Black and Blue

I'm a two-gun cowboy with water pistols.

I'm a wino with a bottle of grape juice.

I'm a motorcycle bad-ass with two flat tires.

I'm the guy you want to be when you don't want to be anyone at all.

Olé.

Call me whatever.

There are a lot of ways to say you feel like shit, but knowing all of them never helps.

So, screw it.

Let's get this party started.

===+++===

This whole thing went down back in 2013 or 2014. I don't remember.

I'm pretty sure I was twenty-four.

===+++===

The benches lined two of the walls of the room, and were set to face each other. They each had red plush cushions set in their dark wooden frames, and you didn't sit in them as much as you sank into them. I never really thought much about what I was sitting on before, but when I first flopped onto the bench, it felt like I was being lovingly lowered down. It was a struggle to keep my eyes open. I wanted to lean back and let the world float away as I sank down lower and lower into that warmth, that caress.

All I could do at that point was let my thoughts take me, and I ended up meandering through what had led me to that room, to that feeling of relief—that something actually could go right for me—and then back to her, the woman who had brought me there. There were only so few of those memories that I could see clearly. I wasn't much good to anybody right then, especially myself. I had let myself get pulled around by the ear by a blonde who had pretty much cast a spell on me. She was out of my league when it came to all the major categories, but only as far as Pluto's orbit from the sun's. She'd led, and I'd followed, and I ended up falling onto that bench, or couch, or whatever, thinking hard about how I got there.

I couldn't get the order right; the thoughts just showed up when they felt like it, and they came in bunches, all vying for attention at once. I just wanted to reach into my own head and try to sort the mess, but all that ended up happening was I had to actually talk myself out of squeezing my head and gnashing my teeth. It wasn't much a futile, losing argument, but neither is living with one arm. The whiskey wasn't helping any. It was damn good whiskey, though; it hadn't burned me at all, just easily slid down without a fight, leaving me with a small smile on my face. I usually wasn't a big drinker—I'd taken to sticking with a few beers at most, after learning many a hard lesson. I just didn't have the constitution for it. Feed me liquor and a week later I'll feed you a story about how I ended up in another country, and most likely washed up on the beach. I'd warned myself after the first glass (for some reason, I had agreed to whole glasses of the stuff, and nice, proper whiskey glasses, too) that I should be careful, but it was just too damn good to say no to. That's the most dangerous kind of liquor: it's like drinking candy, but it never comes back that way. But, like I said, it was too damn good, and the hands that kept passing me the glasses were pretty damn good, too.

I never was so taken aback by a woman's hands (it was a night of firsts for me—and how), but they were perfect. Maybe it had been the hour; by the time I'd saw her, it was getting close to eleven at night. Her hands looked thin, and fragile, but she moved them so deftly, so graciously. Every move looked practiced, perfected, and beautiful. I felt so damn clumsy next to her, and she moved so quick that I had to struggle to keep up with her properness, if that's even a word. Probably not. She'd know if it was a word. She had a good head on her shoulders, full of sense, and as quick and gracious as her hands. Here and there I had caught myself swearing, and immediately corrected myself. I actually apologized, or more like begged for her patience. And even though about half of my vocabulary had been tossed out the window, she still humored me. I wondered if she caught me looking at her legs. I couldn't help it. Go ahead, give me some shit over that, but you didn't see them, and not with eyes like mine. Those eyes had been stuck behind the wheel of a forklift for twelve hours that day. Mandatory overtime, that's what they called it. The money wasn't so bad, but until the five grueling six-day weeks of twelve hour shifts ended that night, I had no time to spend any of it.

