The Renfield Syndrome Ch. 07

The Renfield Syndrome (Bisexual horror) - David is an ordinary man thrown into a nightmarish world of bloodlust and passion with his own humanity at stake. This is an ongoing work in progress of psychosexual horror.

Content Warning: Bloody horror violence and gore, strong sexual content

CHAPTER 7

The overcast sky grew darker as sunset approached, the lights of the city coming on a bit at a time. One of the perks David enjoyed in his small apartment was that it faced west and was far enough north of the skyscrapers of downtown that he had a moderate view of Lake Union and could even see the famous Space Needle if he pressed his face to the window. His meagre furniture was arranged to take full advantage of it, especially his worn and comfortable recliner where he sat watching night come over the city. The perpetual rain had eased for an hour or so and the cloud cover to the west was thin enough for a few rays of the setting sun to peek through, marking the wall of gray with a smear of fiery orange. If there was one rule to living in Seattle, it was that if you saw the sun, you stopped whatever you were doing to enjoy it because you never knew when you might see it again.

David took a sip of his simple as hell cocktail. Cheap vodka, cheap orange juice, ice if he thought about it when getting a refill, with the ratio of alcohol to mixer gradually increasing as the day went on. He had been drinking since he got home, which was back to his old bad habits. "Step one is admitting you have a problem," he said aloud to the empty room. "You are not in control of your drinking, stop right now." This was followed by another swallow of the poor man's screwdriver with a bitter smirk.

He was pretty well lit, having been day drinking all afternoon. David's alcoholic methodology wasn't to drink a whole lot at once, but rather to imbibe steadily for hours and hours on end, the better to maintain the desired level of anesthetic for the longest period of time. The bathtub-quality vodka was hitting him unusually hard as well, likely because his tolerance had dropped during his measly five months of sobriety. Since he never drank for pleasure, David was an alcoholic on a budget and opted for the largest volume of liquor for the cheapest price. He felt his current selection should have been labeled with a warning about calling a doctor if you didn't get your eyesight back within 24 hours, but as foul as it was to taste, it fulfilled its primary purpose quite well.

David rarely if ever went to bars, he much preferred to get drunk at home alone where no one would bother him and he couldn't make an ass of himself. The only problem was he worked from home too, which left a lot of time to indulge in self-medication. Most of his leisure activities were home-based also, as David found a solitary life fit him well, or at least better than the alternative. It was a major bone of contention between him and his therapist, and she constantly reminded him that 'people are social animals' and he needed to 'step outside his safe zone'. But David found it simply too exhausting to pretend to be normal for that long.

'Be normal', two words that had defined David's entire life. Since childhood it had been his driving goal and never-ending personal quest, to be just like everyone else, the way everyone wanted him to be. To attract attention was to invite punishment, and so his survival method was to blend in so well that he could pass through life unnoticed. He always did exactly what he was supposed to, prayed to who he was supposed to, tried to date who he was supposed to, and never complained or asked for anything. Over time this habit even began to extend to his personal fashion choices, as he dressed plainly in dull colors, wore his hair in a mostly neglected mop, and avoided anything like body art, the better to give no one anything to look at or remember. He took all the pills and did all the therapy and self-work he was supposed to be doing, nicknaming his psychiatric meds his 'act normal' pills. And David often caught himself sabotaging his own successes, lest he do too well at something and get noticed. David supposed the strategy had worked, he was still alive after all, but yesterday's survival technique had become today's full-fledged personality disorder.

And now? What was normal anymore? Whatever the fuck passed for normal these days, David no longer qualified.

He couldn't escape or deny what he had almost done earlier today. David hadn't been in a blackout, he'd been in a literal murderous rage. So murderous in fact, that the only thing that had saved Gloria and the Old Man's lives was the appearance of a witness to his crime. David's memory was crystal clear, and the prospect of killing them both with his bare hands had felt so horribly... natural. It was just how things were supposed to work, to take them both down and feast on their flesh, and David's brain had received no error messages about his actions. It was sheer providence that the motorist had shown up when he did, or there was no doubt in David's mind what would have happened. And the worst part was his animal mind felt cheated that it didn't.

