Sunday, January 10, 2010

Bloody Lunatic ! (Short Story)

This is a short story I wrote in my Creative Writing class a couple years ago. It's based on the background of one of my former roleplay characters on the Bitefight.fr forums. I spoke about that character in an earlier forum post. My teacher gave me quite the high grade on that text and I'm pretty proud about it, I must admit. Now I'm sharing it with you. Enjoy !
    It was a cold Saturday night and the round moon was casting its dim glowing light by the rooms' windows. Like every month, that particular night had seen its usual slight increase of wounded patient admissions. For a reason that has yet to be explained to me scientifically, people seemed to be more reckless and aggressive on full moon nights, thus resulting in more car accidents, random fights and other generally violent acts that caused more people to end up bleeding on my operation table than on any ordinary night. Maybe it was just an impression, but those full moon night shifts always seemed to be longer than ever and, after that one, I was utterly exhausted. Although it wasn't completely over yet, my body was begging me for some sleep or at least an enormous cup of good coffee, whichever came first. I was on my last round of duty, making sure that the people I had repaired earlier during the night were still functioning the way they were meant to.

    I finally reached the last patient on my checklist. He had been carried in by ambulance and pushed straight into the surgery room, as he was perforated by several stabbing wounds that he had received during a bar fight. It was almost a miracle that he had survived the trip and not drowned in his own blood on the way to the hospital. We hadn't been able to find any form of identification papers on him and since every second was counting, our only hope was that he didn't reject the first O- blood pouch we gave him, otherwise he would have been doomed. Fortunately for us, O- was precisely his blood type. Yet that was only the first obstacle in our race against time. The man was so hairy that we had no choice but to shave the thick dark-reddish fur covering his chest before we could disinfect and operate. Fixing him took five sweating hours, stopping the leaks and closing the holes. Some vital organs were damaged but the repairs had been surprisingly simple to make, yet he was incredibly lucky to make it through. His heart seemed to obstinately refuse to give up on beating, no matter the circumstances.

    I would soon regret the efforts I had made to save that lucky son of a dog and curse the almighty Lord for being so generously unfair in the distribution of his miracles. I was checking the anonymous patient's vital signs and noticed a scar on his bare furry forearm. Teeth. He had been bitten. By what, though ? I couldn't guess. While I was observing the semi-circular mark with curiosity, trying to determine what caused it, I didn't notice that he had awakened. It happened so fast... Before I even had a clue of what was going on, he had grabbed my right arm and was biting me so hard that I thought my radius would be crushed to dust.

    I was petrified by pain, my eyes were filled with tears and I could barely moan. Each second seemed like an eternity as I felt his teeth piercing my skin. I don't know how many of these eternities it took before I regained control over my body, but I remember punching him in the face, in vain. It only hurt my hand as he groaned and bit harder, as if that was even possible. I roared with rage and in a desperate attempt to break his grip I dropped my left elbow in his ribs with all my skinny weight. It was more efficient than I would have dared to hope. I saw him gag and he litterally spat my arm away as he released it to hold his ribs, coughing while I backed off from the bed as quick as I could.

    My scream had alerted the whole section. I bumped into an intern while trying to escape from my aggressor, as he was already trying to get up. A blood stain had formed on the sheet that covered his chest. The impact of my blow had probably broken a couple of stitches; like I cared. He was staring at me with fierce rage. I was holding my wounded arm against my chest, the sleeve was warm and humid. The intern glanced at me with an expression of worried horror and shouted "Security!" as he interposed his strong meat carcass between the bloody lunatic and the target of his fury. The unknown patient was himself surprisingly powerful despite his wounds and having just awakened from such a serious operation. I watched the scene in awe, in a state of shocked dizzyness as my own blood was dripping on the floor. The security guards irrupted in the room while the intern was struggling to put the aggresive lad back in his bed and they quickly subdued him as I was pulled away and discretely removed from the combat field by my assistant, Doctor William Thomas, who stitched me up and gave me preventive shots. I've been carrying a scalpel with me everywhere since then.

    «Interesting story, Doctor Drake.» said Sergent Ross, the local police's investigator, after I was done telling him what happened on that fateful night. "So you're saying it was self-defense ?
- Of course it was ! That guy survived multiple stabs, an ambulance trip and a five hour surgery. How could I know he would die from the complications of a single hit in the ribs ? Especially considering the fact that it took three strong men to put him back in his bed and tie him up afterwards... that's crazy !
- That blow broke a rib that punctured his lung, you know ?
- That's impossible. Look at me ! I can't be that strong. Are you accusing me of... murder ?
- No Doctor. I would say professional negligence if there were any charge held against you. But there aren't any for the death of that man.
- Then why are you here ? It's been months already !" I was getting a bit irritated. Patients were waiting to be treated out there and we had been at it for a little more than an hour. That and I was quite insulted that he could insinuate that my negligence was responsible for that lunatic's death. Especially since he was still alive when he was moved to another hospital on the next morning .

    "Doctor, have you noticed any changes happening after these events ? Any memory black-outs, sense perception increases, wounds and pains of unknown origins, irrepressive aggressiveness ?
- Well yes, but I atributed it to either that traumatizing experience, perpetual stress or... being drunk, you know ?
- I see.  Do you know about those serial murders commited in the next months since then, those random people methodically mutilated every full moon ?
- I heard about it on the news. It's really frightening that they happened so close to the hospital. My colleagues and I are almost affraid to go home after work. We never travel alone anymore and I always lock doors and windows at home. But... why are you asking me all that ?
- You are our principal suspect.
- I beg you pardon ? What even makes me a suspect ?" I was stunned, but that was not yet the most unbelievable thing I had ever heard. What he said next definitely was, though.
"You are a surgeon and... You are a were-wolf.
- WHAT ? That's preposterous !
- The patient that bit you that night was a known lycanthrope fugitive. It's unfortunate that he died before we could catch him, but right now I will ask you to cooperate and follow me.
- Do you really expect me to believe that ? I'm a medical doctor, I know that there is no such thing as a virus or a bacteria causing lycanthropia.
- I knew you would say that. I have something to show you.
- Sergent, I have patients to take care of, get out of my office or I call in the psychiatrist."

    I got up to open the door. He remained seated and was unbuttoning his blue shirt, completely ignoring my order. The director of the service immediately irrupted into my office. He was, as usual, fulminating and shouting like a madman: "KATE-LYNN ! Why the hell are you not working ?" He saw the shirtless middle-aged policeman and almost literally exploded. "That's it, I've had enough of your shenanigans ! Doctor Drake, you are fired !" I stared blankly at the director as he marched out of my office, then at Sergent Ross. I sighed with exasperation, nodded in disbelief, shrugged with indifference and told him: "Oh well, I guess I can follow you, now." 

    He smirked triumphally. On his strong chest, arms and shoulders, there were multiple scars, but none of them were of the usual bullets, stabs or slashes expected to be found on a policeman's body. They were all scratches and semi-circular teeth marks.

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