But that night, I was finally free of all that, so I wanted to treat myself, even if it was just an evening alone. So, I showered, dressed, and then wandered into the cool night air around nine 'o clock. I hadn't wanted to feel completely alone, which is why I had gone to that bar. That way, I could at least pretend that I was a part of the of the human race. It was a pretty nice place, nothing really fancy, but much better than what I was used to. There was a restaurant section over to the side, nice tables covered with white table-cloths, folded napkins, and candles sitting in jars. The glasses were clean, and so were the staff. The bar didn't have a single scratch on it. It was the kind of place where if you didn't put your drink on your coaster, you got dirty looks. The patrons were up a few rungs in society from me, but no one gave me any problems. I wasn't one for starting trouble, either. The place served a decent meal, far better than anything I could scrounge up, and especially when I was dead tired. You'd be surprised how tiring sitting down and driving can be. You eventually get too comfortable, even if the seat is crap. Your legs fall asleep, and you always have assholes barking over the radio. Even when it wasn't directed at you, it still chipped away at your mind. You start to gain weight, and when you see your fellow drivers and how wide their waists are, you start to panic. You take long walks sometimes, even when your legs are begging you not to. You smoke a million cigarettes. You stare at every single one you light up, wondering just how much worse it's making an already bad situation. I desperately needed to get away, have a vacation, to go see the goddamn sun, but, I wasn't due for one yet. So, I took what precious little off-time I had and gone to that bar. You couldn't smoke in there, but that had been the norm in the city for years. Like I said, I wasn't one for starting trouble.

I ordered a cheese omelet and a beer, and had been taking my time with them, occasionally letting my eyes drift about, people watching. Light pools of conversation leaked towards me through the dim lighting, but I hadn't minded so much. It was good to hear conversation that didn't involve what the wife and kids had done piss whoever off, wasn't full of jokes about more than likely made-up stories about girls that had been picked up over the years, and not about what new ridiculously over-priced sneakers were coming out soon. I had recently learned about Sneaker Con, about what stores had what, and how to spot a fake pair of sneakers. I was amazed I was going to be able to remember how, but by tomorrow, I was more than likely not going remember where my damn keys were. I could remember everything about Sneaker Con though, and about one hundred phone numbers that had been drip fed to me through catchy advertisement jingles. The talk at the bar was just white noise, but it was far easier on the ears than any of that other garbage. The patrons at the bar did not punctuate their sentences with loud guffaws, the laugh of a man who has had a bit too much of whatever over the years, and now was just a burnt-out shell going through motions. Sloppily, at that, like a wind-up wooden soldier with one leg longer than the other. The faux solitude and light eavesdropping were my only escape from all of it, and especially from that feeling, that old familiar cynicism.

I had minded a little at first when she walked those legs over, but only at first. They were toned just right, not very muscular, but not flabby stumps, either. They seemed to stretch for miles. She hadn't even been wearing anything too short, just a black skirt, and not trashy in the slightest. No heels, hell no, she had class. She'd wear them when she needed, and she'd pick the right fork, too. She had a beige turtle-necked cashmere sweater that managed to show her great figure in a appropriate way. The only thing that could bring down it's class were my thoughts.

I honestly didn't know why she sat next to me, and why she thought I was good enough to start a conversation with. Even though I had showered before, I was still a bit scruffy, though that was the norm for me, anyway. I needed to shave badly, my gaunt cheeks feeling more like sand-paper than anything else. My hair had been a mess, and it was getting to the point where I had to think about getting that tangled mop trimmed. It was starting to get in my eyes. I had my old well-worn jeans on, my beat-up old navy-blue jacket (it didn't need patches or anything—yet), an off white t-shirt (it had been actually white at some point in the past), and my well-traveled sneakers.

The bar and restaurant were nice, like I said, but man, she knocked everything down a few notches. Heads turned to follow her as she walked, making it look like she was cutting an easy wake through still water. I don't even remember what we started talking about. We just started talking, and then she had introduced me to that whiskey. I remember her leaning close, though, letting me smell that perfume, and suggesting heading someplace else. Of course, I agreed. Even now, I'm not too sure I had much choice in the matter. She smiled, letting her perfect white teeth glint in the light. My eyes stuck to her long, flowing blonde hair as we walked out. That's when I found those benches. I didn't even know how I got there, or where I was. I didn't care, either. She was there. That's all that mattered.

