Eventually

I saunter down the stairs with my glass of blood that I've been saving since last night. She's still upstairs, suspended from the hooks in the ceiling. I will let her go eventually, once she stops struggling.

I don't know, I guess I go a little crazy when I don't sleep. The technical term for fear or hatred of strangers is xenophobia. To me, everybody is a stranger. I have a hard time relating to people. Unless they're screaming. Then they echo my insides. So I make them scream.

And there she goes, screaming again. I smile, I sip my blood (B positive, harder to find, but sweeter). I didn't think she had any screaming left in her. I smile again. I will let her go eventually.

The technical term for being unable to sleep is insomnia. If I get five hours a night, I'm good. Fine. Functional. Socially acceptable. But I haven't slept in three nights. So I went a little crazy again.

The technical term for a lack of empathy is sociopathy. Am I a sociopath? I don't know, I've never asked anyone. How do you ask that question, anyway? Excuse me, I think I might be a sociopath. Could you run a test or two? Are there pills for me? Not that I would ever put pills in my body.

I read a lot of technical journals when I can't sleep. Medicine, psychiatry, chemistry, engineering. I read them all. Except the nights I go out. Then I can put my reading to practical use.

The hooks will hold a weight of 800 pounds. She weighs only 110. Even with her struggling, she can't generate enough downward force to rip the hooks out. She keeps trying anyway. I smile and sip my blood. When I installed the hooks, I suspended a 350-pound corpse to test them out. They held, no problem. I don't bring home anyone that big. I sautéed the left arm, baked the right, turned the left leg into jerky, and salted the torso. I put the right leg back. The family should have some memento.

I sent the head in a package to the police department in Eugene, Oregon. I signed my name as Vlad Tepes. Let them figure that one out. I like history. When I was mailing the package, the clerk asked me if there were prohibited items in the box and pointed to the list on the wall. Meat is prohibited. I said no anyway. She didn't check.

Vlad killed 100,000 people. I haven't killed anyone. The corpse was already dead, I just reclaimed him from that stupid metal box in the ground. And I will let her go eventually.

The technical term for partial or complete loss of memory is amnesia. Amnesia often follows prolonged episodes of insomnia. One time, I didn't sleep for 17 days. But I don't remember any of it.

If a person does something but can't remember doing it, did she really do it?

It's quiet upstairs. I finish my blood. The salted meat is finally going bad, this will be the last time I eat it. The pigs can have the rest. I'll drop her off in front of the police station. She'll wind up there anyway, and it's less hassle. I don't really want to hurt anyone. Sometimes, I just want to hear the screams. They're soothing, like a lullaby. I keep hoping they'll help me sleep.

I pick up the butcher knife. Time to cut her loose. Or cut her throat. I'll decide upstairs. The technical term for draining blood from a body is exsanguination. I'm almost out. I saunter upstairs with my empty glass.