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The memories of the makeup applied to her victims flooded Andrea’s mind, and her inner self was becoming more demanding. The anticipation of the smell of new blood carried her until the reports for Dr. Taylor were done. As soon as she recorded the last entry, she grabbed her bag and headed to his office. She knew he would be there late.
She knocked and entered before he had a chance to answer. She didn’t have time to spare if she wanted to implement the plan that had recently taken shape. She placed the report on his desk and studied his face, pondering for a second on the idea of killing him.
“It’s getting late. You should go home to your family,” she proposed, full of concern.
“I’m leaving in a few minutes. Thank you for your help and putting up with me. I’m truly appreciative to have you on my team.”
“Good night, Dr. Taylor. See you tomorrow,” she gazed at her watch as if time was working against her.
She took the subway uptown. A cab would be too time-consuming with the late, rush-hour traffic. There were no train delays, so she hopped on the number six with many other people she found unpalatable, feeling their mannerisms deserved obliteration. She was thankful there were only a few stops before she exited the train. She hated the thought of sharing the enclosed space with them for a longer period; she would have vomited.
The train violently jolted, and she lost her balance. Surely, she was going to hit the floor, but a gentle soul, a sweet, young, African-American boy grabbed her just in time and supported her. Not all of them were unpalatable. Some were worth knowing, she thought. The image of a few other youths that had crossed her path previously doused her with doubts again. They had cursed her unmercifully and shown her their middle fingers. She continued recalling the images and personal events to keep her mind occupied instead of observing the crowd that squeezed towards the doors like there was no other space where they could park their bodies. When the train arrived on Seventy-seventh Street, she pushed her way through and was relieved that she was out in the open air and no longer caged under the earth. The wintery night fit her mood. The chilled air penetrated her bones, and no matter how well she was dressed, she felt the gust of wind taking her breath away. She walked the two blocks’ distance and made a right on Fifth Avenue, going north toward Seventy-ninth Street and stopping in front of the building she knew too well. She peeked through the glass door. The doorman wasn’t there to either stop her or open the door for her. Nevertheless, she thought it was a good omen as she rang the doctor’s bell.
She was buzzed in, filled with excitement and thinking how easy it was to infiltrate the enemy’s territory. The building was magnificent, and she easily remembered the space that hosted his office; she had been there many times. The carpet was soft under her boots and absorbed any sounds her movements made. She went down the corridor, knowing the exact location since her memory had returned. It was highly probable that the door was unlocked, it always had been. She gave the door a shove, and she entered the waiting area which, not surprisingly, looked exactly as it had twenty years ago. The same antique chairs, for which he had paid a ridiculous amount of money, were still there. The coffee table with its arched legs and the secretarial station were still there, to the far right, concealed and safe. His secretary was long gone, and she wondered if he had kept the same one. She quietly closed the door and listened for sounds. She heard him fussing in his office, and her beast happily whistled. He was alone. She contemplated for a second ... should she wait until he came out to see his visitor or go directly into his office and deal him his fate? But the door swung open before she made her decision.
“Can I help you?” he questioned, a bit puzzled.
“I’m actually here to help you.”
She observed the doctor’s face to see if her voice sounded familiar to him or if it was removed from his memory years ago. He appeared unaware of who she was. She showed him the palm of her right hand where the star birthmark rested, just like their son’s. She was expecting he would now recall who she was. Of course, she was a little heavier, a little older, and looked a lot different with her hair cut painfully short. Nevertheless, the birthmark was unchanged.
“I missed life because of you,” she accused him.
“You missed life because of your illness. You were dangerous to yourself and others, including our son.”
“I missed life because of you,” she repeated as if she didn’t hear what the doctor had uttered. She pulled a knife that was tucked deep in the inside pocket of her coat, closing the distance between them.
She leapt toward him, missing him as he moved to the right. She charged again, pushing forward, finding his body and throwing him to the floor. He was undeniably shocked by the speed of the shove, and he used his arms for support, placing them on the floor and pushing his body upwards. She approached him quickly again, lowering her body over him. She was still holding the knife when it penetrated his middle section. She felt when the blade traveled deep inside him, and she made sure it was impossible for him to break free. She was on top of him, bolting her strong legs to his side as he tried to grab her left wrist with his two hands to stop the third assault. She slapped him with the back of her right hand, ripping his glasses from his face. In retrospect, that was a defining moment. The blade entered him again, just above the other penetrations, and she didn’t stop stabbing him until her arm became heavy. It wasn’t one hundred thrusts like the first time with the girl in the park, but it was enough to strip him of his life.
“I missed life because of you.” She gazed at his dead body underneath her with hatred. “I missed life,” she repeated, her voice was low and accusatory.
She got up slowly, her clothes covered in blood. She was fully aware that she couldn’t possibly wander the streets the way she looked. She approached the door and looked out. The doorman had returned. Her luck was turning around. She had to clean up before she left. All evidence of the blood had to be scrubbed away, so she proceeded toward the bathroom. The blood trickled down the drain, losing its brightness as the water mixed with it. This substance of life was disappearing before her eyes. She washed and scrubbed off the blood although she really did not mind having it on her. She would love to bathe in blood one day; perhaps in a Jacuzzi tub as the jet streams bubbled it around her. She finally inspected her image. Her black clothing concealed the battle that had unfolded minutes ago, her uncovered skin was unsoiled except for the red droplets beneath her nails.
Do it, the voice within demanded.
She tried unsuccessfully to force her tongue between the skin and the nail to reach the red specks. Possibly, it would be easier to lick the doctor’s wounds.
She undid his shirt, sniffed him as though he was perfume, and licked him. Her tongue pressed flat to his skin, then curled, collecting the red juice and drawing it into her mouth. Finally, she swallowed.
Your DNA, the inner voice laughed.
“Hush, you fool. A conclusion is coming soon. Wait until you see what I’m going to do to you.”