Origins of Blood

Chapter 9: I Am a Monster


Elliot's POV

"You only truly know horror when all that is good has been lost."

—Elliot Starfall

The beige leather shoes lie before my bare feet, their soles soaked in the mingling hues of green and red—my blood and that of the creature. I gaze down at the mutilated being, my shoulders slumping once more, my body following suit.

Splash.

My knees collapse into the viscous pool, a grotesque mixture of its blood and remnants of my own. My mouth hangs open, my eyes shut tight. I lift my trembling hands into the pale blue light, forcing my eyelids apart. My breath comes heavy, and a shaky smile begins to form. First, the corners of my mouth twitch upward, then falter, only to rise again. My brows knit together, then relax. My forearms feel as though they've been submerged in rice for a week—heavy and numb.

A low, stuttering laugh escapes me, evolving into a hysterical cackle. My torso sways, the tension in my thighs grounding me. I stare vacantly at the green flesh, peeling away like curdled milk, revealing the creature's shoulders. Maggots writhe within the beige suit, its chest rising and falling as if still breathing. For a moment, I recoil, my heart skipping a beat, but the laughter resumes.

The maggots consume the suit like termites devouring brittle wood. My gaze shifts from the ravaged chest, ribs protruding and infested, to the ceiling.

Drip.

Green blood drips down, splattering onto my face.

My knees and feet have long been submerged in its blood, but now it drips onto my cheek, my forehead, and finally, my nose. I bare my teeth, looking down once more as a tear escapes. Then another, until my cheeks are flooded, as if a dam has burst within me. My dimples fade, and I wear the expression of one whose very existence has been stolen. And indeed, it has. My brother, my life—gone. Never again will I see his carefree smile, the one that shone like the sun. He was my sun; I, the moon. Without him, I can no longer shine, no longer be uplifted by his joy. Not by day, not even by night.

My hands tremble, fingertips submerged in the warm blood. Never again will I hear his complaints when something went wrong. Never again will I hear his breath. No more birthdays, no more dinners. I am broken. My world is shattered.

I stare at the maggots, my blue eyes reflecting the supernova that was my brother. My teeth chatter against my lower lip, and my breath comes in sharp, whistling gasps. I hold my bloody hands before my face, snot running from my nose, teeth clacking. My vision blurs through the tears.

"He's dead. He's really dead," I whisper.

I peer through the gaps between my fingers at the headless creature.

"And so is it," I whisper again, tears streaming.

The flood of my sorrow doesn't cease. No matter how hard I fight it, it won't stop. The dam can't be rebuilt immediately; the flood must pass. My tears continue, as they should. For the rest of my life, I'll bear this brand, this scar.

I push myself up on one knee, my trembling hand grasping the leather shoe of the creature. With a furious glare, I wind up. I wind up longer and further than a baseball pitcher, almost dislocating my shoulder, nearly twisting my arm entirely—but I halt midway and strike. First with my right, then my left, then my right again. I pummel its knees, then its abdomen, then its chest, my fists plunging into the broth of maggots. I tear them out. Without the soft maggots, my fingers would be severed by the sharp ribs; instead, they're merely cut. But there's no red on my fists, only the green of my brother's murderer.

I clench my teeth so hard I almost hear them crack. I groan but don't stop hitting. My hand aches, but I continue, fingers splayed, digging into the initially loose flesh that becomes firmer the deeper I go. I feel my fingernails threatening to break, but I keep clawing at the flesh.

"You goddamn bastard!" I scream, my voice so loud it feels foreign. I scream and strike—actions that once felt alien but now grant me a twisted sense of power. The air is thick. My breath is labored. Yet I keep hitting, scratching through the creature's innards, using my elbows as hammers. Time passes, and I begin to stomp on it. Mostly with my heel, but occasionally with the ball of my foot, treating its limbs like a soccer ball. I keep striking, time becoming undefined in this moment of sweet revenge.

Eventually, I stand over the creature once more. My breath is so heavy I've given up trying to breathe. I collapse, my body sweatier than in a sauna. Both my feet are bruised, my once-healed knuckles reopened. Most of my body is sprained, perhaps worse. As I stand, looking down at the creature—its half-body scattered across the floor, bones stained green and spread over the green stone floor—I hold my arms bent behind my head. My head falls back onto my tense neck.

"Ren, I'm sorry," I say, my voice so muffled I barely understand it myself. But I've already turned around. My back is to the half-creature, my eyes facing the unknown, the light. I look into what Ren always gave me, even without him before me. My last tears drip down my jaw, and I ascend the creaking stairs. Blood drips from my fists—green, the monster's—but the rest has long since dried. My toes press against the dry steps, producing a sound akin to breaking Styrofoam. My pupils narrow; the blue light, now whiter than blue, resembles the sun as I know it. But upon reaching the top, in a room that could belong to any ordinary house, I see them outside the closed window. Light green curtains shield the interior from the sun, but the scant light from the blue sun is enough to blind me. I grimace, raising my bloodied green hands like a vampire shielding himself from the sun.