She'd left me alone for a few minutes, so after my feeble attempts to make sense of that night, I drank in the sights around me. The place had a friggin' chandelier, lightly dimmed. There was a large mirror on one of the walls, with an ornate carving around the edges. There was a huge wooden table in between the two benches, polished to a sheen. To keep it that way, coasters made out of actual leather held our glasses. On the center of the table, a very expensive looking vase with an intricate pattern was on display. A little ways off, there was a grand piano. I wondered if that's why she was so deft with her fingers. There was also a cello standing to the side and violin lying on a bench, each on either flank of the piano. All three were spotless, as if they had never been touched, but even though I had nothing to go on, I knew they had actually been played, and well. There was no way that couldn't be true, not after everything I had seen.

She practically floated back into the room and sat down next to me, staring straight into my eyes. They were as clear as a cloudless sky. I could even feel the warm glow of the sun coming from them. It landed on my skin, softly, seeping in, filling me up with much needed warmth. I had been just a cold stone before, but right then, I was alive, truly alive for the first time. I was amazed by how right everything felt. It was like I had finally found what I had been searching for my whole life. Like I finally found what I needed. I could rest easy from then on. I was finally complete. I would have probably floated up to the ceiling if her hands hadn't been clasping mine. They were so soft. Her hair brushed my cheek as she leaned in, and her perfume hit me like a wave.

And then, at some point, I kinda stuck my thumb in her eye-socket.

Well, I needed to. I had been clumsily grabbing at her head, trying to push it away. I'd lost a fair amount of blood somehow, and I pointed out alcohol was involved. And like I said, I'm not a big drinker, and I'm more than just an ass when I'm drunk. No, wait, this wasn't drunk.

This was absolutely wasted and dying.

I know that's a rather rough transition, but to be honest, that is the only way I can possibly describe it. Everything had been so right, and then it had gone so terribly, terribly wrong. I'm not even sure that if I was a classically trained poet or author with a doctorate, I could begin to describe that horrid, wrenching feeling. Wrestling her away was almost as bad, no, it was as bad as squeezing my windpipe shut myself. I could swear I could hear thousands of voices screaming in my own head in furious resentment and pain, and every single one of them sounded just like mine. They cursed, they spit, they gnashed their teeth, a chorus of tortured, wretched souls, all simultaneously unleashing their rage on me, on my mind, their voices echoing in my skull, blurring my vision. But it wasn't just some blind rage that I had fallen victim to, nor were those... my voices angry with her. All of their hate was for me. I was pushing her away, and they—I, hated myself for it.

But, even still, I didn't want to die. Naturally. I hadn't become that pessimistic yet. So, I was finally able to find the strength to throw her off. She had put up a terrific fight, and I will admit, I only think she had whipped back off of me was because I accidentally gouged her eye during my feeble struggles. Jesus Christ, her eye looked gross. It was completely red, save for her iris, giving it the effect of looking down a well. I only saw it for an instant, because she squeezed both shut and started half hissing, half screaming. There was blood all over her face, but to be honest, I didn't know whether it was her's or mine. Her nails raked my face like an animal's claws, so then her hands were covered in blood, too. It probably stained that nice sweater. I didn't really feel the rips she left in my face. I felt like I was watching all of this in a theater while seated in the way in the back.

I fell off the bench, and started to scramble away. I say scramble, but I should probably go into more detail. "Scramble" makes it sound like I was moving quick. I wasn't. I was face-first on the floor, pushing with my legs, giving my face a terrible carpet burn. My hands flopped about crazily, as if they hadn't caught on to what was happening yet. All scrambling motions, but with none of the speed. I was reminded of broken wind-up wooden soldiers for a second, but I pushed all my moodiness aside. Obviously, it was neither the time or place. I managed to get myself under the table in the center of the room, my face getting completely red and raw. She had jumped to her feet, thrashing her clawed hands wildly, still screaming and hissing. I remember looking back aghast. Her hands literally looked like they ended in long claws. Blood was caked all over her fingers. My blood. She was shrieking something about how I had screwed up, had screwed myself, thrown away everything I could have ever had not just in this lifetime, but several, and that she would peel off my flesh and gnaw on my bones, or at least, she would, if I was worth the time. I might have called her a crazy bitch. I might have just thought it. I'm not too sure. I was pretty much doggie-paddling through a sea of whiskey hoping that I would see a lighthouse at some point. At least she hadn't got my eye, that would have sucked.

