Bleed Cyan

Chapter Seven


I was sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair, my arms resting on an uneven table that could put a splinter in my arm at any slight movement. The chair was killing my back, and it squeaked every time I moved, bringing the police officers attention to me. As if they weren't all watching me from the peripheral of their vision.

I was being 'guarded' by a large man named Dennis, everyone who saw him smiled and greeted him as 'Skeet', I briefly wondered how he got such a nickname. 'Skeet' never smiled or returned their gestures, which were all obviously fake. He was large and burly, his shoulders were wide and his veins stuck out at an unruly level. He smelt like beer and cigarettes.

The only time Skeet wasn't glaring at me, was when he was smiling. Big boy wanted to beat on the little guy.

Dick head.

Skeet was cracking his knuckles, begging me to make a wrong move, anything for him to get the chance to hit me. He saw that I was a runner; he could smell escape on my skin. He didn't want to miss his chance at a possible murderer. Fair enough, I suppose.

Am I a murderer? Yes. But I don't think that's what you'd call me. Hell, I don't even know if that's what you'd call it. I'm a soul eater, merely surviving as I can. Eating humans was the way I lived, it's the only way I could live. If the Police Department knew I was an immortal being, would I be pardoned from my crimes?

By the look on Skeets face, I'm guessing no.

I looked around the station building, taking note of the exits and number of police officer that had a gun in its holster. There was a man sitting at a table about fifteen feet away from me. His hands were cuffed behind the chair and his legs were bouncing vividly in place. His hair was greasy and sweat was pouring down his neck and back.

The man was unnerving to watch. His eyes were sunk into the back of his head, and he had track marks in the crease of his arm. His skin was taunt and pale, barely stretching over his bones. I could smell the death that clung to him, and I knew that this junkie had little to no time left on his life calendar.

He smelt absolutely mouth watering.

I could see his eyes moving rapidly around the room, and at one point, they nearly rolled into the back of his head. He stopped moving his legs, and I saw his neck tighten. I could hear the liquid moving up his throat before the vomit had a chance to spill from his mouth. It sprayed all over his front, and the police officer that was standing next to him.

My appetite for the human was gone, and I found myself laughing at the disgust on the cops face.
I heard a rather loud grunt from beside me, and a hand was slowly placed on the table I was situated at.

"You find that funny, eh?" Skeet spat darkly.

I didn't like his tone. Not at the airport, and certainly not here.

I turned my head towards him, and I felt my eyes darken.

"Extremely." I growled.

He didn't back down, nor did I see fear form in his eyes. He glared at me harder, and the hand he had on the table formed into a fist, his veins sticking out under his tanned skin. I felt a rumble building in my chest, and I let out my growl softly. It didn't intimidate him.

"I'll break your face, pretty boy."

Oh Skeet, how wrong you are.

I said nothing.

"What's 'at? Got nothing to say?"

"I make it a point not to converse with gorillas." I quipped.

He sneered at me, and got closer to me face. Skeet didn't smell delectable, he didn't even smell edible. He was merely a fly that I couldn't shoo away. One more obstacle that stood on my little battlefield.

"What'd you say?" His voice raised a little higher.

He was getting on my last nerve.

He exhaled his heavy breath into my face.

"Got nothing to say now, eh?"

I couldn't contain the small snarl that ripped from me, nor the blackness of my eyes. Skeet wasn't just irritating me now, he was getting on the monsters only nerves.

"Get out of my face." I whispered darkly. Every cadence in my voice was laced with demon feelings, every echo it rang with serving up fear on a platter. My voiced fused with the beast.

Skeets pupils dilated some, but he still didn't back down. He had guts, I have to give him that.
Doesn't mean I won't rip said guts out and smear them on the walls.


The voice didn't belong to Skeet, it was too heavy and cracked. It was aged, wise, almost. It was familiar, and quickly brought me back to the real world, a world where I couldn't exactly behead a police officer in the middle of a busy building. My eyes lightened as did my voice. I turned towards the speaker, and saw Mayor Freedman scurrying towards me, his eyes tired and his back slumped. He started speaking as he neared me.

"The Police officers are just going to ask you some questions… They wanted to keep you here overnight—I don't even know why. I pulled some strings, they just want some answers, I'm sorry that I couldn't do more."

You'd think I was a child, and he was my father.

