I decide to drive into the city where I like to people watch. Gas is expensive, so the two-hour drive to Concord happens rarely. No matter where I park, somehow, I always end up in the same park on the same bench with green grass surrounding me and the scent of dahlias filling my nostrils.

The sun is setting. Most people are off work and are out enjoying what remains of the day. Couples lounge in the park, sprawled upon blankets sharing late lunches and books. A group of men play frisbee to my left. A woman walks by with her golden retriever. The dog stops in front of me to thoroughly sniff around my foot. I wonder what he smells. I wonder if he can sense the Other.

As the sun slowly disappears, people leave the park. I am invisible to them as they pass. Thoughts of dinner, last minute errands and tomorrow’s endeavors are on their minds.

The real pleasure of watching people is imagining what it’s like to be them. A normal person with a normal job who is on their way home to their normal house in a pleasantly normal neighborhood. Are they returning home to their husbands or wives? Will they receive a sloppy lick from their dog? These fantasies of mine are a sweeping over generalization of course, but I cannot help but think these people do not live the same life as me. A life of blood, desperation and shame.

Soft gurgles emanate from my abdomen. A stomach on the edge of hunger. The bacon from earlier did little to suppress it. In the past I’ve been able to go four, sometimes six months before needing to feed again. I worry. It has only been two weeks. It’s something I should be able to stop but when a craving hits, there seems to be little I can do to prevent the Other from poking its head. I am like an alcoholic that is drinking themselves to death. With each sip their liver is one step closer to shutting down. Their family and friends scream, “Why are you doing this to yourself? Why can’t you just stop?” But what only the alcoholic and I understand is: it’s not that simple to just stop. In fact, sometimes we would rather die than stop.

When it’s time to feed I will have to hunt outside of Bartlett. Maybe I will even travel as far as Vermont or New York. If the newspaper articles speak truth, the police are still on high alert. I am not desperate enough yet. These people are safe for now. Part of me still believes people watching will provide a cure. That’s why I started doing it in the first place. With the hope that seeing innocent people interact with the world would instill some mercy in my cold heart. Some might think it foolish. Some might even think it sick to sit and observe the creatures one feeds on. But is it really any different than people visiting farms? After all, those happy cows in green pastures are the same cows drained of their blood, ground up and slapped on a hamburger bun with some ketchup and a side of fries.

Another gurgle from my gut. I resume my watching, resisting my growing hunger. Two women approach—a blonde and brunette. They are dressed in black from head to toe. Variants of entwined crosses and ribbons dangle from their throats. The blonde’s outfit is more intense: spiked heels, black lipstick, pointed nails. But there is something so familiar about the brunette. We lock eyes and instantly I realize who she is. She was my neighbor growing up. My long-lost best friend, Clarice. My heart accelerates as I brace myself to stand. She brushes by, her blue eyes drifting over me like I’m just another stranger.

The moment is gone.

It’s obvious now that I should have made my move. Of course, she didn’t recognize me. It’s been almost eleven years. Why hadn’t I called her name? There are so many things I want to ask her.

So, I stand and follow them.

###

Clarice and the blonde pause outside a place called The Den. They flash their ID’s at the bouncer before disappearing inside. From the neon sign and pounding bass, I gather The Den is a night club. I start forward then reconsider. I don’t belong in places like this. I look around. There is no line out front. Only a few people are propped against the building smoking or vaping, each dressed exactly how Clarice and the blonde had been. I glance down at my own attire: worn jeans, old work boots, a green T-shirt. It would have to do.

I march forward slipping my wallet from my back pocket, praying my ID isn’t expired. The bouncer takes a quick peek then gives me a once over. He raises an eyebrow. “You sure you’re at the right place?”

I nod but my heart flip flops. What does he see when he looks at me? Does he see a monster? Does he know I’m the guy the police are looking for only a few towns over? For a moment I panic. Is there blood smeared across my lips? Is my body covered with dirt and the scent of the woods? I brace myself, waiting for him to pull me aside while someone dials 911.

“All right,” he says. “Go on in. We don’t discriminate here.”

As I enter, I read the sign posted in the entryway: Welcome to Goth Night. Followed by either the club’s motto or a bad play on a Nirvana song: Come as you are, or as you were.

Next Chapter: Chapter 8