#7 Seeing red.

Jessica Farrell took note of Fagan’s current statistics. They had improved slightly from the previous day but his sedation was still necessary; she was sure the pain of his collapses lung and other injuries combined would be enough to send him into shock. Although she was in her late twenties and had been a nurse at Mater Misericordiae Hospital for almost six years, she still found it hard to deal with the emotional baggage that came with the job and it was made all the worse when it was someone that you had known for years.

She had been a member of his chapel since she was a young girl, still wearing her golden locks in pig tails, but when she left home, she left her faith behind as well. Like a lost sheep, she had strayed from Gods path. Of course letting Doctor Kerry know any of this personal information would see her off the ‘case’; It was frowned upon to treat someone you knew personally as it would more than likely cause more grief than dealing with someone who was almost a complete stranger.

As she reached to adjust his IV, the priest’s eyelids fluttered open, his eyes were hazy and blood shot. Jessica gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. He seemed confused, his glance kept shifting rapidly from corner to corner and his brow became furrowed. As he opened his mouth, he suddenly realised that the ability to speak was beyond him and despite being on morphine; the pain of his collapsed lung tore through him like a bullet. In a bid to express his agony, he took hold of Jessica’s pinafore and gripped it so forcefully, she almost, lost balance.

Jessica, realizing that more experienced help was needed, reached for the bright red call bell and slammed it with her fist.

“It’s okay Father. It’ll be alright.” She knew she wasn’t meant to say such things, in case she was giving the patent false hope but staring down at the priest in such an advanced state of agony, made her feel that she owed him something.

Orla Hynes, one of the senior consultants, swung open the private room’s glass door and marched into the room. Although not a large woman, in fact she was quite small and petite, she had a stern and, at times, pompous presence.  Her short grey hair was cut into a bob, her makeup was always lightly applied to perfection and at 53 years of age, she carried herself with much grace and importance.

“Good evening Father. I am Doctor Hynes and I will be taking over for your usual doctor until he arrives. “She lifted her stefoscope from round her shoulders, “Now, let’s see if we can get you anymore pain relief, you’re probably thinking that putting you under sedation again would be ideal, but I am afraid we can’t do that. Not so soon. We can supply you with more pain relief however.”

As she spoke, Fagan still held on to Jessica’s clothing but he stared blankly up at Hynes. The consultant smiled at him; it was by no means comforting. She took a quick check on his pulse, glanced briefly at his plastered arm and tube which produced from just under his left rib cage. Fagan winced as she laid her cold hands over the raw wounds.

“You said you had the majority of the injuries taken care of?” Hynes stood up right and challenged Jessica with a stern stare.

“Y-yes Miss. We do, but these smaller wounds,” She nodded her head towards the scrapes and bruises which painted Fagan’s right shoulder, “they are no more than flesh wounds and don’t require –“

“Miss Farrell! I know that they are just flesh wounds, I am not stupid.” Hynes snapped, her teeth were bared in a snarl and her eyes were lightly shut, “None- the less, they still need covered. You have been practicing in this hospital for almost six years, shape up!”

Hynes forcefully slung her stepscope around her neck and marched from the room. The priest glanced up at Jessica sympathicly. The dark circles under his eyes made him look like a corpse, a damned lucky corpse. Jessica forced a faint smile and patted Fagan’s hand gently before leaving the room to retrieve his medication. She returned in a matter of moments with a syringe and a container filled with transparent liquid. Carefully, she removed the plastic covering on the syringe, opened the container and filled the needle with the mysterious substance.

“This won’t hurt a lot, just try to relax.” Jessica assured him while she felt for a vein on his wrist and when one was discovered, she penetrated Fagan’s skin with the tip of the needle and pushed the liquid into his veins.

“That was just Pethidine. It will dull the pain but won’t sedate you I am afraid.” The needle was removed and placed on a cardboard tray, probably for her to dispose of later, “I’ll put the television on for you.”

Although the medication hadn’t kicked in, Fagan was able to shift himself into a comfortable television-watching position. Jessica placed the remote on the bed next to him and left.

RTE News was playing softly on the silver Samsung, the sound was just high enough for Fagan to hear over the ringing in his ears. The pain of the fracture was throbbing but it didn’t even hold a candle to the agony in his chest, however with the shot of Pethidine his lower body seemed to be slipping into a state of numbness and he more than welcomed the comfort. It was as if everything below his neck was slowly disappearing.

Something on the television screen caught Fagan’s attention.

“Fagan Feathers, a local priest, was attacked in his home in the early hours of yesterday afternoon. The 47 year old is currently in Mater Misericordiae Hospital with a collapsed lung, fractured arm and various other bodily injuries. He is not in an overly critical situation; however, the next 24 hours are extremely crucial. Police are urging anyone who saw anything to come forward.”