I might have also let out a sick snicker at that last one.

I freely admit, I maybe had gone a bit loopy.

Near-death experiences will do that to you.

I heard some stomping coming from above, from the ceiling, and with a quickly growing dread, I realized there was someone upstairs hearing all of this insanity. Some part of me thought this was good, but as I heard the sound of feet hitting steps and some angry growls, I told that part to shut the fuck up for a while. I tried to stand up, but I was still under the table. I mean, I did stand up, it's just that I took the table up on my back with me—until I took a shaky step forward. It slid off, and one of the legs hit me in the face, causing me to drop again. The bitch started shrieking even louder, and I stupidly turned to look. At first, I thought it was because I had caused that rather expensive-looking vase to shatter on the floor, but I quickly realized that her eyes were still closed. I guess she must have taken her shoes off at some point, because I was able to see her feet, the table laying on one of them, and a very broken-looking pinky toe. She then suddenly hushed, drew a breath, and shrieked that she knew where I was now. She stomped forward—onto the pieces of the broken vase.

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I might have snickered again.

I would like to point something out.

I have yet to claim to be even a half-way decent guy.

Keep this in mind. Please.

Thank you.

She fell back onto the couch, screaming some rather unlady-like speech that even I thought was pretty raunchy. A lot of it was about my manhood. I'd care not to repeat it. Her head rocked back, with her mouth opening way too wide, like a cat's, and confusing enough, it was fanged like a cat's, too. I blinked several times, staring at her teeth. They all looked sharpened, and two on the top as well as two on the bottom were longer than the rest. The top two were the longest, and by far the most pronounced. As I struggled to my feet, I pored through what little of my foggy memories of that night that I had, and was trying to figure out how I hadn't noticed that. It was like her teeth just grew suddenly. Those fangs looked sharp, and what was even worse, was that her mouth was smeared with my blood.

Wait.

Hold up a sec.

My blood?

I tentatively touched the side of my neck, and it came back slick with blood. I remembered that I was bleeding, and pretty badly. It was getting harder and harder to stand up. I wanted to sit down on one of those benches and just rest. I figured the situation would sort itself out somehow. Whoever was coming down whatever staircase in wherever we were would see this mess and call the cops. Let 'em. I'd just tell them I had been invited and that chick had bitten me. Why? I don't know, ask her. It's not my fault if she screeches it at you, though. She's had a rather rough night.

The man who had run down the steps turned away from the blonde and nodded at me, understanding, but still very upset. It was then that I realized I hadn't just thought all that, but had actually said all that to him, as he had run in and tended to the blonde. I looked at my feet, and was relieved that I had at least not sat back down. If I sat down, it was all over. I had lost too much blood. A small, sick part of me wondered if I had lost it to her. I touched my neck again, examining the blood on my hand more attentively. It didn't look bright red, and was a bit thick.

The man took a step towards me, and spoke in a deep, sonorous voice, "It looks a bit purple. That can be good. It might start to clot, though that alone ain't gonna save ya. You also might have just lost all the fight in you. You know the color of your blood changes based on how much air you're drawing in?"

I nodded, very slowly. If I shook my head too hard, I would set the world into too hard a spin. I spoke just as slow, and every word was pained, "Uh-huh. Lot's of air, brighter. Mine's not."

