Free Blood Sacrifice by By Rick R. Reed Page B

itself into his entire face, making it feel like a throbbing messenger of hurt. He fell back against his pillow and closed his eyes; nausea began to roil in his stomach.
    This was no ordinary hangover. He would get no painting done today. This was why, in states of despair and after nights like the previous one (
what had happened?
), he often promised himself he would stay away from The Tiger’s Eye and drink no more, or no more than, say, a glass of wine with dinner, when he could afford it. The cost was just too high; not only did it empty what little cash he had in his pockets (dollars that could be invested more wisely in luxuries like food and rent), but also it exacted a larger—and more painful—toll in time. And time was a resource he could never renew, like money. Poor as he was, there was always the chance to make more money. Somehow. But time, once spent, was gone for good.
    He would pay for whatever happened the night before with this entire day. It bothered him that he couldn’t remember anything from last night.
How did I get home? What happened once I got here?
Edward wondered and tried to retrieve the memories, but it was as if they were never there, as if most of last night, after leaving The Tiger’s Eye, was a void. Blacking out was a line he had yet to cross and the thought of it made him even queasier. He didn’t want to become one of those drunken has-been painters, regaling others in a bar about what could have been to cadge a free drink before he even had his first gallery show.
    Even though it felt like the almost palpable pain behind his eyes would push them out, Edward managed to get up on his hands and knees and crawl to the little sink in the corner of the room. He was glad, for once, that there wasn’t much in his stomach.
    He turned the spigot on and lapped at the cold water like a dog, not bothering with glass or even cupped hands. The water helped calm the queasiness, and its chill was a balm to his aching head. Did he have what people in polite circles referred to as a “drinking problem”? Had he crossed a line from social drinker to alcoholic? Would he begin to lose weekends?
    After drinking what seemed like gallons, Edward squatted and splashed water on his face, letting it dribble down his naked body. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, keeping his mind blank by concentrating on the cool water. He opened his eyes.
    Looking down as the cold rivulets ran through matted chest hair, making their way south to a pitiful looking penis, shriveled and tiny, bereft of almost any blood (that was mostly in his brain, causing him the most delirious pain as a reminder to keep away from the booze), he noticed something wrong.
    There were several small, vertical scabs on his inner thighs. Three or four on each. Precise lines, their slightly irregular appearance due only to the crustings of blood. They looked deliberate.
    What had he done to himself?
    Edward grabbed a bath towel from the floor and dried the cold water from his face and body. He didn’t need anything to make him feel more chilled than he already did. He trembled slightly.
    These were cuts. Thin and almost elegant, they probably had to have been made with a razor.
    What had he done? What had been done to him?
    He looked around his apartment. The dull, midday light revealed a few spots of blood on the floor, a smear of it near the door: crimson fingerprints on the wall, turning black. His own blood.
    He felt bile rising up and scampered on his ass backwards, collapsing on his damp mattress, rolling himself into the loose sheets and shivering. Did he really not remember what had happened?
    Or did he just not want to?
    He lay back, trying to breathe slowly, deeply, to quell the quaking that seemed to be veering close to seizure. There was a wall in his mind, one he had erected, and he was afraid to peer over it. Yet flashes assailed him.
    Terence looking up at him from beneath Edward’s spread thighs, his face smeared with