The anchor man moved on. Everything that had happened the previous day came flooding back, as strong as a tidal wave and Fagan couldn’t help but let slip a sigh. The sudden release of air left his throat throbbing.

Even if John had been informed already, the culprit would be back in hell by now, at Satan’s beck and call.

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Emmet jerked upright. His muscles painfully protested against the sudden movement, his vision moved in and out of focus, his ears were ringing and his mouth was dry and tasted of stale metal. The withered skin on his left arm felt tighter, pins and needles prickled the flesh and lifeless veins bulged. Despite all of the agony that rushed through his body, Emmet felt alive. More alive than he had done in quite some time. His mind was overflowing with images and ideas, his clawed hands itched to get to work, his feet moved restlessly and his demonic ears twitched at every sound. Even the faintest of sounds. Like that of a birds wings against the wind or the footsteps of someone approaching the pub from kilometres away.  Foreign eyes glittered like gems in his sunken sockets, no longer a pale blue – green colour but now a soulless, stone slate. Everything was in different shades of white, black and gray and as he focused on the crow perched momentarily on the window sill, he could see the red hot aura of life which outlined it. Just as the scent of the bird’s blood caught his nose, the crow took flight. Emmet’s ears fell for a brief second in disappointment, but it was short lived. The flat door opened and closed behind him.

Joel strode down the short hallway, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slouched in a non-chalet posture. His sweet, smoky scent teased Emmet’s nose, making his split tongue trace his lips in anticipation. Emmet’s hunger became more intense with every step that Joel took.

“Sweet Lucifer!” Joel exclaimed, he came to a halt in front of his friend, “Emmet, you look like death.”

Emmet’s chapped lips pulled into a devious grin; his damp, shaggy hair covered the majority of his eyes giving him a hellish appearance. Unstable and swaying, he pushed himself to his feet. His head hung low to his chest and his shoulders hunched forward.

“Emmet ---“

Joel was thrown onto his back as Emmet jumped him, pointed fingers were ripping at his woolly gray jumper and dangerous teeth were snapping at his adams apple. He tried with all his strength to keep his friend from ripping his throat apart; he had his hands gripped onto Emmet’s biceps and his legs thrashing in all directions trying his damnedest to shuffle from under the weight. Talons caught the skin on his chest and a bony knee smashed into his groin. In pain and frustration he collided his head against Emmet’s. Joel was free to roll onto his side and grab hold of his throbbing genitals. Emmet screeched and lay in a ball beside him, holding his forehead and trembling.

The pain in Joel’s manhood was his main concern although he could feel blood sliding from his forehead and pooling on the floor. He had smashed his skull into Emmet pretty damn hard and had probably caused damage.

Good.

 “Jysus Christ Emmet.” Joel swore through gritted teeth, “what the hell is wrong with you?!”

An irritated and vicious groan was all that Emmet could issue. He had managed to sit up onto his knees, crouch into a ball and was applying pressure to the wound on his forehead. The scent of Joel’s blood smelled sweet and alluring, Emmet’s mouth watered at the mere thought of sinking his teeth into the arteries and despite the increasing dizziness, he slowly shuffled along the floor. He moved on his stomach and used one arm to pull himself along; the other was still holding his forehead.

Keeping a firm grip on his family jewels, Joel sat up on his elbow and looked over his shoulder just in time to be pushed to the ground by his savage friend. Emmet had both hands wrapped around Joel’s neck and was squeezing on his trachea, the tips of his long nails punctured the flesh.  His ghostly lips were pulled into a maniacal grin, his eyes were alert and the pupils were dilated and dark vital fluid was trickling down from his forehead.

“You’re mine fucker!” the voice that produced from Emmet’s throat was not his; it was cracked and distorted like a recording on an EVP.

Joel tried to scream, but the restriction to his lungs was becoming too much and he could feel the black void of a black out approaching. His vision was drifting in and out of focus and his limbs felt too heavy for his body. Tinnitus commenced in his ears accompanied by a stretch of dizziness. 

The door of the flat thumbed against the wall, steel-toed boots pounded on the floor and his father’s faint voice shouted from the hall. Joel could just make out the click of John’s Colt 1911.

Emmet removed his hands from Joel’s aching throat, jumped of his body and swung round to face the 5in barrel of the semi-automatic. Joel’s throat stung as oxygen travelled down his windpipe, but it was welcomed like a mug of hot tea.

As John rushed to his son’s side, he kept the gun aimed at Emmet, who was backed against the far wall with his knees up to his chin. Joel wondered briefly how he had gotten there so fast and as his father opened his mouth to speak, unconsciousness took over.