Bright light and a cacophony of noise. Bedsheets, a coarse paper gown, feeling the weight and the itchiness on every inch of skin. Burning, sweating. Every part of me overheating. I tried to push the blanket away.
A sharp pain in the back of my hand as the plastic tube of a saline drip almost pulled free.
Eyes struggling to focus.
A nurse in white, the sound of her shoes slapping across the vinyl floor, each step explosive like a gunshot.
I heard her breathing and scented the smell of her shampoo beneath the anti-bacterial gel on her hands; beneath that, the smell of her skin; beneath that, the telltale scent of blood that told of her cycle reaching it’s peak.
And her heartbeat.
Impossible.
The clinical pale blue of the room was far from soothing. The insistent beep of a machine beside the bed pierced through me.
“The patient’s awake, Doctor.”
Her voice, so loud in the small room.
Another face replaced that of the nurse. I saw every follicle of his neatly trimmed beard, a tiny scratch on the frame of his glasses, overpowered by the smell of the product in his hair, his deodorant, the traces of laundry liquid on his fresh white coat. His heartbeat, regular and strong.
Ignoring his reassuring smile, I traced the pulse in his neck, the rushing of blood through his veins like a fast flowing river.
“You’re back with us. How do you feel?”
So loud, his words assailed me.
“Burning up. Hungry.”
Another voice. My voice; low, dry, almost a growl. Not mine at all, more like some kind of animal.
“How’s the arm?”
My other arm was heavily bandaged, itching madly, the center of the burning.
I flexed my fingers, wanting to reach out, grab a hold of him, not let go.
He extended his phone in front of my face.
The picture on the screen showed a forearm - my forearm - stained yellow with medical antiseptic, three long tears in the flesh, neatly stitched.
“You had quite a nasty injury. Thirty-seven stitches. There’s more we can do, but it will leave scars. How much do you remember?”
The burning fever and a new hunger fogged my memory, offering only glimpses.
Hiking on the moor, staying out past the sunset, determined to make it to the highest of the tors when everyone else had turned back.
Only a need remained.
Needing to be out there now. Free. Away from the noise and the overpowering smells. Needing to run.
Not strong enough. Not yet.
“It looks like a dog attack. The police went up with marksmen. They didn’t find anything.”
My eyes were drawn back to him every time he breathed, twitched and fidgeted. How human, unable to keep still.
“A farmer on a quad bike scared it off. He found you way off the path. If it hadn’t been for the moonlight reflecting off your hiking jacket, he wouldn’t have seen you.”
Through the blinds at the window, the daylight faded.
One more night of the moon.
I see the glow of his body heat against the cool of the room and the equipment, the rush of his blood around his body, the double thump of his heart. And the rest of them, milling around the building, bleating like sheep. Soft. Fragile. Enticing.
I feel the burning heat in me, no longer a fever but an energy coarsing through me.
I need to run, to be free.
I need to feed.