Mitchell could remember every one of them. What they were wearing, their names, who had cried, who had tried to get away. And he only remembered more clearly the longer he went without. He thought that was what had broken everyone who had tried to give up before him, the need to forget. Right now, for example, it was difficult to think of anything but the way he could imagine her increased heartbeat, the way it was pushing the blood.
He felt the itch of incisors extending, razor sharp as they caught on his bottom lip. There was a pulse, or what would have been a pulse if his own heart was beating, pounding faster and fasted in the base of his skull. Do it, it said. Do it. Doit. DoitDotit..."
But her hand was warm on his. The touch seemed to spark something in Mitchell, something that had been overtaken by raw, pounding hunger. He snatched his hand away. His teeth were normal when he scrambled to his feet, hand pressed against his mouth. The couple behind them called out their complaints that he was blocking the screen.
"Go," he managed. That itch was starting up again. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You need to go. Now."