I hear footsteps—footsteps through puddles. I turn around, squinting. They are people.

At first glance, they seem ordinary—dressed in simple, outdated clothes. But upon closer inspection, they are different. Blue lips and bluish skin. Not entirely blue, but in areas where blood flows more intensely, instead of a flushed complexion, there's a bluish hue. My hair stands on end across my entire naked body. They are women, men. Children running alongside them, holding their blue hands. They smile, and in a brief breath I've long forgotten to take, I think they might actually be normal.

I brace myself with my aching hand as I continue to gaze at the passersby through the narrow street. Only a horse-drawn carriage, and behind it, I see another seemingly peaceful family. A little girl, just about the age of the one I slept beside yesterday. Beside whom I mourned my little brother. But they are dragging someone along. A small boy. One who stands out to me in the pale blue mist. In the murky, cold, and abandoned world. A red spark. One like me. Yet they drag him behind them. The apparent father holds the girl's hand as she eats a piece of bread the size of her hand. Half-eaten. Innocently, she tears it in two. The little red boy, probably half my size, runs half-naked, unlike me, wearing only underwear. Like me, with a burn mark along his neck, less disfigured than I was a few days ago, more than I am in my current state. The girl holds out one half of her bread to the brown-haired little boy. My fingers reach toward the ever-dimming light. The little boy reaches for the bread, only to be pushed by the slightly older girl. He falls into a puddle. The girl throws the half of the bread at him, it too landing in the dirty puddle. Other passersby walk by, some laughing like the little girl, like the father or the mother. Despite their humanoid form, they are not human. But neither am I.

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I turn away, my gaze lowered. I can't help, not in this state. Not with my current form, not with my limited knowledge. I can't. I'm sorry, but I can't.

My bare feet leave green stains on the wooden floor. Though they are fading in intensity, even after twenty aimless steps around this house, they still leave marks. Olive-colored wallpaper. Cabinets reminiscent of visits to my grandparents in my childhood. The kitchen, cutlery, porcelain plates. Ticking clocks. Clocks with 16 instead of 24 numerals. Everything feels so antiquated.

I continue walking, see a newspaper, and read a headline: The third week after the Reds' breach through Apollo, and already resistance? I turn to the next page and the bluish paper sticks together, the text italicized and orange. My eyes delve deeper, and they begin to ache from the script. I sigh, slamming my fist onto the hard wooden table in the apparent living room. I turn around, walk over the amber-orange carpet, still reading the newspaper, and sit on a sofa that reminds me again of visits to my grandparents. It's hard, not comfortable, more for show than for actual comfort. The edges are hard, bulging slightly, and I sit with my bloody back and buttocks, but I don't care.

I glance at a bowl, sigh, and reach into the exotic-looking fruit. I've never seen it before, never even heard of it. As I try to continue reading the newspaper and bring the bluish fruit, resembling a pear, close to my mouth, I throw it against the olive wallpaper, causing a hanging picture to fall. The newspaper follows, though it doesn't fly nearly as far. "What the hell am I even doing here?" I curse grumpily, clenching my hands into fists. Reading the newspaper as if I were my own grandfather. Peacefully waiting to die? For someone to come, preferably a green one, who would kill me without batting an eye?

I swallow and look around thoughtfully. I walk out of the living room into another. It's a smaller hallway, but where it leads is the X on my treasure map. A bathroom. I stare into the mirror framed in apple green and don't recognize myself. Ashamed, I look away, approach the tiled bathroom. Wooden toothbrushes, an oversized bathtub, and a showerhead with thumb-sized holes. The ceiling is the showerhead, the half area above the tub, in which I would fit one and a half times. The pale blue tiles, which, like the mirrors, reflect my pitiful body, are drenched in red, but much more in green color from my body.

I look around briefly, grasping with my trembling hands over the edge of the tub, which is at knee height. As I place my toes into the still-empty tub, I look at myself for the first time in weeks. I could only roughly imagine how I would look now, but it was worse than I thought. I stare at myself in the crosswise mirror among the several and show nothing. I just stare. Look at my uneven skin. In copper color, green and blue spots. I thought my jaw was healed; I can move it again, bite, but it still looks deformed, as if only half pushed back. My nasal bone is indented, my hair grisly and oily, falling over my reddened eyes. My hair looks like ash amidst the embers.