As it was, no cops had come to arrest him for cannibalism and patricide today, so David supposed that was a good thing. He'd driven directly home with only a stop for supplies and had dropped Lori's keys off without giving any indication that anything was amiss. Then David had figuratively boarded himself up in his apartment and settled into a good old fashioned alcoholic relapse. It just seemed like the right thing to do.

Not that drinking was helping make David feel any more normal, and if he ever needed a reminder, Tish still refused to come anywhere near him. He looked over to where she crouched in the kitchenette and felt a deep pang of loss. Normally she would be right here in the chair with him, gracing him with her noisy and enthusiastic purr. "Aw, Tish," David said sadly. "Are you just never going to let me touch you again? I miss you, kitty." The thought passed his mind that maybe his beloved cat would be more comfortable at Lori's place where at least she could get her stress level down. It was a painfully lonely thought, Tish often felt like the best friend David had left and she was leagues better than most of the people in his life. But at least the poor thing could relax and stop bristling and growling every time David got up to refill his drink. Which he did with regularity.

It was something he needed to do now, and he sat upright in the recliner and paused there as his treacherous stomach complained. Once upon a time, David could drink for days on end and never get sick, but at some point along the way alcohol had started hitting his stomach like a brick, bringing acid and nausea and general upset with even a moderate amount. David supposed that was his body telling him to stop drinking for fuck's sake, but it could join the choir along with his therapist, Lori, and his own rational mind and conscience.

David got up, swaying on his feet but not yet reaching the 'staggering' level of inebriation, and crossed the short space to the kitchenette causing Tish to yowl and scoot away back into the living area of his studio. He gave her an unhappy look and set to refilling his glass again, the humble ingredients sitting out on the counter. Booze, mixer, presto done. He could drink the vodka straight if he needed to, but it made him gag so he mixed it with anything available, fruit juice, soda, Kool-Aid, anything to mask the taste and give it an easier transport method to his stomach. He took a swallow, grimacing as this one had come out extra strong, and returned to his chair and his gloomy watch as night fell over the city.

But try as he might, David could not find the magic level of alcohol-induced numbness he desperately sought. Even as the familiar fog settled over his thoughts, his body seemed determined to remain on high alert. He was hungry again, for one thing. Ravenous, actually. He was too hot, and his clothes were confining and uncomfortable. Unlike his usual drunken states where he was happy to sit, stare at something, and think about nothing at all, tonight he was restless and edgy, wanting to squirm in his seat with his head full of unwelcome thoughts. His small apartment felt too small, more like a cage that he locked himself into day after day and night after night, as much for the convenience of others as his own safety. The beast in him wanted to taste the night air and felt like he was cowering in here. Which David supposed he had been for quite a long time. Stay apart. Bother no one. Attract no attention.

But there was something else inside him now. Something terrible and it raged against confinement. It was an insatiable hunger, not only for food, but for the satisfaction of his basest desires. It wanted to roam the streets like an animal, seeking out prey, mates, or just something to destroy. He suddenly felt furious at being trapped inside, because what had David ever done in his life but deny himself?

It was all he did. Deny himself fatty foods, deny himself drugs and alcohol, deny himself sex, deny himself even the simplest joys of life because they had become too expensive or too indulgent. He denied himself both friends and lovers because he felt like unfit company for either. He denied himself any chance of success in the rotten world because success remained the unknown and so was as dangerous as failure. Deny deny deny. David was a man terrified of his own appetites even before Miss Bicuspid-Cootch had appeared and put this new thing inside him to be afraid of. And David found himself sick to fucking death of being afraid.

