Dahlia slumped forward in the creaky metal chair, shivering when her chin touched the cold aluminum table for the first time. As the minutes slowly ticked by, she sat perfectly still and silently watched the bright, flickering florescent light bounce off the table's shiny surface.
It's like the sun almost, she thought. I feel like I'm trapped in the sun. Everything is bright, white, and reflective. I can feel my skin burning already. What a terrible room.
When she heard the door open, Dahlia didn't respond in the slightest, not even when she heard the chair across from her screech against the floor. The noise was so loud it gave her a headache.
"Good morning," said a man. Dahlia could smell the tobacco smoke on his breath as soon as he opened his mouth; it was a sharp, musty odor that lingered around like a fog. "I'm Inspector Moretti. What's your name?"
Dahlia didn't move, and she didn't speak.
"I'm sure these past few hours have been very overwhelming for you," he went on despite her, having only a mop of greasy dirty blonde hair to talk to. "Have you been given something to eat yet?"
Still no response.
The inspector shifted uncomfortably in the silence. "Sit up, please."
Slowly, Dahlia sat up in her chair, but her shoulders remained hunched forward as if an invisible string was pulling them toward the table. The inspector resisted the urge to push her shoulders back himself. Instead, he just sat a little straighter.
"This would be a lot easier if you would just cooperate," he said. "I want to make this as painless as possible for you. So if you would please just answer my questions."
"A light is buzzing," Dahlia abruptly stated as she stared up at the ceiling.
The inspector was taken aback by her sudden response. "It does that sometimes ... something must be loose up there. Pay no mind to it."
"It's bothering me. Fix it."
"I'm afraid I can't do that," he answered, making Dahlia frown with frustration. "Now, let's get back to the question. What is your name?"
"The sound reminds me of flies. I hate flies. They spoil everything."
"Yes, flies are pests. Please, answer the question." He waited for her response, and waited and waited, impatiently drumming his fingers against the table. "You have no name, no identification, so you might as well not even exist. Now, I want to help you, but first you have to help me. Understand?"
"I'll tell you the same thing I told the others: I don't need your help. I'm fine. Can I go now?"
The inspector pinched the bridge of his nose with his index and middle fingers. "No, you can't."
"Then can you fix the light?"
"No!" he shouted, losing his temper for just a moment. Catching himself, he took a deep breath and calmly said, "No, I can't, not until you answer my questions."
Dahlia sunk into her seat and folded her arms over her chest. "Then I guess we're done."
Biting back his anger, the inspector reluctantly stood to leave. "I guess so. You're not helping yourself, you know. If you were smart, you'd just tell us what we want to know."
Well, I've never been very smart, Dahlia thought, but she refused to speak. They could keep her there as long as they wanted, even send her to prison for the rest of her life. It didn't matter. She was never going to talk.
But she did want to silence that buzzing light.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. That was all she heard, and she started to squirm anxiously and itch at her skin.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz ... Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Grunting, Dahlia slammed her head against the table and closed her eyes. I can deal with it, she thought. I can ignore it.
Suddenly, there was a loud crash in the interrogation room, followed by another shortly after. When Inspector Moretti went to investigate, he walked into complete darkness. To his astonishment, all the ceiling light fixtures had been smashed, leaving the floor covered in glass and dust and the air polluted with a metallic burnt smell.
Dahlia was sitting in the shadows, still as a corpse. "A light was buzzing," she said. "I couldn't figure out which one it was."
The inspector's chair was lying on its side, its backrest still hot and burned black on one end.
I like this room better, Dahlia thought as she stared out through the grey steel bars of her holding cell. Outside, a guard casually stood watch, but he seemed more interested in the television than the detainees. The football game was on, after all, and he had put a lot of money on this particular game.
"These beds are pretty comfortable," Dahlia said to the guard as she lay down. "Much better than mine. What are they made of?"
"You're not supposed to be talking."
"But I am talking, and I'm asking about these beds. I want to get one for myself."
The guard snorted. "Like you could afford one."