The man nodded and took another step forward. He was wearing a tight gray t-shirt that looked like it was expensive. I really couldn't tell you how, but I knew just one of those shirts was worth as much as thirty of mine. Some guys wear tight shirts so they can pretend like they have a big chest. This guy's chest was so massive that I doubted he could ever find a loose-fitting one. He looked like he bench-pressed dump trucks in his spare time. His biceps were as big as my head. His hands could have probably palmed my face. His shoulders were so huge that it looked like they were padded, but I knew better. This big guy wasn't the type for games. I could tell by how he moved his thick legs. The knees were bent, and he kept on the balls of his feet. And, of course, he had very nice black slacks and leather shoes on. The shoes looked like they had just been polished. I kind of hoped he would scuff them in the crap to come. My pettiness wasn't much comfort, but it was one of the few things I had left at that point.

It took a few minutes for my body to catch up with my mind. The guy obviously hadn't been babbling about blood and such out of concern for my well-being. I started to slowly take shaky steps backward, licking my lips out of nervous reaction. He licked his too, and I really didn't want to know why. The blonde was leaning back on one of the benches, and she had finally stopped shrieking. Her eyes were pointed at me, but were half-closed. Her entire body looked lax, flopped on the bench, as if it was no longer responding to her. She twitched a small smile onto her face, and said softly, "Now, if had just been a good little boy, you and I could have had this whole night to ourselves. Your first real night. You just needed to lay back into my embrace, and you could have left that excuse of an existence, that," she huffed in a supercilious way, "life of yours, behind. Look at you, those clothes. You look like a vagabond." She rolled her eyes, sighed, and looked away, "You could have been so much more. So much. But, whatever, it doesn't mean much to me, anyway. I can always find another one. It's such a pity, too, being that he told me to seek you out..."

"Yo," I managed to croak, "Shut the fuck up, sweetie. The adults here have business."

The big guy nodded and smiled. "Sleep, Liz." Once he said that, her eyes closed and her face went slack. It scared the hell out of me. She was as still as a corpse, not even breathing.

"I have to apologize," the guy said. The guy's voice was weird, baritone and musical. English? No. Irish. Okay. Fuck it. Let's get weird, then. "She is still very much a child, and a rather spoiled one, at that. It will take her many nights to gather up enough common sense. But she wanted a little plaything of her own, and so our master agreed to let her have you." He laughed. "He said that you needed a woman in your life, badly, too. He also said that you have a thing for blondes and a fast-paced lifestyle."

"'Life' being the opportune word, there. Thanks, but no thanks." I remembered that the mirror was right behind me, and it seemed plenty heavy. I figured I could smash the guy with it. It really was the only thing I could do; he was far, far too big for me to have any hope for me to fight toe-to-toe. A dirty hit, then run, and don't stop until your legs give out, Alex.

"That's unfortunate, Mr. Reed. We were very much looking forward to your company. Well, somewhat. You really wouldn't have been much more than her servant, but hey, there are worse fates. You'd have a bit of consciousness left, and maybe over time, they'd let you have it all, once you got accustomed to things."

"Wha... what in the fuck are you talking about? You and that crazy bitch--oh, wait, excuse me, Liz over there--keep talking about the nights and shit, and consciousness and servants. Who are you people? What the hell is all this?"

"Our plans for you. The master picked you, but I don't know why. It isn't like you're special or anything, methinks. I just believe you caught his fancy, and he wanted to collect you. He really didn't care where you were, as long as you were somewhere in his bloodline. She wanted a subservient, so the master agreed to her having you, on one condition: that you were not to be made part of the Dead. You wouldn't be one of the Ascended, like us, but you wouldn't be mindless, at least, not entirely." He smiled and licked his teeth again. "She'd send you out, and you would feed. You would return, and then she'd feed off you." He laughed. "Just a little errand-boy. Maybe, if you were lucky, she'd play with you. It wouldn't be so different from a cat playing with a mouse, but hey, you really look like you need attention from a woman." Another laugh. Boy, what a funny guy. "Maybe decades down the line we'd let you have your full mind back," he continued, "truly make you one of us, the Ascended Dead. But hey, we all gotta start somewhere." He winked at me. "At least you didn't start out as one of the Dead. Heh heh, like me. Shuffling around, eyes blank, with no thoughts in your head. All you have are instincts, and constant, never-ending pain and hunger. You just kill, drink, eat, and then your master drains you and throws you in some dark, dank cell, out of the view of decent eyes, Ascended Dead or not."

