All Being Human characters belong to TW. Thanks again for letting me spend more time with them.
The monster has been fed, but I'm not sure what just happened. The red haze should have cleared by now, but it hasn't. I want to smash everything within reach. I'm hopped up on blood, unable to sit still, and furious. I've no right to be - I've just killed the girl, for fuck's sake. I pace back and forth, fists clenched, mind racing, trying to calm down. I'm practically tearing my hair out. I can't think. I feel sick.
Herrick stands by the door and shakes his head at my lack of composure. Fortunately, he was busy with his own kill, so I don't think he heard exactly how mine went down. He puts his hand on my shoulder and smiles in a way that he must imagine is fatherly. I can see all of his teeth.
"Did she do something to upset you, Mitchell?"
"She was so high..." I search for the right thing to say. I'm trying to keep my voice from shaking. "...uh, it was more of a hassle than it usually is."
"Look." He gestures at the limp body on the table. "You appear to have won the battle." Blood is still dripping slowly down her fingers onto the floor. I glance at it and look away. Instead, while I wait for my vision to clear, I fix my eyes on a random spot on the wall. I listen. The sound I hear makes me wince a little.
Plop.
Plop.
Through the fading red fog, I see his eyes harden and his smile disappear. "Get a grip, solider, she's history."
He's towelling off his face and running a comb through his hair. His suit is immaculate. He's already wrapped up the blonde in one of the old blankets from the sofa, and she's lying in a neat bundle on the floor. Considerate, that's him.
I look a mess. My shirt is smeared with blood as if it's been fingerpainted.
"It's still early. Get yourself freshened up." He gestures at the rack against the opposite wall, which holds several sets of identical shirts, suits and ties, as well as a few overcoats and scarves. I leave the soiled clothes in a corner, wipe myself down, check my nails, and get dressed again. When I pull my fingers through my hair, I don't feel any blood caked into it, so I guess it's fine. I close my eyes and will myself to be calm. I need to put the memory far away.
Gradually, the blood sets things right. Colors return to normal. I feel my strength returning. Better.
"Onward, Mitchell." Herrick is hurrying us out the door so the mess can be cleared away as quickly as possible.
As we emerge from the room, I hear bloodcurdling screams from down the hall. I flatten against the recessed doorway and peek around the corner.
"You fucking swine! You disgusting lying sack of putrified shit!" A door slams. A girl sits in the hallway with her back against the wall, her arms wrapped around her knees, crying and cursing. "I knew I shouldn't have believed him when he said we were serious. I knew it! I knew it! Loathsome, monstrous piece of filth!"
She's got a mouth on her, but she's a soft-featured pretty thing. Her mascara is running down her cheeks and her blonde hair is coming loose from the ribbon that was holding it back. The flickering bluish light in the hallway washes out the orange-on-white flower print on her dress, making the color look almost rusty brown. She has on white boots that go up to her knees.
Herrick isn't hiding. He sees possibilities. He stands there in plain sight with his hands in his pockets and watches. He gestures at me to come out of the doorway, which I do as casually as possible, and then he asks me for a cigarette. We turn away to smoke and to eavesdrop. In the commotion, I don't think she's noticed us. Even in the downstairs hallway, people are milling about, dealing drugs in corners, having loud discussions, or staring into space. They gather into conversational knots that break up and then form again with new members. They drown out the cool jazz being piped in as background music. The next act won't be on for at least half an hour.
Someone is trying to calm down the crying girl, who's still hunched against the wall. Her friend sits on the floor beside her and pulls her into an affectionate sideways hug. "He's in a band. You know they're all pigs. They can't help themselves - they'll take any blowjob they can get. He's not worth getting upset over."
Down the hall, near where they are sitting, the door opens again, and a man looks out. He has long wispy light hair down his back and a receding hairline. His stupid ruffled pink shirt is unbuttoned and his belt is undone. "Come on, Jenna, we're on the road! Everyone does it! It's no big deal!" He has the look of a dog caught stealing food from the counter. Pathetic.
"Don't speak to me!" She waves him away.
"But, Jenna..." He's practically whining.
Her friend stands up and steps between Jenna and the band boy. She's in jeans, a floaty embroidered cotton blouse, and red shoes with three-inch heels. "She said, don't speak to her! You'd best remove your sorry arse from her presence before I shove my foot into it." He sighs deeply, rolls his eyes, and ducks back into the room he came from.
