Page 72 of Requiem & Reverie

“Panic room open.”

“Password?” the robotic voice asks.

“Fuck me.” I wait for the door to slide open before descending the concrete stairs, and make my way to the bar, where I pour a glass of whiskey.

The scent of blood and agony clings to the air, and I realize I’m going to have to fumigate this fucking place before I ever bring Nola down here. Goddamn, human beings stink when they’re brimming with infection.

Twisting around, I stare across the room toward where a latex vacuum bed is laid out on the floor. The tremble of the tube sticking up from the plastic tells me Simon is still alive.

Hearty bastard.

Thought, for sure, the thirteen-hour drive from Chicago to New York in my trunk would kill him, but the guy just keeps on ticking like a wound-up watch.

Unclipping the aluminum rod, I unroll the latex sheet and allow the air to seep back inside. Simon coughs, and I reach in and drag his torso out from inside. The stumps where his arms and legs used to be are healing nicely, where I’ve cauterized the flesh, but his eye sockets appear to be leaking white pus, and his skin feels hot when I set him down on the plastic sheet beside his bed.

Placing a straw to his lips, I let him have a drink of water from a Styrofoam cup I used earlier that morning, and he sucks away until the gurgling sound indicates it’s gone. The urine collected in a catheter bag attached at his side looks a little orange. I’ve never inserted a catheter before, but from the looks of it, I did something right. Except, the bastard probably isn’t filtering right, and I dread having to empty that bag later. Shit thing about killing someone slowly is having to play nursemaid.

“So, what should we remove today, Simon?”

On each of these little visits, I’ve made the effort to remove a piece of his body, and so far, he’s missing all four limbs, both eyes and an ear.

“Please …” His voice is hoarse and raspy, brimming with what sounds like exhaustion and fever. “Just … kill me.”

“Smells like your body is taking care of that for you. I was thinking maybe we could help it along some tonight, though.”

“You’ve … proven … your point. Just … kill me already!” His voice cracks on a sob. The guy must be so dehydrated he can’t even produce a convincing cry.

I’ve been keeping him alive on fluids, mostly. Same shit they give people in the hospital when they can’t eat. Still, his body is pretty much skeletal, at this point.

Ignoring him, I slip my blade from where it’s clipped to my belt and twist it in front of him. “I think your tongue this time. Kind of a pain in the ass, hearing you ask me to kill you every time we do this shit.”

His head rolls against the sheet of plastic, and he moans the kind of agony I’d imagine from someone living in hell.

“You’re probably not going to make it through the night, so I’ve brought you a gift.” I nab a plastic carton from beside me and pop it open to reveal the flower inside. “Took me for-fucking-ever to find one of these. You know they only bloom at night and die in the morning? Anyway, I’ve been keeping in touch with a guy who raises them. Took two weeks for this bastard to finally blossom. Any idea how hard it’s been, keeping you alive these last two weeks?”

I set the flower on his chest, and he lifts his head, nostrils flaring as he inhales the intoxicating scent of the flower.

“Queen of the Night.”

“So, tell me, Simon. Why fill the eyes with sand?”

“I couldn’t stand … looking into empty … sockets.”

“Why?”

“I never much cared … for imperfection.”

I trail my gaze over the torso, all that’s left of him, and chuckle. “If you could see yourself now, you’d probably shit. If you could shit, that is.”

The green pallor to his skin seems to be getting worse with each passing minute, and his eyes continue to ooze.

“Please … kill me.”

“You want that more than anything right now, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, good luck with that.” I push up from the floor and nab my drink off the bar. “In the next couple of hours, you can think about the women you killed. Their families. Friends. Or you can fucking sit in blackness, smelling your flower. I don’t give a shit, either way. Tomorrow, you’ll be dead.”