
