Page 6 of Afflicted

“OK, so why are you staring at me?”

He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Am I?”

“Yes. You were staring at me in the cafeteria too.”

“Just keeping an eye on everyone,” he replies.

“I’m not everyone.” I’m glaring at him now, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. “And you feeders usually aren’t this chatty.”

“Hmmm.” He takes a step towards me, his eyes flickering to me when he sees me flinch. He looks over the needles in my arm, and his mouth twitches for a moment, like he’s judging the other feeder’s handiwork. Then he shakes his head and takes a step back, his eyes meeting mine again.

And the staring continues.

The woman shuffles back into the cubicle, and checks the bag slowly filling with my blood. “How are you feeling?” She asks me.

I shrug. “Fine, as always.”

“Good.” She doesn’t care, she’s just saying it because she should. Even feeders still have residual small talk built-in, saying shit they don’t mean in the name of being polite. She’s probably not very old.

I look at her for a moment, taking in her blunt black bob and brown eyes, and I wonder who she was before this all started. How long before the Affliction was she turned? Was she a doctor? She has that demeanor about her.

Then I become aware of eyes on me again, and the man’s still standing there staring at me. I'm about to ask him what’s going on, what’s wrong, what he wants, when he suddenly pushes through the curtains and leaves.

Fucking freak.

Once the bag is full of my blood, the woman removes the needle from my arm and puts a band-aid over the hole left behind. She tells me to stay seated, and leans out of the curtain to call for a tray. Another feeder comes in with a tray containing a milkshake and a donut.

“Eat,” she says, gesturing at the tray placed by my side.

More things I can’t stand now, that I loved before I came here. I remember my brother and I driving to the donut shop in town that was open til midnight, sitting on the hood of his car, him always stealing my strawberry frosted donut even though he insisted the plain glazed were his favorite.

The donut gets caught on the lump that forms in my throat as I think of him, of Kaden, my twin. My dad used to call us Raggedy Ann and Andy, even though neither of us had red hair. “We got one of each,” my mom would say lovingly whenever she stroked her hands over our heads, over Kaden’s dark hair, just like hers, and my blonde waves, just like my dad.

My eyes sting and I choke down the tepid milkshake. I still remember Kaden’s voice when he called. “They’re dead, Jules.” He was sobbing. “I don’t know what to do. What do I do?”

Then he was dead not even two weeks later.

And I was alone.

There’s the clatter of metal on the ground, and I’m torn from my memories as shouting erupts from one of the neighboring cubicles. The woman rushes out to see what’s going on.

“You can’t do this!” It’s a man’s voice, it sounds like Larry, and he’s protesting loudly.

My head spins as I grasp on to the headrest, hauling myself to my feet even as my face flushes and bile rises in my throat. I stumble to the curtain as more shouting erupts.

“What’s going on?” I hear the woman’s voice as I poke my head out of the curtain.

“His veins are no good,” another feeder says, a man in dark blue scrubs. “They’re collapsing. He’s done.”

“No!” Larry is suddenly pulled out of the cubicle, his eyes wide with terror. “What are you doing? I can still work, I’m still of use!”

The woman shakes her head. “No blood, no use. Take him off.”

My stomach drops. “What are you doing?” I call out, stumbling out of the cubicle even as my head fills with that floaty cotton wool feeling.

The feeders turn to look at me, and the woman points with her index finger. “Go and sit down,” she orders, “this is none of your concern.”

“Well, it is my concern.”

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