The light was dull and wavering. Only a single candle was aflame, it slowly melted down its wax on a desk five steps away. A small man with white, sagging skin sat at it, reading a thick book in the dim, dancing shadows.

His eyes suddenly lifted to meet mine. They glinted in the dark, they were brown yet slightly translucent, glowing of their own light. “Ah. You’re awake,” he said in a smooth, agreeable voice that didn’t match his looks.

He carefully placed a bookmark and closed the volume before reaching for a smaller notebook. He opened it and scribbled, mumbling the words: “about seven hours to wake, no screaming. How are you feeling?” He asked me. The tone was quiet and professional. “You’re not screaming,” he pointed out again, as if I didn’t know.

My throat was parched, like I had not hydrated for days while sleeping the nights with an open mouth. No, it was deeper than that, I realized, the thirst came all the way from the belly, it drained my limps and left nothing but an aching fire. I blinked. I tried to move. My eyes rolled. I fought. Despair swelled in my chest.

“There, there, it is of no use. You’re bound in chains,” he informed duly, scribbling something else. He was right: I sat against the wall, completely covered in a number of sturdy, metal chains. They tightly dug into my skin.

He approached, and looked into my eyes, squinting inquisitively. “You’re not a screamer. That’s nice,” he said, giving me a nod. He turned and paused, and flashed me an awkward smile, “if you behave, I’ll let you go. When I am done.” He was a bad liar. His eyes were fleeting, and his hands could not remain idle.

“What,” I croaked. The word painfully scraped its way out of my throat.

“Still talking,” the man scribbled, standing, before he remembered himself and sat. “How do you feel?”

“Water, please…”

“I’m afraid it is not water you crave, young man, not at all.” The words flowed from his lips, and he pronounced them with delight. Not because of the meaning, simply because they sounded good to his ears. Like a man discovering his voice and realizing he liked the sound of it.

My eyes bulged in frustration. What did he know? Could he feel what I felt? “Water!” I urged.

He stared at me. “Alright.” He disappeared through an inconspicuous door behind him, one of the few features in the large cellar. He came back with a wooden mug full of water and slowly brought it to my mouth. I avidly put my lips on it and sucked as he tilted its back up. The water came and went, flowing down my throat. For a moment, I was relieved, until the thirst returned with vengeance. “More!” I croaked insistently.

He sighed. “It is not water you need, young man, it is blood from a live human. Preferably straight from the source, but not necessarily. And unfortunately, you cannot have it, for this would ruin the experiment. Yes, I admit it, you are in the unfortunate position of being right in my experiment. Very tragic. But it is for knowledge. How long can one of us go without sustenance?” He was mad! The bastard! He planned to kill me slowly! The small amount of water would only prolong my slow, agonizing death! I trashed against the chains, but they allowed barely any movement. They clinked a little.

But he was right. Time passed, and the water had not quenched my thirst in the slightest, it grew only stronger. I cursed him. He readily ignored me.

After what seemed like an interminable amount of time, passed with nothing but his reading and scribbling and an occasional exchange of words, of pleading and begging which he either responded with patient explanations or complete ignorations. Eventually, he blew out the candle and left the room.

Somehow, in the complete darkness, I still saw. Even through the terrible thirst, I still achieved to be surprised. The room flowed in nuances and shades, in movements of air and chittering sounds. Without the small light and the man’s distracting presence, I noticed. My thirst had of course also been distracting. Now only the thirst remained. Insects were there, I could sense them against my mind. I readily demanded that they fly into my mouth and to my surprise, they did. I actually ate them. I took some convincing, but I was sure they made a difference, that they took the edge off.

Then, something pushed against my mind, but I fought it, to eat more insects, to anything alive, to satiate my thirst… but it became only stronger and eventually, I saw only oblivion.

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When I woke again, the pain was such that madness loomed on the edges of my mind, it pressed and ached and made it impossible to string two thoughts together, to have any sense other than to feed. The man returned, he looked me over, and nodded. “Surprisingly fine. Not screaming yet, hm?”

I screamed at him. He flinched. “Yes, thank you for that,” he mumbled, “I am Richard, by the way, what of you?”

Archibald. I screamed at him again, flailing against my tight prison.

“Ah damn, madness has taken you, hm? Hear me, I will give you a drop if you tell me your name.”

“Archibald,” I croaked desperately, “Archibald!”