Real men weren't afraid of anything. It was an ignorant sentiment planted in his mind by toxic people, and David knew that. But like so much else that went on in his head, David could rationalize and explain it all day long, and it didn't do a goddamn thing to convince his brain it wasn't real. As long as he could remember, he had never been enough of a man, and his lack of traditional masculinity was the bane of his existence. That the mold of a man in his mind was complete bullshit didn't stop him from trying to force himself into it every day of his life. He was never strong enough, never fit enough, never tall enough, never straight enough. He was the one who came dead last in any contest, couldn't win the game, couldn't land the promotion, couldn't get the girl. David was a background character in his own life, forever standing aside so better, more successful people could take the spotlight and achieve what he was afraid to.

David drained his nearly full screwdriver, grimaced, and suddenly furious he threw the glass against the wall where it shattered to fragments, scaring Tish all over again. He grunted in irritation at himself, but at the same time wished he had another to throw. A lifetime of failures and humiliations from petty to devastating all seemed to come back to him at once and lashing out felt good. David had never been a mean drunk in his life, he had too much experience with the Old Man to inflict anything similar on someone else. But now he felt angry, angry at himself, angry at the world, angry at the past, present, and whatever bizarre future he now faced.

Abruptly he stood from his chair and strode across the room toward the front door. David had no idea where he was going, but it felt too claustrophobic in his apartment to tolerate another second. He had to get out of here, he had to walk and feel the night air on his skin. It was the weekend on Capitol Hill, there had to be somewhere to go that wasn't here, something to do that wasn't what he did every day of his miserable life, which was hide here in the darkness, afraid.

Sure, David was a beaten animal. But maybe - just maybe - he had finally been beaten too much.

-----

Neighbors Nightclub in Capitol Hill was a Seattle landmark and institution. Three floors tall and sandwiched between two other buildings on the busy street, the outside was festooned with neon signs and brilliant décor in pride colors. There was no line to pass through the glass doors into the club inside, it was open to all and charged no cover on off nights, and it was advertised as a great place to dance without being judged.

David had never been here before as he tended to find crowded, nosy clubs more anxiety inducing than fun. It was the local hub of gay activity and integral to the community, but David had never exactly been a part of the 'community' either. He was only out of the closet by technicality anyway. Lori knew, his therapist knew, and he assumed the folks who worked at the gay magazine he wrote for knew, although he'd never met them in person and he worked under a pseudonym. And last June instead of joining the Pride Month festivities, David had celebrated by putting a small bisexual sticker up in his window, and that was the full extent that he was out.

And of course, it didn't take his therapist to figure out why he had stubbornly remained closeted for so long, the answer was still more fear. It had gotten especially bad lately with political anti-gay sentiment worse than David could remember it being since the bad old days of the 80s. And since he didn't have a husband or boyfriend or anything to hide, staying in the closet was as much a matter of convenience as anything else. Or at least that's what David always told himself.

David wasn't even sure how he identified anyway, he was bisexual mostly by technicality as well. He supposed if he had to answer he would say he was more attracted to men physically, but more attracted to women romantically and emotionally, due in large part to his distrust of men in general. But as far as actual experience went, his total male encounters could be counted on one hand, and most of those David considered abysmal failures anyway. So aside from a bad case of impostor syndrome, David figured it was easiest to simply say he was queer and let someone else make a flowchart if they wanted to. Sexuality was complicated.

The music could be heard from out on the sidewalk, a solid techno-funk dance beat. Several clubgoers stood around out front in their best partying clothes, smoking and conversing beneath the large colorful posters advertising an upcoming drag show and other nightly events. David wound his way through them and up to the large glass doors, pushing them open and letting himself inside.

Sounds, sights, and smells instantly overwhelmed him. The main room took up two entire stories of the building with second level balcony seating. A huge bank of electronic lights covered most of the far wall and they flashed and strobed frantically, bathing the club in a kaleidoscope of dazzling color. The dance music was deafeningly loud, reverberating up through the floor so that you could feel as much as hear it. And oh God, the smells! David inhaled an ocean of sweat and perfume and pheromones rolling off the dance floor like a physical wave. His olfactory system was overloaded, filling his head with far far too much information too quickly, and he stood dazed for several minutes trying to adjust enough to get a grip on his surroundings. The lights, the loudness, and the smell of writhing, sweating human bodies held him transfixed, until finally someone jostled past him on the way to the dance floor and broke his confusion.

