CHUPACABRA

Chapter Nine: The Snake

A long time ago, Forty happened upon Jane's notebook when the monitor left it open on her desk.

Illustrations of different animals with their mouths opened wide, teeth projecting slobber from their mouths, decorated every free space on the page. Each creature's fangs were highlighted, sticky tabs marked with microscopic penmanship attached to the ends of the page. Despite knowing Jane didn't like it when Forty snooped, the girl, who could not have been more than twelve at that point, asked, "Jane, what is this?"

Jane, not yet hardened against Forty and lacking the blue streaks in her hair, turned to her from where she'd been preparing an adrenaline injection. She frowned at the notebook. "It's my journal," she said, but Forty shook her head.

"What is it for?" little Forty pressed, this time pointing at the vaguely feline animal in the upper left corner of the page.

"It's to observe you," Jane said simply, going back to the inoculation. Then, "to find out which teeth you have."

Forty looked at the journal, twisting her head this way and that to examine every angle of the creatures. When she was younger, the older monitor had taught her about species, how to recognize what an animal was. On the paper, Forty could see sharks, bobcats, pumas, gators, badgers, snakes, wolves, cats, and bears. Each was drawn in slightly differing shades of ink, telling Forty Jane often returned to the page and penned something new down. Eyes lingering on the open mouth of the shark, Forty asked, "What am I?"

Jane dropped the shot onto the tray with a clatter, taking a deep breath. "It's none of your concern," she gritted out. "Sit in your chair."

Forty sat down in the little plastic chair Jane brought from the cafeteria, clenching her fists on her thighs. She tried desperately to make the tiny claws poking out of her cuticles recede, hiding them by piercing her palms. She didn't like shots but knew they were necessary. Not because they made her feel better but because Jane said so. The blue tray Jane put on the desk near her shoulder set her teeth chattering, but she stayed dutifully still. Rolling up the sleeve on Forty's right arm, Jane ran a cold disinfectant wipe on the meat of her tricep, her eyes focused and hard. Jane always looked annoyed, though she barely ever lost her cool around Forty.

As Jane uncapped the needle and pressed it to Forty's arm, the girl felt a few tears slip from her eyes. They were warm, salty, and when they landed on Forty's blue scrub top they stained it purple. "Don't cry," Jane said. "I can't take it when you cry."

"I'm sorry," Forty whispered, voice watery. She raked her left arm across her eyes, fist coming back crimson.

Jane was quiet for a second, the needle poised to pierce Forty's skin. Then, as she pushed and sent the plunger downward, she said, "They resemble a snake's, both in shape and size."

With her mouth wrapped around the warm body of the chicken, feathers tickling the back of her throat, Forty thinks about rattlesnakes. Truly there isn't much else keeping her from vomiting up the blood she had earlier besides her poor attempts to distract herself.

Cold-blooded, you can tell they're venomous because their eyes are on top of their heads.

The chicken has long since stopped thrashing, now laying limp in her mouth. Forty can taste its blood, warm and salty. It doesn't trigger her appetite like a warmed up cup of it would. She's always hated the fight, the moment right when she looks in the animal's eyes and sees that it knows its death is near. She tried to avoid looking at the chicken, but its beady yellow eyes seemed to hypnotize her, the cocking to-and-fro of its head emphasizing its neck. She'd made it quick, or at least tried to, but there was always something to be said about feeling the thing's lungs still.