"Hm. You're probably right. I guess I could just stay here then. I have everything I need here: a bed ... a toilet. What more could a girl want? You know, some food would be nice, actually. Do you have anything on you? I'm starving."
Émile wouldn't let me eat that sandwich, she went on thinking when the guard denied her an answer. I wanted that sandwich so bad! He said he would make everything okay again, but nothing is okay. And now he's gone again, and I'm all alone.
A tear slipped down her cheek, but she quickly wiped it away.
"It breaks my heart to see such a young girl behind bars," said a man in a deep, powerful voice.
Dahlia was most surprised to see Michele Distefano, the mayor of Volterra, standing outside her cell. He looked just like the picture on his many campaign flyers, much more handsome, though — and older.
"What would your parents think?" he asked.
"I don't have parents. And if I did, they probably wouldn't care."
"If you were my daughter, I would care. I would care very much. What's your name, child?"
"... Dahlia." She didn't understand why she had told him her name after denying it to so many others. There was just something about his face.
"Well, Dahlia, just for today, let's pretend you are my daughter. How would you like to get out of here?"
Dahlia sat up. "What?"
Michele nodded toward the guard, who then unlocked and opened her cell.
"There." The mayor stepped through. "Much better, don't you think? Now, let's go get some lunch, hmm? I'm starving."
Before she knew what was happening, Dahlia found herself sitting across from the mayor in the secluded corner of a very expensive restaurant. She sat in her seat awkwardly, unsure of how to even sit in such a fancy place; and when the waiter asked for her order, she just stared at him with a bewildered expression, like he was speaking a language that she couldn't understand.
"They don't have many fine restaurants in the Gutter, do they?" Michele asked as he drank from his wine glass.
Dahlia placed her elbows on the table only to lower them again a second later. "No," she answered, finally resting her hands on her lap, "they don't."
She had tried to sit up tall, but her weak, bony frame was unable to support her, so she had no choice but to let her shoulders fall into their natural slouched position.
"Why so much silverware?" she asked once her food arrived. "What am I supposed to do with all these?" Without thinking, she pushed away all but one fork, and the fine silverware clinked and clanged when it hit the floor.
Michele paused in mid-drink and watched as the girl devoured her pasta with the finesse of a toddler, chomping down mouthful after mouthful without stopping, not even for a breath. Her face was covered with so much sauce she looked like a hungry lion after feasting on a zebra.
With a small, sympathetic smile, Michele said, "You have a napkin, you know."
"Hmm?" Dahlia looked up at him with the innocent, glittering eyes of a child, and for a moment he thought of his own daughter when she'd dined at her first restaurant so many years ago. He smiled at the memory, but then he remembered that this lunch was about much more than a kind, fatherly gesture.
"How did you come to live in the Gutter, Dahlia?" Michele asked. "Clearly, you don't belong there, as no innocent child does. What happened? Where did you come from?"
Dahlia dropped her fork onto her empty plate and recoiled from the table, sinking back into herself. Her arms crossed in front of her chest, and she was silent again.
"I trust you know who I am," Michele went on, "so I don't need to explain the extent of my power. But I will say this: if you don't answer my questions, I can have you on the first plane back to wherever it is you came from."
"I didn't come from anywhere," she murmured.
"That's fine. I honestly don't care where you came from. My sole interest lies in your visit to the city hall last night. What were you doing in there?"
"Touring."
"I see. And during that tour did you meet a man? A man named Aro, by any chance?"
"No," Dahlia answered quickly, too quickly. "I didn't see anyone."
"What did he say to you?"
"He ... offered me a job, that's all. But I wasn't gonna take it or anything. I don't want anything to do with that kinda business. My hands are clean now, I swear."
Satisfied, Michele reached for his wine glass. "I want you to accept that job, Dahlia. And everything you hear, everything you see, I want you to report to me. Understand?"
"Why?"
"Aro is a very secretive man." He brought the glass to his lips and drank from it. "And I don't like secrets."
✧ ✧ ✧
How I despise hospitals, Christopher thought as he strode down the sterile white corridor. No more than three steps into the building, he had pulled out his hand sanitizer and squirted a drop of it onto the palm of his hand. And with every room he passed, he found that he needed more.