I always wanted one of those…

My father was never really a father. He would only ever take the time to notice me if I had made the achievement of pissing him off. I could always earn a good beating if I glared at him hard enough. I remember the sharp edges of his cheekbones, his lips always puckered with determination. His name was Kennard, and I knew he was always bitter about that. Many people held him with reverence. He was the famed Kennard Zafetti, brilliant lawyer who could win any case. Even if his clients were guilty.

It always ate at him, knowing that he was helping criminals escape their convictions, but it was his job, and he was getting paid well.

Maybe he was always puckering his lips in disgust…

I never really took the time to find out. I never really cared.

He would leave in the morning, come home late, hold my younger brother with kind eyes and asked me how badly I had messed about at school that day, how many people he would have to pay to keep their mouths shut, protecting his reputation. Kennard was always a prick.

I stood from my plastic chair, shovelling my hands into my pockets. Skeet was half sneering, half glaring my way. It only made him look uglier. My feet shuffled like that of a little boy who had been caught stealing cookies before dinner. My hair had lost its natural vibrancy. I could feel sweat slowing trailing down my back, and I knew that my deodorant was quickly wearing off.

As soon as I stepped into the little square interrogation room, I knew that this wasn't going to end well.

There was a table and two chairs in the room, matching that of outside. The walls were a colour I couldn't describe with any words pleasant, and there was a derelict smell of cigarettes on stale donuts.

Here piggy-piggy.

There was a man standing in the corner of the room, his face neutral and impassive, like he was in his own little world. I could see his cigarette packet outlined in the pocket of his denim jeans, and his over-sized beer gut was about to spill over his old leather belt. He smelt as bad as I imagine I do, and by his weathered moustache I can only guess that he hasn't got too much time left on the force.

The man sitting opposite the empty chair, however, looked young, full of energy, and very, very suspicious. His almond eyes were narrowed and I could see sparks of thoughts battling within them, his mind was travelling a mile a minute, and I knew that he simply wasn't on the force because of his rippling muscles, like Skeet. No, this man had intelligence. I could only imagine what university he graduated from.

"Take a seat, Cohen."

It's simple manners to address someone that you have just met as a mister or misses, tagging their last name onto whatever title they bore. It was courtesy, respectful, and formal. Moore Park Police officers were never formal, they were never talking to you to befriend you or to just simple be friendly. They weren't here to be your friend, so they would not treat you as such.

I took my seat.

"I'm Detective Crane and you shall address me as such, this is Detective Russell," he gestured to the man in the corner, "and we won't be taking any bullshit."

Whoa, calm down tough guy.

"Let's get right into it then. Why were you at the airport?"

"To get on a plane."

"Why were you getting on a plane?

"To go to Milan."

"Why were you going to Milan?"

"I like to be spontaneous."

Detective Crane's fist came down on the table with a mighty force. It vibrated to the floor through its legs, and his almond eyes glared me down with such force that I thought he'd give himself an aneurism.

"We won't take your bullshit, you crazy little fucker." His chin quivered as his loud voice commanded the attention of every object in the room. Living or not. He tried to stare through me, to see what I was hiding in my eyes, why my mouth was turned up at its right corner, and why I wouldn't reveal why I was boarding a plane.

Maybe I could give him a hint…

I leant my arms on the table in front of me, resting my chin on top of my hands. I removed the smirk from my face and the shield from my eyes, momentarily let my inner demon show itself. I felt anger, hatred, terror and war sweep through my eyes like a hurricane, and I encouraged it all with my gaunt teeth.

As quickly as he had come, the beast was gone.

Leaning back in my chair, I watched as both Police Officials slowly shit themselves.

I think my inner child laughed himself to death.

"R-r-right." Officer Crane stuttered out as the burly man in the corner cleared his throat and rearranged his body into a more manly, tough-guy position. As if to try and say that I hadn't made him think I was going to kill him with my eyes.

Oh, I'm going to kill him, alright.

Officer Crane kept pounding my mind with questions, kept riddling my body with suspicion, and just kept annoying the fuck out of me. I was growing tired of keeping up my pretence, and I could feel the rattling cages and tight chains of the beast wearing thin and growing loose.

The beast could smell everything. All the different, tantalising scents around me. This room alone held traces of emotions I hadn't come across in a while. Deception, greed, apathy and depression. Egg, yoghurt, milk and lime.

I looked at the corners of the room, noticing there were two security cameras, and the customary mirror on the opposite wall to me. No doubt where multiple detectives and Mayor Freedman were standing.

"Can I stretch my legs?" I asked, politely detached.

"You aren't leaving this room—,"

"I never asked to leave the room, Detective Russel. I asked if I could stand up, and stretch my legs."

