CHUPACABRA

Chapter Two: The Visitor

The specimen staring at Forty seems to have no need for blinking, though she does constantly wet her lips. Over and over, her green eyes pierce through Forty, the hues of the grass turning the irises aglow.  She sits cross-legged in front of the window, her back perfectly straight, her chin pointed forward, and every minute or so a quick tongue dashes out and laves over her puffy lips. It doesn't calm their perpetual chapped state. She keeps this up for the large part of the morning, and though Forty passes in front of the window every so often, she knows that the woman will always be there, watching.

"Does she want to attack me?" Forty asks Dr. Zapata plainly one day, pointing an annoyed finger at the woman in the window. A week has already passed by on the gray floor, uneventful besides her constant onlooker.

"No, actually," Dr. Zapata chuckles, tapping the window and startling the specimen on the other side. "I think she's just trying to talk to you."

"Why doesn't she speak?" Forty questions, casting a confused glance at her companion. The woman, who could not be more than a few years older or younger than Forty, remains in her seated position. The direction of her eyes change to where Forty talks with Zapata near the entrance of the outdoor area. She has to lean forward and bend her head just slightly to continue her watch.

"She's always had trouble with it," Zapata begins, walking over to sit in front of the window. He bends at the knee and flops back in the grass, mirroring the other specimen's position. He waves his hand for Forty to join him and she takes a more delicate descent into a kneeling position. Forty hates feeling small, so she feels it best to take a bird's eye view of the woman.

Zapata taps on the glass and the specimen shakes herself out of a little trance, her hypnotic eyes refocusing on the doctor. She quirks a full, dark brow at him, just slightly that it's noticeable but not enough to be called an expression. Zapata draws a cartoonish smile across his mouth with two meaty fingers, showing his teeth when he reaches the corners. In turn, the specimen drops open her dry mouth and grins, the action not quite reaching her eyes. With such a full view of her teeth, Forty can see why she has trouble speaking. Her secondary fangs are pushed backwards and to either side of them is a tertiary fang, though minuscule. The combination pokes at her tongue and the sides of her cheek, leaving her lips perpetually parted. "She's actually not supposed to be up here," Zapata adds, and the specimen takes that as a sign to drop her smile. She goes back to staring, now looping between Zapata and Forty. "We keep her up here because it's easier to maintain her teeth this way. They never stop growing."

Forty looks at him bug-eyed for a second, then turns back to the woman. She sends a tiny smile Forty's way, and Forty can't help but find her annoyingly endearing.

"What is her ID?"

"Forty-Five," Zapata replies, and the woman on the other side perks up at the number.

Forty-Five. That means she is Forty's age, maybe just a few months younger. She looks eagerly at Forty's face, something like hope in her eyes.

"Why is she looking at me like that?" Forty says, pointing at the puppy dog eyes.

"Like what?"

"Like a deer," Forty grits out. "Big-eyed."

Dr. Zapata looks down by his shoulder to give Forty an odd look. His dark eyes flit between the two specimens, brows furrowed. "It just means she wants to make you happy, please you so that you'll like her. Can't you tell from her face?"

Forty looks again and, truthfully, she can get this feeling that Forty-Five is trying to look inviting. Something weird stirs in Forty's chest, white-hot and alive, and when she locks eyes with Forty-Five there is a primal feeling ringing at the edge of her vision. "She wants to be friends?" Forty asks, and Zapata nods.