Somewhere in Manhattan. Day VIII
‘In the end,’ Lorraine said through her wasted lips, ‘we have lost our souls, my dearest doctor.’
Closed clouds in the sky parodied the tragedy. He woke up just ten minutes ago enveloped in a clear confusion. ‘The vampires’ were there, motionless pictures of the past, guardians of his dreams, true spectators of the changing book they were living in. Outside, you could see the cruel silent of lies and words, the deep whisper of the guilty shadow.
‘He is ill, hurry up!’ He could hear before he went out. Even ‘the vampires’ ran swift. It was his opportunity, and he went to waste it. It was strange, because they were realty giving him an opportunity. He felt so exhausted as to be eight days at bed, but he felt weird fine, since the virus he was giving, it was in fact a vitamin. He looked at his hand, closing it once again, warning himself of his current living blood.
He took the clothes. There was no time for more. Where is Jack? First time he suspected that it was a fake, he thought of him, of his dear Jack. Jack was his dog when he was a child… he couldn’t think it, as simple as that: he couldn’t be there because he is… he preferred to stop there. Next, he thought about Lorraine with her perfect lips and curves, with her perennial smile. They both were forty but she looked like twenty five, an exact copy extracted from a dream. How could the mirror image be so different? He looked at the clouds… there was no wind; there was no sound in that noisy past streets, just the hunter waiting, just the mirror playing with his terrific image.
‘And now?’ Alex asked.
‘Now is time of dying.’ His own shadow answered.
Somewhere in Manhattan. Day VIII. Ten minutes later
‘Will we be able to save its live?’ And the room kept on silent. In spite of they had studied its form and anatomy; they didn’t know anything about that creature that it now was trying to survive, breathing slowly and slowly.
‘What have you done?’ One of the doctors asked in the moment that Lorraine’s mobile rang. She murmured something unintelligible and wrote in a near paper.
‘Its neck, just knife its neck.’
**Fake Game, serial novel by Martin Cid. First Chapter http://yareah.com/?p=1846