Andrew Crow
Flash Fiction Winning Story

S onofabitch was bleeding again.
I'd stitched him already. With good, thick nylon sewing thread, not the three-oh silk those deft-handed certified cutters use. What a find in a place like this. And this guy was an expert: deep canyon-cut, lengthwise from wrist to inner elbow. No bullshit here. This one wanted to die.
His eyelids resembled clams, split a slidwidth.
Christ, why here? Why my place? I dug my nails into my palm. The hot, scarlet aroma of his blood filled my mind with lust. And Hunger. I resisted the urge to lick the red streaks off my fingers. It was fresh and smelled so fucking good...but the blood of a suicide, filled with a desperation darker than my own heart, could kill even someone like me.
It had been so long since I'd really eaten. Rat blood fills you, slakes the growing hunger, but it doesn't satiate. Can't cool the roaring scarlet fever.
Midnight already.
Christ, kid. I didn't need you tonight.
I looked around my latest hidey-hole. The sudden loss of my home had left me scrambling, the stakes of sunlight waiting.
Enough. I sighed and came to resolution. We're both trying to escape.
"Hey kid, do you remember Garbo?" Life would be so wonderful if only we knew what to do with it. I was at the interview when she said that. Maybe now I can fully understand it. Finally take something from it. Let's get through this night together.

First published: August 1998