Draining Miss Davis
It was in August when Randy first tasted human blood – other than his own. Miss Davis, a retired school teacher that lived next door, became his donor on a sultry Dog-day evening.
Since his early childhood, Randy’s family and Miss Davis had been neighbors in the small but fast growing southern city, where she had been his fourth grade teacher. She was the first African-American to move onto his street.
Miss Davis had lived in her brick and clap board Federal style house for 10 years, the home she bought after Edgar, her husband, died. She was barren, so Randy was the only child to regularly bless her home.
With Edgar’s passing, Miss Davis depended on Randy to run the little day-to-day errands and take care of the odd jobs that pop up. He didn’t mind, as she was one of the few people that he could talk with and be accepted him for himself.
Among the chores she had him regularly attend to was making sure all door hinges were oiled and floor boards were fastened securely—she detested sassy hinges and boards that yelped in pain when they were stepped on.
Although she was in great health for a near seventy-year-old, she entrusted him with a key to her kitchen door, in case he or emergency people needed to enter in an extremity. Randy had become like a grandson.
He had lived in her house for two weeks while she was away to visit a sister. She paid him $25 to watch over her belongings—especially her two cats, Mouse and Cleo—while she was absent.
His mother, an excitable little woman, held an evening job cleaning at a department store, and didn’t often leave the home, except for work. Her divorce from his father had embarrassed and devastated her to the point that she shunned society. He had no siblings, so it worked out well.
Twice each year he visited his father in another city, but otherwise had little contact with him; or anyone else unless out of absolute necessity.
Becoming restless one evening while sitting the cats, and being so shy that he had no friends, he looked for something else to occupy his fourteen-year-old mind. Miss Davis wouldn’t purchase cable for the television and he had read everything in the house.
Cleo, like Randy, had no friends and little use for anyone or anything, but Randy and Mouse had become pals, as much so as anyone can with a persnickety feline.
While playing with Mouse, he scratched his slender hand on a staple that was coming loose from the stuffed chair. A drop of blood slid to the hardwood floor, and Mouse quickly lapped it up. He then let the cat lick his wound, which she seemed to enjoy.
Wondering what it was about blood that made animals crave it so, he wiped the cut with his shirt tail and squeezed more blood from the hand. Randy sucked the warm liquid and tried to discern what was good and bad about it.
He wondered if drinking blood would darken his skin color and maybe allow him to gain some weight. Having always been tall and skinny with a sallow complexion and mediocre health, the local kids called him anemic, ghost, and the other things that young minds may think of.
He also wondered if all animal blood was the same and if cat blood tasted like his.
“Come on, Mouse. Let’s go outside for a while.”
The remainder of this story can be found on my writing blog … invitation only.
Brasstacks44 