His sneer was rather appropriate, considering the foul tone of voice I used for my response. He nodded stiffly with his top lip pulled back from his teeth, like he was some sort of animal… Perhaps he was trying to look like I had earlier?

You can't pull that shit off, buddy.

I stood up, and made a show of stretching my arms above my head, letting out a happy little yawn when they dropped to my sides. I took small steps around my chair, smiling as it squealed against the linoleum as I pushed it in.

"Get on with it, then." Snapped Detective Crane, sweeping his hand around the room. I smirked and let a small fire kindle in my eyes.

"If you insist."

The glass of the mirror crashed around my frame when I hurled myself through it with frightening force. The people standing behind the screen shielded their eyes and face, trying to protect their skin from the shard like crystals.

I was at the door in a second, mutilating the lock and crushing the wall around it; sealing in my victims. Another second and I had crushed the security cameras, hearing gasps, curses and guns being loaded all around the station. But the room I was now in was silent. Nothing but the erratic breathing and sweat drops of the humans behind me.

"What… what the fuck?!"

I heard a gun being pulled from its holster, and the trigger of said gun being forced backwards. Three shots were fired. The air whistled around me as I flew to the other side of the room. Narrowly escaping the violent little death balls that had been thrown at me.

As inhuman as I may be my skin certainly isn't unbreakable. A bullet through my chest would most certainly have me plummeting towards hell at an immeasurable speed.

The three Police Officers and Mayor Freedman stared at the west wall in shock, their eyes glazing over the smoking holes that now marred the wall. I clicked my tongue with every bullet hole I counted.

"You need to practise your aim, Detective Russel."

They whirled around in shock, different emotions rocketing through their eyes.

Disgust, awe, fear, curiosity, need, rage, disappointment.

Don't be so glum, Dylan Freedman.

"What the fucking hell is going on!" The unknown official roared, his voice quivering at his highest decibel. I could only imagine how utterly terrifying his voice would have sounded to a human. I forgot how to empathise with them a very, very long time ago.

The beast didn't like being yelled at, he didn't appreciate the tone of voice that a lowly human had taken with him. He roared back in retaliation, flashing through my eyes and covering them with a light shroud. I could still see through them, but the beast was ready and waiting in my shadow.

I couldn't remember which Police official I killed first. I could only remember the look in their eyes as I slowly sucked their lives away. Fear, fear and more fear.

Die. Die. Die.

The police officers were nothing special. They tasted like cardboard euphoria and fake love. Nothing new or exciting. Just another bland pieces of toast cluttering my endless buffet. I could only feel their soul moving inside me, but I couldn't taste it on my lips. Their essence was non-existent.

This only made the beast angrier.

There was only heartbeat left in the room, and it was fluttering so wildly that I thought it would give out. I could hear rough banging on the door to the observation room; otherwise known as the room behind the mirror, or the "what the hell are you lookin' at?!" room.

Mayor Freedman had himself squashed tightly into the corner of the pale room, trying not to breathe in the death that was fluttering around his body. I could see the disgust building in his eyes with every second that passed, and I could see his ancient courage come to life with every slow step I took. He was calculating his options of survival when he was in the room with a serial killer super being… I guess I had to give the guy some credit.

Doesn't mean I'm going to let him live.

"So, I guess that—,"

"What the fuck are you?!"

He cursed… Mayor Dylan Freedman never curses…

I feel like I've woken up the child in him tonight.

One point to me.

"Well, Dylan, what do you think I am?"

"A God damn murderer!"

A chuckled slipped between my teeth, half belonging to me in amusement, and the other half to the beast in agitation.

"True… But dig deeper, Mr. Mayor… What kind of thing… do you think I am?"

Seconds passed.

Another drop of sweat fell from the humans brow.

"Monster. You're a disgusting monster."

"Ding, ding, ding! Congratulations Dylan Freedman on your correct answer; if you get this next question right, you move onto the lightning round." Judging by the look on his face, I'm guessing that the Mayor did not care for my insulting and sarcastic response or tone of voice.

He didn't speak or give any sort of response. The only thing that was really alive in his stagnant body were his sonic youth eyes. They swum through a multitude of emotions, too many to name. Sparking with the intensity of fireworks and burning houses. They were a window into his thoughts and whatever he may say next. I tried to prepare myself with an answer when suddenly, his eyes just stopped.

The light faded from them, and all the colour sunk into a deep oblivion. They were gone, nothing but an echo of was once there.

"You're going to kill me."

It wasn't a question.

"Just do it."

How can I say no to that?