Short Story: The Last Drink

Evening had set. The shadows stretched into his apartment like long grasping fingers. He watched them from the corner of his room as they enveloped the fading daylight. He could feel the symptoms increasing. There was a pit in his stomach, a festering and lashing void–twisting his bowels, squeezing his lungs, battering his heart, and scorching his liver. His mouth was drier than a sidewalk in summer, his body shook as if he was standing naked inside a frozen lake in the bitter cold night of December. He felt half-awake, half feverish; and thirstiest he had ever been. Yet no draught of water would quench it. There was ice in his veins and his skin was whiter than a dead man.

He would not last another day.

He would not even last this night.

Tears sprang up his eyes. He chocked back a sob in his throat. He watched as darkness filled his room.

Then he heard a sound, loud and clear and deep. The clang of a great church bell. And then another. And then another. They came from far away in the city but he could hear them now. They filled his room like explosions filled a theatre. They filled his ears, his eyes, his mouth, his skull. For a moment, he felt nothing was wrong with him. Nothing bad had happened to him. For a moment, he forgot he thirsted. But as the ringing stopped, they crawled back from the woodworks, and his anguished renewed inside him. But he cried not another tear, and no sob came out of him. He decided to go to the bells.

Night came as day. He avoided the people and especially their smell, taking to the alleyways, the backroads, and the rooftops. He crossed the roads only when he was sure there were no pedestrians or cars. There was a bright moon in the sky and a brittle wind in the air. He wore a long coat, a hat, and gloves. All that peeked out into the night was his white nose. There was a mob of people loitering in the bright centre plaza, so he took to the park, sneaking past couples and dogs, and watchmen on their patrols. The water of the lake was turned silver in the moonlight–a shimmering, shining bridge. The shadow of a cross fell upon it. He looked up and saw the church and its iconic capstone. He exited the park and glided into the building like a wraith.

The priest at first didn’t notice the visitor. It was not unprecedented for people to come in late during Mass. Neither did he think much when said visitor stood at the corner wall instead of sitting at one of the pews, farthest from any other person. It was only when the priest saw him embrace himself and shiver as if for cold, while he was clothed in a thick coat and hat and gloves, did he feel something was off. But he could not stop in the middle of the ceremony, and so he continued, keeping a watchful eye on the visitor who thankfully did nothing.

After he had finished, the deacon brought out the bread and the wine. The priest held the white meal with both of his hands and raised them above his head. He saw the visitor kneel out of the corner of his eye. “This is my body which I have given for you.” He laid the offering down gently and picked up the chalice. “This is my blood I have poured out for you which is the new covenant.”

The priest called upon the congregation to receive the Lord’s Eucharist. They came, received, and departed, until only the visitor was left, still kneeling beside the corner wall.

The priest called. “Son, come and receive the Lord’s Eucharist.”

The man got up on shaking legs. It was like watching a new born babe walk or an old man hobble. Somehow he came up the steps and knelt in front of the priest. He took off his hat. The priest started, shocked by the man's countenance. He had never imagined such a gaunt and pale face with cheeks sunk deep and eyes red and hazy. There were tear stains down his eyes and sweat on his agitated forehead. The scarf came off revealing a famished neck as white as his face and blue veins sticking out, and curious black dots on the side. At last, he took off his gloves, and he saw the pale flesh and claw-like nails which seemed to have been sharpened with a file.

But as soon as the priest’s surprise faded, pity welled up inside him. Surely the man before him suffered from some debilitating disease and had yet come to receive the Lord’s gift, maybe even as a last resort. He said a silent prayer for the man, and picked up the Lord, and placed Him on his tongue where he also saw sharp canines but he cared none.

“Son, receive the Lord.”

And immediately the man fell on his back and slid down the steps. The priest and deacon scrambled down to help him, but he was dead. However, they looked on with even more surprise for the man’s skin was no longer pale but a healthy pink. The long nails were also gone. The gaunt face and neck was fleshed, and soft like that of a child’s; and the eyes, though vacant, were now clear and white. His mouth hung open in a serene smile. The priest saw no fangs, but a red liquid was stained upon his lips and tongue.