She returns to Jenna, rubs her back, and they sit quietly for a minute. "Shit," says Jenna, "I'm not riding home with them, Stephanie. I'm not."
We stub out our cigarettes and wander off casually as Stephanie and Jenna quietly discuss disgraceful male behavior and how the hell they're going to get home.
Upstairs, we scout for another spot where we can camp out and watch the crowd. There's nowhere to sit, so we stand at the far end of the bar, facing the room, well away from where the bartender is taking drink orders. Herrick rocks back on his heels, clasps his hands behind his back, and grins.
"Such a fine-looking group of young people," he says. "So nice to see them enjoying themselves, don't you think?" I look out into the room, scannning for vulnerable targets. We search for anyone who seems to be lost or intoxicated or otherwise unmoored. Even without making an effort, I can see that there's no shortage of prospects.
"There are a lot them, that's for sure," I say. I gaze at my shoes and frown.
"Relax, Mitchell. Join the party," says Herrick. He punches my arm in a way that looks playful, but is actually hard enough to leave a mark. I have to consciously relax my forehead and unclench my jaw. Although I'm still feeling very rattled, my job is to charm and attract, not frighten people away. I've been told more than once that I have quite an intimidating scowl.
"You're not yourself tonight. Wait here while I fetch us a drink."
Herrick vanishes into the dense crowd vying for the bartender's attention.
I am never myself. That man died.
Humans are weak and sentimental, always hoping for the best. I was. I wasn't perfect, but I meant well.
We are on our way to Belgium. It is clammy and damp for June, with permanently gray skies and an endless slow drizzle. There are already a lot of wounded. The smell of blood must have attracted him. I am keeping watch and he takes me by surprise, whispering his threats and promises into my ear. He is wearing an officer's uniform.
I'm appalled, but I don't have very long to think about it. He pulls my rifle out of my hands and drops it in the mud, then somehow he's standing over me. The damp ground is soaking through my coat; my own warm blood is sliding down my skin where the mud has dried and cracked and contracted; my ears, lips, hands, and feet are going numb; there's rain pattering on my eyelids and into my open eyes. With a finger, he swipes up blood welling from my throat, and brings it to my own mouth, then to his; my vision fades and goes black. There is an oddly gentle look in his eyes afterward as he feeds me his blood, now mingled with mine.
I let him take me so he would spare everyone else. I made the wrong choice. It would have been a better bargain if I'd let him take us all. He must have known. Even if every last one of my men had been killed in the fighting that autumn, fewer people would have died. By November, most of them were dead anyway, killed at Passchendaele. In the years since, I've killed far more people than he spared that night. I try not to think about it. I can't change what happened.
All I wanted was to protect the men from danger and chaos. I tried. I still try, when I can, but now the danger is me. I'm not even sure why I bother. It's not worth the effort. There is no protection. We all die sometime. Through half a century of repetition, the horror of it has worn down to occasional twinges of disgust. The blood carries me past even that.
I meant to do the right thing, I really did. Now I live with monsters, and am one of them.
I am so sorry.
He returns with a drink in each hand and a girl on each elbow. I'm completely unsurprised that it's Jenna and Stephanie. In the press of people heading toward the bar, they practically plow into me. He hands me one of the glasses. I drink most of it immediately.
"Oh, and here's my mate, John."
Here we go. I nod in a friendly way, and offer my hand. "Pleased to meet you."
"John, these ladies seem to have lost their ride home."
The club is crowded, with no discreet way to truck around large body-shaped parcels, so our downstairs room will not be mopped and cleared out anytime soon. So far, the entertainment has been less than inspiring, and Herrick is in a good mood, flushed and cheerful. I finish my drink and set the glass on the bar.
I smile, aiming for warm and welcoming. "Need a lift, ladies?" I ask.
They exchange a look, weighing their options. Stephanie drops her shoulders, nods as if to herself, turns to me and smiles a little too broadly.
"We'd love it!" she says brightly.
"They do need to go all the way to London, so we're in for a bit of a haul. But won't that be fun? The night is young, we've just filled up on petrol, and we're always up for an adventure!" He looks at me and raises an eyebrow. "Right, John?"
He fishes around in his pocket for the car keys and jingles them gleefully.
"We're off, then! Come on, girls!"