One, two, three, four, five. Five chin-ups in two seconds. Ten chin-ups in five. Twenty in ten. My skin is as dry as when I started.
Only one week since I was wheeled out of the OR and I’m in the Zone. Kelly, take it easy. Kelly, the doctor says you’ll kill yourself if you power walk. Kelly, stop running in that marathon!
Funny, I was just fine when the anesthesia was flushed out of my system. The doctors themselves admitted I was ready to walk out of there when I had barely opened my eyes, yet they still kept me in bed until the next day. Jerks. They’re doctors, they should’ve been able to tell I was ready to run all the way to Alaska. Come to think of it, if I happen to stop by there, maybe I’ll run across the ice to Siberia.
Maybe it’s from all the sitting and walking I had to do in the last six months? Ugh, just remembering that makes me speed up. I swear only four seconds ticked by as I did another ten chin-ups. I’ve been sitting still too long, it’s time to stop stopping!
No this isn’t cutting it. I’m not going anywhere. I let go of the bar…
***
The last few feet are clumsy as silver-edged knives rocket past me, opening shallow cuts in my legs as I run down the side of the wall. Piles of tomorrow’s trash bags provide an undignified cushion, but my world spins as my pursuer closes the distance.
Any man would have just seen an indistinct black blob parkour its way down the fire escape. I see a shape in a rippling navy blue cloak and thick boots and gloves scrambling to the ground. Might be a local government agency, might be the Vatican. Had it been anyone else, our positions would have been reversed.
A puddle splash signals his drop to my level, his dangling crucifix the harbinger of my overdue judgment.
***
The basketball court spins in place as I do one circuit after another on the top floor track. I missed this track. Six months ago it was a struggle to walk from my bed to the closet. That trip alone left me tired. My temporary artificial replacement gave me a second wind, but back then I couldn’t even look at a dumbbell without exhaustion tempting me to give up.
Lap twenty-two. I slow down to thumb the vertical scar centered down my chest.
***
Nothing. I feel nothing under my chest. It doesn’t beat in fear, terror, or anticipation as my hunter’s boots drum forward. His breath is rancid, his smirk smug, and his stake sliding from his overcoat.
It’s seen some precise whittling. A thin wedge with a hair-thin tip to better part my skin. And it rises over his head for better leverage.
He does not hesitate.
I feel it graze my sternum as it plunges into my flesh.
***
Okay, bad idea. The scar is still tender, and it throbbed all the way down to the vending machine. Only now had a thin layer of sweat built up on my skin. Still, after the operation, better safe than sorry right?
Gatorade, you’ve been good to me before my original heart checked in for an early retirement. I’ve missed you. You miss me? Well, I just dumped fifty cents into the machine you’re in now. Let’s see, how shall I have you tonight?
Orange, I always liked orange, yet I hit the button combination for cherry.
Oh well, you already landed in the receptacle thingamajig. I’m feeling adventurous right now.
With a twist and a hiss, there’s nothing between us. I put my lips to the bottle…
***
The shock I taste in his blood stings my tongue like dry wine. His neck is broken to ensure I don’t bring him back, but he lived long enough to register terror when I pulled him in for the bite.
I let go of him to savor his flavor when I feel him push against something.
Oh right.
I push him off and pull the stake out. Had it gone in a month ago, I’d be a goner.
But I made sure to put that keystone somewhere safe. One of my wiser gambles, if not one of my first ideas for contingencies.
After all, within a week of my turning, empathy was the first thing to go.
Still, when the world changes around you, you just have to keep up with the times. I perused medical journals, keeping track of the stoners and the donors. I found an undercurrent of amusement in how superstition kept my generation in the virtual Dark Ages when the root of our problems sat under our noses.
That’s when I decided my weakness was safer elsewhere. After all, anyone can find a jar. No one would think to question brainwashed doctors who extracted a heart from someone they were ‘persuaded’ to remember as a late, selfless, donor.
To think something that came from someone dead would give a dying girl a second lease on life.
Truly we live in an age of miracles.
***
That was a nice drink Mr. Gatorade, but into the recycle bin you go until next time. Who knows, I might see you again tonight. The moon’s full and I’m more alive than ever. My heart is pumping for another rush. Wasn’t it taken from a corpse a month ago?
Whoa, is that a rabbit creeping out of the bushes?
God I’m hungry.
How fast are rabbits again?
Bet I can outrun you, Bugs.
___________________________
©2010 Robert Barwacz
The author is Robert Barwacz, a recent graduate of Ashland University with a B.A. in English and a Major in Creative Writing. He is currently working on a murder mystery novel, tentatively titled Speak No Evil. In the meantime, he works as a janitor at a local school.
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