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Chapter 4
He gets home late that night, after the storm has passed. He drops his coat on the floor after he closes the door, then heads straight into the bedroom – having forgotten what happened before he left, passing the body on the table – and shuts the door. Only after he is beneath the blankets of his bed does he realize that he didn't see what it was that changed about the man this time – though, really, does he even want to?
He tries to put it out of his mind, tries to think of other things in order to calm his fright – is it possible for him to feel such an emotion, given his profession? – and yet, in the midst of all his tossing, turning, and glancing over at the door, he comes to the slow realization that he'll never get to sleep unless he checks it out.
He stands up out of bed, the chill of the past-storm night air seeping into his skin through his shirt. Even with just a finger and his thumb on the knob, he can't seem to open it quietly enough. The room beyond looks darker than before, a hungry black maw gaping towards him, its thirst for blood left unfulfilled by the half-dry puddle of it in the middle of the floor. This is all irrational, he tells himself – everything 'strange' that's happened as of yet all have their reasons. Again, there is nothing to worry about – and, again, if he tells himself this enough times, he might actually come to believe it.
Nothing seems wrong, as far as he can tell; he waits for his eyes to adjust – which doesn't take too long – and looks at the body: nothing's different. Head is still tilted, eyes are still closed. He reaches out to touch the man, to be sure that this person is really dead on his table and is not just some figment of his deteriorating mind and sanity. Feeling the coldness of its skin, he wipes the back of his hand across his forehead and breathes out another sigh of relief. The beat of his heart slows back to normal, his fearful shivering stops. He turns back around to his bedroom –
-and then, he hears it.
He stops in his tracks, wondering if the rain started again: Plip. Plip. Plip. Perhaps it's just some excess rainwater, running off his roof or off the branches of a tree outside…no, no that can't be it. Rain doesn't fall in as steady a rhythm as this, with time between each seeming to be measured: plip, pause…plip, pause…plip. It seems so close, yet so distant; loud in the night's silence, quiet in truth. Everything about it is completely and totally unsettling – especially the fact that it's coming from behind him, near the man on the table – and it revives his nervous shiver and the scrambling beat of his heart. It's another thing that will keep him awake if he leaves it alone, another thing he absolutely does not want to inspect even though he knows he has to.
He turns back around slowly, ears instinctively straining to focus on its source – and, yes, it's coming from near the table…plip. He steps closer. Plip. He leans down, look at one leg of the table…then a second…but the third stands out to him. The trails of blood, black oil in the night, are dry on the other two; on this one, it's fresh, still wet when he puts his finger to it. Plip – a drop lands on his nose, forcing him to tumble backward and suck in a sharp gasp out of surprise. He sits back against the wall breathing heavily, one hand clasped to his chest where he can feel his heart pounding, a string of curses pulling itself from between his lips. The blood isn't warm, but isn't cold either: the only way he can be certain of its presence is how it tickles at his sensitive nose when it rolls down the side.
Still bleeding. Still bleeding. Still bleeding. He doesn't attempt to coat the truth this time, doesn't try to make sense out of something that lacks it – no matter how he looks at it, what he tells himself or tries to convince himself of, no matter which way he views it, the man is still bleeding. Whether that means his heart never stopped, whether it means he's still alive – thriving off of blood drained from his body days ago, he doesn't know. The head tilting and opening of his eyes – were those both actions of a conscious, living being? Did he did his mouth in to and consume the flesh of someone who still lived?
He stands, skirts around the table – plip, plip, plip – slams the bedroom door behind him and sits in the far corner of the room, knees held tightly to his chest. He keeps his eyes focused on the door and the wan moonlight shadows filtering beneath it and his ears straining, alert. He doesn't know what time it is, how many hours are left in the night, how long the man has been bleeding. He doesn't move from that corner while the moon reigns the sky and stays there well into the morning, the ceaseless dripping constantly wearing at his mind, as a pipe leak carves a hole in the stone below it. He doesn't sleep that night.