I would have been a smart-ass and started whistling the tune for "It's a Hard-Knock Life" if I hadn't been so unbelievably terrified. What in the hell was this crazy son of a bitch babbling about? Dead, and Ascended? Eating and drinking... people? I clenched my teeth shut, trying to get the room to stop spinning. Logical. I needed to think logically. I had to throw down an anchor into the middle of this insanity, something to keep me rooted before I was carried off in the storm. I decided to ask him something I should have asked earlier, "How do you know me? Unless there are two guys named Alex Reed out there."

He shook his head, "Nope, you're the only one I know."

"Yeah? Why me, then?"

He shrugged, then laughed, "Don't get a big head over your new-found popularity, Mr. Reed. I feel it's closer to being your only fifteen minutes than anything else." He made a motion as if he was brushing something away, "Ain't nothing but a passing fad, that's all."

The guy was starting to piss me off now. His attempts at proper speech punctuated with slang didn't make him seem as eloquent as he thought he was, but he acted it, all the same. The goddamn clothes he wore, his gestures, and really, his overall nonchalance were driving me to the edge. Who in the hell did he think he was? Who did he think I was? Just some asshole that he and his twisted little friend could pick up and drag away, like a kid throwing a grasshopper into a jar? It pissed me off, and even more when I wondered if these two had done this before, to other people. My eyes flashed all over the wrecked room, and I smiled. Even if I died, they'd have a hell of a mess, and have to pay quite a bit. I was starting to get loopy again as what little blood I had left began to boil over. The guy was still talking, and getting all theatrical with sweeping gestures. I didn't catch a word. I didn't care anymore. I just wanted to hurt him, bad, and then escape. The need for violence was that strong in me, and that small part of me started to whisper its worries again. Maybe it had a point, but I would have to chew it over later.

He waved his arm again, taking his eyes off me, and that's when I spun and clawed for the mirror. I managed to wrench it right off the wall, raising it overhead. I turned back, my teeth bared, and started to heave it down at the guy, when I hesitated. The reflective side of the mirror was pointed down at the both of us as I had it over my head, but only I was reflected in it. The guy was right there, in front of me—what the hell?!

This threw me off so much that I ate the full force of his uppercut to my sternum. It actually lifted me off the ground, and I dropped the heavy mirror. I fell flat on my back, wheezing, the air punched straight out of me. I watched him easily slap the falling mirror away, causing it to both shatter and wheel off into the corner of the room. Glass rained all around us, but I didn't bother covering my face. I couldn't help but be in awe.

The guy was cut a little, but it didn't faze him at all. He just shrugged, "I always hated that thing. There just isn't any point to it, we can't use it, it doesn't matter how much we want to." He glowered at me. "Anyway, that hurt. I owe you for that one."

He started to stomp over, leaning over me.

When he got close, I picked up one of the slivers of mirror and jabbed it right into his eye.

Hey, it worked on the she-bitch, why not again.

He rocked back, and roared. I'm quite serious; it didn't sound human at all. I flipped onto my hands and knees, cutting them both up a little on the glass, and I crawled out of the room, into a hallway that connected with the stairwell the guy had come down. There were crashing sounds echoing up the hallway. The tough guy was having a hell of a hissy-fit. If you could even call him a man.

I pushed that into the back of my mind, shoving it right into the ever-growing pile of junk I was going to have to sort out later. Get away from the monster-man first, get some holy water or something, then worry about the details. If I managed to survive, I'd have all the time in the world to ponder. And try to remember the words to the Hail Mary.

The staircase that the tough-guy had run down was rather off-putting. Given the elegant nature of the place, I'd expected some kind of lavish spiral thing. Instead, it was entirely made out of gray concrete, including the walls. It was like a mansion had suddenly ended and a bunker started. I crawled up it, hoping, wishing, praying that wasn't the case. But I didn't even make it half-way up before I fumbled back down. I didn't know much, but I knew an electronically locked door when I saw one. The damn thing looked like it was forged out of steel, and there looked like some sort of card-reader to the side of it. No use, I'd need that card.

