Lucy

When she closes her eyes, she can still hear the drip of the transfusion, can feel the needle piercing her skin. She muttered for them to stop, but they kept going, pressing on with their violation.

Their blood is in her veins now, pumping through her heart like a poison. She thinks she can feel it, a wrongness inside her.

The room reeks of garlic. The little dutchman has put it everywhere. He has a killer’s eyes. He will kill her, if she lets him.

An old wolf howls, out in the night, and she feels its pain.

This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Dale Rogerson for providing the prompt photo!

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