This place is a cesspool of germs and disease, he thought, furiously rubbing his hands together until they were sore. I'm going to get sick. I know I'm going to get sick - Ah! Room 213!
Putting on his most charismatic smile, Christopher smoothed out his jacket and then entered the room. As soon as he walked in, the old man sat up with a fright and started shouting at him.
"W-What are you doing here?" he stammered, spitting all over himself as he pulled his blanket all the way up to his chin. "Get out of my room! Get out! Get out!"
"Signore, I've not come to hurt you," Christopher calmly replied, and then he grabbed a chair and dragged it to the old man's bedside. "I've only come to hear your story."
"What story? You mean about that man who attacked me on the street? I don't care how rich he is, I'm pressing charges! He can't treat people like that and get away with it. He just can't!"
"That does sound like an interesting story, but that's not the one I'm referring to. I want to know about what happened after that, when you were attacked by ... something else."
The old man's eyes filled with fear and suspicion. "I told the last reporter everything I remember, and he didn't believe me. He called me crazy. Everybody thinks I'm crazy!"
"Is it true you had been drinking that night?" Christopher asked, taking out his notepad and pen.
"Well, yes, but I drink every night. It doesn't affect me like it used to when I was young. It takes more for me to feel ... nothing at all. But I know what I saw. I'm not crazy."
Christopher flashed a reassuring smile. "No need to worry. I'm not some journalist who only believes his version of the truth. I would very much like to hear yours, just as you remember it. So, if you would be so kind as to start from the beginning." From his pocket, he pulled out a small digital voice recorder. "May I record you? I think people will believe this story more if they hear it directly from you."
"Go ahead."
He pushed RECORD and spoke into the voice recorder. "My name is Christopher Redgrave, and I'm here with Signor Mancini, who was admitted to the hospital last night after an attack in Volterra, Italy. This is his story." He gestured toward the old man. "Tell me all that you remember of that night."
The old man cleared his throat. "I was walking home. It was late — or early, I suppose. Around midnight, I think. Maybe later. I was walking down the street, and I had a bad feeling, like something was watching me from the darkness. I've always hated the dark; it hides too much from you.
"I was walking, and the lights started to go out one after another. All the lights. Exploding like Pop! Pop! Pop! I ran and I screamed for help, but nobody helped. Nobody helps anybody anymore. I ran for the light. I thought it would keep me safe. And then I saw it — a hideous beast, twisted and grotesque, covered in hair. It looked like nothing I had ever seen before. Not quite a man, but not an animal either. And its claws were so sharp, and its teeth ...
"I ran as fast as I could, but it was too fast. It jumped. God, could it jump high! And all of a sudden it was right in front of me, snarling at me with a full mouth of teeth. When it attacked, I felt like I'd been hit by a truck. It tore and ripped through my flesh like it was made of paper. I don't remember the pain much. I just remember those eyes. Yellow, almost like ..."
"Like a wolf's eyes?" Christopher guessed.
"Maybe. It wasn't one of God's creatures, that much I know. It was one of Satan's beasts."
Christopher stopped the recording. "May I see the wound? I need a few pictures for the story."
"Of course."
Slowly, the old man pushed down the blanket that covered him, revealing a strange bite mark on his shoulder that was about the size of Christopher's hand. Beside it were a few claw marks that looked more like cat scratches than anything else. The affected area was red and slightly inflamed, but it was not as severe as he'd expected. In fact, some of the wounds looked like they were already starting to scab over.
"That's strange," Christopher said. "I thought the wounds would be deeper."
"They were deeper," replied the old man.
"I see." Christopher took out his camera and snapped a few shots. "Thank you for your time."
He moved toward the door but was soon stopped by the old man's voice.
"Do you believe me?" he asked. "Was it a monster that attacked me?"
Christopher glanced over his shoulder and smiled. "There's no such thing as monsters. Good day."
Five attacks in one night, Christopher thought as he walked out of the hospital and started down the street. But no deaths. What does it mean?