I made sure not to bleed on the stairs. If I was that tough-guy, I would run right to that stairwell, catch my trapped prey, and then... I didn't know what these freaks were planning. I didn't want to know. I didn't want him following the blood, though. I wanted him to rush up the stairs in a rage, and hopefully right past me.

The lights were out in the hall, making it almost pitch black. Even still, I squeezed behind a large potted plant next to a small cabinet filled with liquor, hoping that if the guy did flick the lights on, I'd still be somewhat out of sight. I considered lifting some of that whiskey out of the cabinet, but thought better.

I kept my eyes trained on the room I'd crawled out of. The big guy's silhouette appeared, looking larger than he did a few minutes ago. There were two faintly glowing pits of red light where his eyes should have been. I swallowed hard. Just what the hell had I gotten myself into?

As he stomped down the hall, some of the light hit his face. A smile, or more like a sick-looking malicious slit, was slowly widening. His teeth were bared, and they were the same sharp teeth that the chick from before had. He had the steady, confident walk of a man who knows he's won. His eyes were fixed on that stairwell, and they completely missed me. I drew a deep breath as he passed, and focused on his waist. Sure enough, there was a card clipped to his belt, but attached by some sort of retractable cord. I gritted my teeth, then slipped back past him towards the room I had escaped from, sliding over to the remains of the mirror frame and hiding under one of the benches. I waited. I waited forever. I just kept my eyes on the darkened mouth of the stairwell, and waited to see the red glow of his eyes. I picked up another broken piece of the mirror, and slid it into a pocket.

He swore loudly on the stairwell, and then started to clamber down. The instant I saw him, I stood up on the bench and swung the remains of the mirror at the chandelier. I smashed the thing to pieces, leaving me in total darkness. The bastard roared again, and started to charge down the hall. He bellowed, "You think that's going to help?! I can see just fine in the dark!"

I didn't care what he said. Even if he could, he had walked right past me a minute ago. I ran over to the entrance to the room, off to the side of it, my back against the wall, with the glass in hand. Once he was only a few steps away, I threw myself prone on the floor, laying across the entrance. I squeezed my eyes shut, getting ready for the impact.

It worked. The idiot kicked one foot into me entirely on accident, having no idea I was laying there. The impact was awful, rattling every single one of my bones. I still got to my knees though, tangling his legs even further. With no balance, the guy fell right over, crashing into one of the arms of the benches. I rolled myself out of his legs, and started to feel my way up his body as fast as I could. I found the card and cut it loose. I then found his face and stuck the shard into the other eye, hoping that the third time would be the charm.

I plunged through the darkness, heading for the stairs. I tripped up them, and only barely avoided knocking my teeth out. I scrambled up on my hands and knees. My hands hit the cold steel of the door, and I started slapping at the walls, looking for the card-reader. The guy was roaring again, making a hell of a racket as he got to his feet. I found the reader, and swiped the card the wrong way. His running footsteps were getting closer. I fumbled the card around and got it right. I made sure to push the door only so far open, just enough to slip through. His feet were on the stairs when I shoved it closed, hoping like hell it was locked, and that the chick Liz didn't have a card.

I found myself in some kind of dimly lit reception area, but the blood loss and terror stopped me from taking any notes. It was empty, that was about all I could tell. There was another a door, and it needed the same key-card I had. I threw it open, and was standing in a lobby. It looked like a place for high-class apartments. I would have asked the security guard next to me if that was true or not if I hadn't been so busy kneeing him in the groin. I didn't care if he was on the level or not. I didn't even want to go to the hospital. I still knew a crappy back-alley doctor or two; I'd rather take my chances with them, off-the-grid. After seeing all that high-tech security, something told me they would be able to find me in a regular hospital.

I ran past the shocked inhabitants of the building, slammed out of the entrance, and scurried off into the night.