Andrew Neiderman - Deficiency

It occurred to him in a truly vague way that there was a thin line of remorse streaming through his conscience. Only a surgical removal such as the old lady upstairs in bed didn't bother him at all, not that he was actually troubled enough to consider anything a bother. It was just something that gave him a moment's pause. He wished there was some way he could draw what he needed and not leave them so fatally depleted, but alas, in the end it was always either they or he, and frankly he wasn't in the altruism business. He always had to protect himself and never pass up an opportunity.

I have such insecurity, he thought shaking his head. That's the one thing he had yet to overcome and conquer: this terrible sense of fear that he would find himself on some desert or suddenly lose the ability to draw nectar from the flowers. He had that fear since it all began.

Actually, that memory, the memory of the first time, was still vivid. He liked to compare it to a woman losing her virginity. Even at the point of Alzheimer's disease, she would remember that, he thought.

It all happened purely accidentally, this entirely new existence, this grand life. Some nerd of an assistant got himself stoned and forgot to feed him through his IV. He nearly died, but fortunately Doctor Toby... yes, that was her name...

Toby... stopped by after she had attended some social event. The ordinarylooking woman with her dull brown hair and pockmarked cheeks had actually gone to a beauty salon and had her hair styled and colored. What's more, she was wearing makeup. The pallid complexion was well hidden and even her pockmarks were diminished. She had a firm bosom. So many times she had pressed it to him or he had brushed across her breasts and realized that although she wasn't wearing a bra, she held her form. In the eyes of others he saw the thought that her voluptuous figure, most of the time well hidden under her lab robe, was a waste. Not only didn't she have the face it deserved, but she didn't radiate any sexual energy or interest.

This particular evening, the evening he was to break his cherry, she came flying through the special living quarters surprisingly still laughing over something funny that had been told to her or had happened to her, her eyes still full of tiny explosions, which he imagined to be the aftermath of her drinking champagne and dancing and being romanced by someone she fancied. He heard her giggle again when she entered his bedroom. She didn't check the clipboards, which was her fatal mistake. If she had, she would have corrected the error and all would have gone on as it was. Not that it was much of a life, any of a life, in fact. Her blunder was his blessing actually.

When he set eyes on her, he was lying in bed, naked, struggling to breathe actually, just like some of his recent victims. Her eyes, on the other hand, were so full of fantasy, she was blinded to his problem. He saw the way her bosom rose and fell beneath the low-cut black dress, and he felt himself aroused with such speed and intensity, he was actually frightened for a moment. Later he would compare it to accelerating in an automobile and realizing he was going far too fast to negotiate the upcoming turn. He understood that panic could disable him and he fought it back and beat it down in time to take control. That was what he had done this time. She drew closer, intending to give him a quick examination. What happened was beyond his own expectations and far beyond his control. His arms, his hands, and his legs -- every part of him moved as if it had its own mind. Whatever he wanted back in the command center made absolutely no difference.

When she reached out to touch his forehead, finally becoming concerned at his pallor, he seized her wrist and drew her down to him. She tried to resist, but he was driven now by a force hitherto undiscovered deep within him, so asleep not even he had ever realized its existence.

She cried out and tried to pull away, but he was all over her, tearing away her dress, twisting and turning her so he could get on top of her and suck on her mouth, drawing the very air out of her lungs. He could actually see them in his mind's eye, both of them like balloons collapsing. Her eyes had become neon bulbs brightening with such fear they were close to bursting. He wondered if she could feel or even see the life being drawn out of her. His prick was more like a beak, drawing the nectar. Every part of his body had become a portal ingesting, a sponge soaking her up. He was illuminated with the power of it. She was literally being absorbed into him.

Her final cries were so thin and low, only someone or something with his acute sense of hearing could know she had uttered any sound at all. Her eyes, once full of light, began to dim and then grow dark and icy. Once he was satiated, her body looked nauseating, like the rotting skin of a banana. Even flies would avoid it.

He stepped away and then dressed himself. What he realized was he was stronger, more full of energy than he had ever been. Not the shots, not the pills, not the IVs, nothing made him feel as good as this had, and like some lion cub that had been given its first taste of meat, he lunged forward on the unsuspecting world that to him had suddenly become a grand feast, a table of delectable delights.

How could he ever forget that? Even now, reliving it in his thoughts, he felt himself aroused. Eat a good breakfast, go get some exciting new clothes, and go forth to seek a new sexual encounter, if not to feed, than to enjoy, for every sense in his body needed to be satiated. He wanted to hear wonderful music, eat delicious foods, smell the aroma from a beautiful woman's skin and hair and feel the softness of her breasts and the promise between her thighs and especially see the enjoyment in her face, too, for when he was like this, he was capable of giving them so much pleasure it even made him jealous and wonder if he was getting as much as he was giving.

Whoever the lucky woman was today, she would never forget him, he thought and laughed.

He started to prepare his eggs when the phone rang. He stared at it on the kitchen wall while it rang and then he decided he had better answer it.

"May I speak with Mrs. Martin, please," he was asked by a very official, drysounding man.

"She is unable to come to the phone," he replied. "She can't talk to anyone." It was all true, he thought smiling.

"Oh, well, of course. This is Dr. Anderson. I wanted to let her know she could have Kristin's body moved to the funeral parlor today."

"Right, right. I'm her nephew," he said. He always thought well and quickly on his feet after a feed. "I'll see to that immediately."

"Thank you. I'm sorry," the doctor added.

"Aren't we all?" he replied. It was something the doctor obviously hadn't been prepared to hear. He was silent a moment and then said good-bye. Now what to do? he thought gazing around the kitchen. He really would like to remain here a while longer. It was so convenient and comfortable. He started to rifle through drawers until he found the phone book and flipped to the Yellow Pages. Thanks to the GPS system in his car, he had a very good concept of the area and its surrounding hamlets. He located a funeral parlor in a place nearby called Woodbourne and phoned. When the gentleman who took such great care to make his consonants crisp and his vowels full answered, he introduced himself to the man as Stanley Martin, a nephew and only mature and living close relative of the deceased Kristin Martin. Not surprisingly, the undertaker already knew of the death. Next to the deceased, he was probably the first to know. After all, it was his business to know death, to tap in on its calls like some FBI agent plugged into a suspect's phone lines.

"We'll take care of her immediately," the undertaker said and assured him everything would be handled properly and with the most possible respect.