Dog Blood

“I gave you a chance to kill me, and you didn’t take it. You almost did, but you stopped yourself. You held the Hate.”

“Only because-” I start to explain. He holds up his hand to stop me talking and washes out his mouth with water from my bottle. One of us must have kicked it across the room in the fight. He spits red-tinged water out onto the dirty carpet.

“Doesn’t matter why,” he says, “fact is you did it. Takes a person of intelligence to do that. Someone who can look beyond all this hatred and fighting and see what’s really important.”

Patronizing bastard.

“I made a mistake and you got lucky.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

“I do.”

“No,” he says, his voice suddenly more serious, “you’re wrong. This is what happened-I gave you an opportunity to kill me, which you instinctively tried to take. But, before you could do it, you stopped and weighed up the pros and cons. And you realized your choice was pretty stark: kill me and rot here, or let me go and survive.”

Bastard. He’s right.

“What’s important,” he continues, “is the fact that you overruled your instincts. Like I said, you held the Hate.”

I can’t argue. I want to, but I can’t. I sit down opposite him. I should have killed him, but I didn’t. What does that make me? I feel strangely dirty and defiled, as if I’ve just made the most embarrassing, basic mistake, like a teenaged boy caught jerking off by his mom. In the distance I can hear the muffled thump and bangs of explosions. Elsewhere the fighting continues. It should have continued in here, too. I should reach across, grab hold of him, and kill him now. But I don’t.

“So how did it happen to you?” he asks, mouth still bleeding. “I’ve told you my story, Da

I say nothing.

“Come on… what have you got to lose by talking to me? Face facts. I could have had you killed when you first arrived here, but I didn’t. I could have done it myself, but instead I’ve fed you, watered you, I haven’t tortured you… You don’t have any information I want, no top secret plans of attack… There’s no need for you not to speak now. You’ve already done the hard part; now finish the job. Break the cycle. Talk to me like the rational human being I know you really are. It’s up to you.”

I can see the frustration in his face. Truth is, I’m not trying to be defiant now. I’m thinking about what he said. Either he’s right and I’ve got nothing left to lose, or it’s too late and I’ve already lost it all. Or is my sudden pathetic weakness just a result of the physical and emotional stress of captivity? Have I just lost the ability to think straight?

“Back in your room yesterday,” he continues, “you flinched when I mentioned your family. Those things I found in your bag, the doll and the clothes… Do you want to start there? Are they trophies or reminders?”

I try hard to hide it, but my reaction when he mentions my family is disappointingly obvious. He immediately picks up on it.

“So what happened? Were you with them when you changed? Are you carrying around some kind of guilt because you killed the people you used to love?”

Can’t help myself. He’s hit a nerve. “My only guilt is that I didn’t kill them.” My voice sounds loud and overamplified, alien and strange.

“Tell me more…”

“I was confused, disoriented,” I tell him, my words sounding angry, strangled by emotion. “Should have killed them, but I didn’t. They caught me off guard.”

“Partner?”

I nod my head.

“Kids?”

“Three. One like me, two like you.”

He looks confused. “One like you?”

“Ellis, my daughter.”

“What happened to her?”

I’m about to tell him, but I stop myself, suddenly remembering that I’m talking to one of the Unchanged. Don’t want him to know she’s the reason I came back to the city.

“Her mother took her,” I answer, spitting out the words. He nods slowly, trying to make it look like he understands.

“Must be hard to deal with,” he says. “I mean, I thought I’d had it bad, but at least I know what happened to my family. I know they’re both dead and I’ve had closure, but you, you don’t have a clue where any of them are or even if they’re still alive.”

“I should have killed them,” I say again.

“I can’t begin to imagine what you’ve been through. The realization you were a killer must have been hard enough. How did they get away?”

“I was disoriented. I’d kill them in a heartbeat if they were here now.”

“You didn’t kill me.”

“No, but I-”

“You’re from around here, right?” he interrupts.

“Depends where here is.”

“What about the other two kids?”

“Two boys. One older, one younger than my girl.”

“Really tough,” he says quietly, shaking his head and rinsing his bloody mouth out again. “So how have you coped?”

Is he mocking me now?

“I’ve killed as many of you fuckers as I’ve been able to find,” I answer, feeling my body start to tense up again.

“Except me.”

“There’s still time…”

“Okay,” he says quickly, leaning back and looking up at the ceiling, “but has it actually helped? Has it got you any closer to getting your daughter back? I presume that’s what you were heading back to the city for?”

Christ, I have to give him his due, he’s good. That one came from out of nowhere.

“I’ll find her if it’s the last thing I do.”

“That’s good.”

“Is it?”

He nods his head vigorously. “Of course it is. It shows there’s more to you than just wanting to fight and kill all the time. You still give a damn about your daughter, and that means you’ve still got a chance. Honestly, Da

“Doesn’t mean I won’t fight. Doesn’t mean I won’t still kill you.”

“Of course not, but from where I’m sitting, killing me would be the worst thing you could do. How would it help? Like I said earlier, you’d just be fighting fire with fire. Just stop for a second and work your way back, Da

“It hasn’t. I know exactly-”

“You’ve lost everything because of it… your family, your home, your daughter. If it wasn’t for the Hate you might still be with her now. Christ, man, it’s even cost you your dignity and your freedom. You’ve spent the last two days lying in a bed of your own piss, tied up and caged like an animal. And at this precise moment in time, you’re close to losing control of your future, too. If I wanted to I could walk out of here right now and not look back. I could leave you here alone to starve and die. You don’t know where you are, how many other people are here, what’s on the other side of the door to this room… Face it, Da

He stops talking and waits for me to respond, but I can’t. All I can do is stare back at his barely human face. Is he right? He shuffles forward until he’s just within reach. Is he taunting me? Testing me?

“People tell me I’m wasting my time with your type. They tell me you’re no better than animals, that you’ve got dog blood ru

“I don’t care what they-”

“You know what I tell them? I tell them they’re wrong. But you’re the only one who can really decide who’s right. If the boot was on the other foot and I was your prisoner, Da

“I’d-”

“Stupid question. We’d have never got to this stage. You’d already have killed me. You could do it now if you want to, but I think you’re better than that.”

He moves forward again. I move to scratch the stabbing itch by my right knee, which has just returned, and he flinches. He’s trembling. Is this just part of the act, or is his fear genuine?