vamptober day 7: You Are What You Eat
It feels like warmth. He’s almost forgotten the sensation, but now it’s all he can think of: it feels like warmth. The pain in his hip fades to a mumble; the aches in his shoulders and spine subside into silence. Silence and warmth, blessed warmth. He breathes in, even though he doesn’t need to, just to feel how easily his chest moves around the air.
It must have been something in the blood. Doc hadn’t been paying much attention at the time; he’d been focused on an infected cut on the back of the man’s hand. An old soldier. Old enough to look at Doc’s face and see a schoolboy, even though they might well have been in the same damn mud twenty years ago. But he let Doc tend to his wounds anyways, gritted his teeth and bore the cleansing of the rot. His calm may have been chemical, but Doc can’t fault him for that.
And then, of course, the doctor had taken his modest fee, and the old soldier had been good enough to share his calm, his warmth, the gift within the gift of his blood. Whatever he was on, it’s even better than hospital morphine. Heroin? Probably.
Doc should care, he thinks. He should have checked the man’s eyes before feeding, should have asked him; he should try to estimate the dosage he’s unknowingly taken; he should make a note in his little journal or something. But for once, it doesn’t seem to matter all that much.
There’s something else. He should be thinking of something else. The sky in the northeast is turning a watery indigo. Beautiful, in its own lonely way. He frowns at it. Warmth, he thinks. Warmth warmth warmth. If he stays here- if he waits- what is it? Warmth, he thinks again, then sunrise, then fire.
He has his own little place, such as it is, in the shantytown they share. He’s good as ashes if the cops ever come to kick them out during the day, but it hasn’t happened yet. There but for the grace of god - or at least, there but for god’s sense of humor. The thought makes him laugh, which startles him. It’s been so long since he laughed.
He needs to get home. The sky. Yes. He wanders down the path between tents and lean-tos, not stumbling, not quite making a straight line. It’s alright. He can find his way.
And he does, after a bit. The sky is going silky gray-blue, but here is his little house of roofing tin and palette wood and rotting canvas, tall enough for a man to stand in as long as the man is Doc. He doesn’t get many visitors, anyways. He slips inside, halfheartedly tries to chase off a rat, blows out his lantern, creaks himself down to the bedroll, and waits for the warmth to fade.
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