There was nearly as much seating space in here as there was dancing space. Tables and booths surrounded the floor on all sides, and most of the eastern wall was the bar where no less than three bartenders plied their trade keeping the crowd good and lubed up. And a crowd it was, the dance floor was packed and the tables were full even on an off night, as Neighbors attracted as many straight people as gay ones. Rather than try to force his way through the dancers, David skirted around the large floor toward the bar, where he lucked into a seat just as someone else got up from their stool and went in the direction of the bathrooms. The bartender was a handsome bearded young man with a fauxhawk haircut and no shirt who came over straight away and leaned close so he could hear David's order over the music. His cologne was a delightfully fresh and earthy scent, and David inhaled his heady masculine bouquet, awakening a yearning inside him that was both strange and familiar.

As he sat and tried to get a handle on the amount of sheer input he was getting, David realized he was strikingly aware of the people around him. He could not just smell their drinks and sweat and favorite spritzed on scents, David swore he could practically smell their moods. He could feel the heat of their bodies as they pressed close trying to catch the handsome bartender's attention. David even caught sight of the pulse fluttering at the wrist of one of his neighbors, and wondered if not for the music would he be able to hear their heartbeat. The thought was... appetizing.

His drink came, a Long Island iced tea, something to be enjoyed this time rather than simply poured down his throat. He found the drink to be smooth and delicious and was delighted that it settled in his stomach easily, as most of the nausea that he'd built up from drinking in his apartment all day had abated. Nursing the cocktail in small sips, he got up from the stool and continued his circuit of the room, tasting the air all the way. He bumped elbows with a large woman with a faintly mannish appearance, and while excusing himself his senses informed him that she was especially drunk and especially horny. The pheromones were pouring off of her in fact, and by the time she went her giggling way, David had a raging hard on himself.

And that in and of itself was interesting. Being randomly horny wasn't something David was accustomed to, but he found himself tight enough in the trousers that he required a surreptitious readjusting. He located a vacant table, but rather than sitting down as planned, he set down his drink and moved closer to the dance floor.

David didn't know how to dance, it was one of the untold number of social skills that he'd missed along the way to a stunted adulthood. Neither did he flirt, party, schmooze, banter, or flaunt himself. But the dance floor was too crowded to do anything but sway along to the thunderous beat anyway, and David was feeling unusually bold. As his fellow clubgoers shifted to make room for him, he tasted each one's air until he felt he had the measure of that person, quickly growing more adept at managing the huge influx of chemical information they gave off. This one was aggressive and looking to cut loose, while that one was much more timid and anxious. This one was angry, his aroma held the sour stench of concealed rage, while that one and many more were clearly on the prowl for pleasures of the most carnal nature. This wealth of secret knowledge made David feel confident and audacious, and he claimed a spot on the dance floor where he swayed along with the crowd, not dancing alone so much as dancing with everyone at once.

In this way David found himself sharing space with a somewhat younger man whose personal bouquet was an especially tantalizing mix of Giorgio, alcohol, and marijuana in equal parts, liberally infused with young lustful hormones. He was a handsome latino man, a hair shorter than David, with a Viking style haircut and a closely trimmed beard, wearing a sleeveless shirt that showed off both his muscles and his tattoos. He and David shared a dance as strangers on a dance floor will do, and although David was usually oblivious to such things, the man was flirting for all he was worth. David hadn't dressed for clubbing, and he didn't have the kind of appearance that attracted strangers' attention, but just the man's scent alone was enough to tell David that he had officially caught this handsome fellow's eye. On an ordinary night, David would likely be uncomfortable at the attention, but here on the dance floor with his senses nearly overloaded, he felt brazen and ready to show off.