He smirked, “heh, Archibald.” Then he sat down and scribbled something. “Still able to talk,” he mumbled, before scribbling on.

“A drop!” I reminded him avidly.

He ignored me, and scribbled on, “twenty-two hours since awakening. And no, I am sorry, the experiment allows you not a drop.”

I swore and cursed and promised him death and begged.

He grimaced and plugged his ears, mumbling something that went lost in my trashing. The day was worse than the previous one. He left in the evening, mumbling a complaint under his breath. The next day he stayed only an hour before he perked up his ears and went upstairs again. We had not exchanged a word, I had only stared at him with all the hate I could muster. But he never came back that day. And not the next either. It left me begging, calling for him. For otherwise, I had no chance, did I? I would die.

I called for anyone.

Darkness came and went. I awoke, and commenced my day by fighting the chains again, weak but filled with despair and rage. Every limb burned. My eyes ached, my mind ached. I was dying. But not fast enough for my liking. I smashed my head against the wall, as I had done before, but no blood flowed.

Then three small voices. They had heard me. I shouted. The door opened and a brown-haired face stared peaked inside. A young boy. “There’s someone here,” he said, eyes widening, “in chains!”

“What! Let me see,” another voice urged, and three kids tumbled inside before panickily stopping themselves and taking in the gruesome sight of me. I called for them in my most honest, harmless voice.

“Please! Help me! There’s a sick man here, an evil man… he has imprisoned me… I would…” I attempted a smile, and the three kids reeled, “I am the carpenter’s son, you will be rewarded, that’s a promise!”

“He’s talking!” One of them hissed in a low voice, “the head’s talking!”

“The rest is down under the chains,” another said in a hushed voice, but I heard everything, “he can do nothing. Maybe he has gold on his person!”

“We must help him!” The third said, “there’s no saying how long he has been like that! And he will reward us, he said, maybe we could become carpenters and make good coin!”

“Let’s vote, the second one said, “open it or leave?” If they had any sense at all, they would leave. They would sprint and tell of this to no one. Leave me to my fate. For I was mad, ravenous, I was a demon. I wanted to slaughter.

Two voted for opening it and one not to. “No way I am helping you guys,” the last on said, stepping back and shaking his head while staring at me. I tried my best to not let my hunger show, to look innocent. Richard was right. I was hungering for blood, however repulsing this was. These filthy, thin boys, not fourteen of age, had beating hearts and warm, lively blood rushing through their limps. I salivated. My stomach turned in anticipation. My mind was swept. Perhaps there was guilt, perhaps there was a little voice screaming in fright of myself beneath all the madness and thirst, but I could not hear it. Not yet.

“Thank you, my name is Archibald,” I croaked, swallowing saliva.

The one who wanted to plunder me looked suspiciously at me, while the other one worked the lock of the chains. It clicked open. They gasped when I suddenly came alive with a fervent desperation, wriggling and fighting against the loosening chains..

“What did you do this guy?” The closest boy muttered to me.

“Nothing! I didn’t even know him! He said…” I licked my lips, “he said, he wanted to know how long one can go without water…” The lie rolled from my tongue easily, easier than ever before. It would have scared me, had I been lucid.

“That’s sick,” the boy muttered and shook his head, he lifted a chain over my head, passing his arm very close… much too close… Consumed by hunger, I snapped forward and bite down on his hand. He screamed. They all screamed. I screamed as he drew his hand away, I screamed in frustration, for I wanted more, but already I felt warmth flow through me and the chains were loose, I wriggled and turned as I fell to the floor, I crawled from the metal and pounced to the bleeding one, dragging chains in my wake, but I missed him and blasted into the wall.

My head smashed against the stone and confounded me, made it spin as I wailed and crawled. But in the quiet, I calmed. I was free. The thirst was strong and painful, still, but I was no longer dying.

I had attacked a child. One that was helping me. Had I been able to cry, then I would. But I had never believed in indulging in self-pity. It was surreal to open the door and mount the stairs, after having stared at the piece of wood for so long. They were carved from stone carefully, but otherwise bare. And upstairs, it led into an office, hidden behind a bookcase. How the kids had found me, I could not fathom. Or… they had heard the shouts, of course. Idiot.

I stumbled through an expensive home, paying no heed to the luxury, fumbling towards the entry, clumsy as a toddler yet deadly in strength. The handle creaked and bent under my fingers as I opened the door wildly and breathed in the night. And smelled fresh flesh.