The Young Lady is nervous. She looks again at the note, and knows no good can come of it. But it doesn’t matter; the Hunger is stronger now than the Fear, so what’s a girl to do? The Young Lady rationalizes to herself that the note is probably from someone in Group; at worst, maybe she might have to give up a little tail, no big deal. “Screw it,” she says, and pushes against one of the great doors before her; it is open, just as the note said it would be. It is after hours, and King’s University is otherwise locked down for the night. The grandeur of the shadowy hall makes her feel small and far from home. “Hey, I’m here,” she calls out, “I got your note.” Her words resound around the cavernous space. A Figure steps from behind a column. The Figure is wearing a denim jacket with thick wool lining; a black hoodie hides the face, but the Young Lady recognizes who it is anyway.
“Omigod,” the Young Lady runs towards the Figure, “Oh, it’s you. Oh, I’m so glad. I didn’t know, you know, who it was. Good to see you.” She hugs the Person. “Man, I was sort of scared, you know?” The Young Lady is happy, but crying just a bit out of relief as well.
The Figure rubs the Young Lady’s dark, unkempt hair and shushes her soothingly. The Figure kisses her delicately on the forehead and presents two syringes. The Young Lady’s entire demeanor changes: All of the fear flees her frame. She smiles. She becomes chatty. The Figure indicates for her to sit down on top of the stone pedestal in the center of the room.
“Oh man, I can’t believe this,” the Young Lady says, “I’m so glad that it’s you. You’re the best. You always know just how to take care of me.” The person kneels, rolls up one of the Young Lady’s sleeves and ties her arm off with a surgical hose. “Look at you, so professional. Only the best for us, right?” The Figure slides the tiny, angled point of a syringe into the Young Lady’s swollen vein, unties the hose. The Young Lady melts into a delicious delirium. “Mmmm, yeah. Super-nice. Ha. Only the best for us, right?”
The Young Lady wobbles in a sleepy state as the Figure pulls her shirt off over her head.
The Figure redresses her in a white, linen robe. The Figure lays the Young Lady down on the large pedestal. “You know, nobody ever understood me but you. It’s true. Everyone either wants to fix me, or throw me away. But maybe I can’t be fixed, ya know? Maybe this is just who I am . . . can’t that be enough?” She gingerly takes hold of the Figure’s hand, “You get that. You’re the only one who gets it.” The Figure moves to the opposite arm and prepares to inject the Young Lady a second time. “What’s that, you got more? Oh I really shouldn’t,” the Young Lady pretend-protests. The Figure repeats the process and plunges the inky fluid into the Young Lady.
“You’re gonna spoil me,” the Young Lady says. “Mmm, boy, that’s different. What is that? My lips feel funny. Mmm.” She licks her lips curiously. Her head feels heavy now, her chest also. The Young Lady’s heart begins to slow. “Hey, I think you gave me too much, or something. Something . . . this isn’t right.” The Young Lady begins to grow alarmed. “I think I need to go.” She moves to get up, but the Figure restrains her. “What are you doing? I need to go. I need to go to the Emergency Room or something! You got a bad batch, man! Get off!” The Young Lady wrestles against the Figure, but she is too high now, too full of chemicals, both familiar and uninvited. The Person sprawls on top of her, holding her to the pedestal. “Let go!” the Young Lady cries, “something’s not right!” Her cries reverberate hollowly about the rotunda. The Young Lady grows weaker, and slowly stops fighting. Now she is completely listless upon the slab.
The Figure straightens the Young Lady upon the pedestal, composes her, gently hangs a hand down to each side. The Figure places a large copper pail beneath each wrist. The Figure takes a surgical blade and presses it firmly and cleanly through each wrist. The Young Lady can only now make a slight grunt in protest and pain. The mausoleum-like silence of the building wraps itself around the sound of the Young Lady’s blood spilling from the morbid stigmata and raining loudly onto the thin metal drum-floor of each pail. Silent, surrendered tears slide down the Young Lady’s temples. “You’re the only one who gets me,” she whispers.
The Figure dips two fingers into one of the gathering pools. The Figure strokes the Young Lady’s hair soothingly, and kisses her once again on her forehead. The Figure takes two bloody fingers and scrawls a large letter A across the Young Lady’s breast.
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