I breathe in and out more deeply, staring into my reddened eyes. I thought my eyes were blue. Blue like the sun, but they are, as I see. Red like my blood. Pupilless. I don't even bother to be speechless. I continue staring, my eyes wandering to my neck, which no longer seems present. Replaced by red flesh. Blisters, like a pizza from which the cheese has been pulled away. My eyes wander further down, and I see the small scratches, accompanied by blue and violet spots. My fists tremble, hanging down at my hips. Red blood drips from my fingers into the tub below.

While my face is hairless, the rest, especially down there, is all covered. I want to look at my feet and knees, but the ice-blue tub blocks the view, and I don't bother to step out again. Instead, I just sigh, directing my stiff shoulders, my hands searching for a faucet. There's no curtain. No window, just the room full of cold tiles. It's slightly darker than in the hallway, but compared to the chamber, like the blazing fire around which one warms oneself while camping. My fingers hardly obey me, so I press a long, cold part with my bloody flat hand.

Splash.

At first, I don't think much of it. Just a breath. But then it stutters. Sharp. Disjointed. As if it might be my last. I suck in air instinctively—but it's not air. It's water. I gasp, choking on the cold, and pain slams into my chest like a stone. My lungs seize. My arms lock up. For a moment, I feel as though something is pressing down on me, trying to drown me slowly.

I want to scream, but there's no voice—only bubbles rising. But as I fight the suffocating pressure, it shifts. Not the water. Me. My body adjusts, numbing to the cold. The shock dulls, and I breathe easier, though my breath still trembles. My body shivers violently, jaw clenched, arms drawn in. It's not the kind of cold that prickles your skin. It's the kind that seeps into your bones, and soaks into your soul.

I glance down.

My toes are purpled, the nails cracked and bruised. Some half-torn. I remember when I played football, and my nails would split from the impact of the ball. Funny, the things you remember when you're breaking. A stream of dirt and hair floats around me—grime shed from my skin like dead memories. I lift my hand, watching how the water runs down my fingers like thin rivers, and for a second, I wonder if this is what it's like to die quietly.

Still trembling, I try to rub warmth into my arms, but even that feels pointless. My muscles are sore. Burned out. My head tilts back, hair slicked and dark, clinging to my cheeks. My testicles have shrunk from the cold, my toes ache, and my forearms lock up each time I flex them. I feel weak. Human. Small.

Then, I spot it—a container tucked in the corner. A cream. I reach for it, hands shaking, and unscrew the lid. The scent hits me immediately—fruity, a hint of honey. Faint. Fragile. It feels wrong in a place like this. Still, I pour it into my palm and scrub it across my skin. Every inch. Not because I believe it'll save me—but because I want to erase whatever still clings to me from that cell. When the bottle is empty, I rise.

The water that drains from my body is tinged green and red.

I step out, towel in hand, and dry myself roughly. The robe is coarse, green, and too big, but I wrap it tight around my waist. I pass the mirror again. My reflection stares back—jaw still off-center, face paler than usual. But the grime is gone. The blood too. My pupils look normal now, and my irises shimmer faintly blue. But I don't trust them. Not anymore.

I glance at the green-stained tiles and spot an open wardrobe near the wall. I dress quickly—white underwear, beige linen trousers, suspenders that keep sliding off my shoulders. My body's not as built as Ren's, but it's lean. Strong enough. A white shirt clings to my frame, followed by a wrinkled blouse. The socks are a mismatched green, and the shoes—soft, beige leather—press tightly on my bruised toes. I wince, then breathe through it.

I slide the suspenders over my shoulders again, glance once more at the damp hair sticking to my brow, and grab a comb off the coat rack. The teeth drag through the knots with resistance, and I have to force it. My scalp burns. But I keep going. I don't care. I need to look like them. Act like them. Blend in. Like a snake in a garden.

As I near the window—the same one where the girl had pushed the boy into the puddle—I stop.

Outside, a group of women stands chained together. Naked. Shivering. The rain pelts their backs, and cold wind rushes through the open window. Curtains dance like ghosts. Their eyes meet mine. Wide. Dull. Hollow. The water around them is filthy, crawling with mud and waste, and their skin is raw from the cold. Then, I see one of them—just a girl. Younger than Ren. She stumbles forward, collapsing into the path of a carriage.

The horses rear. A scream. Then silence.

Her head rolls toward me, stopping just before the gate. Her bloodied eyes stare directly into mine, as if pleading. Not for help. For release. She's gone. Whatever future she had—college, love, children—it's shattered beneath those hooves.

A man curses nearby. Not out of pity. No, out of greed. "Five Cont wasted," he grunts, brushing rain off his fat face. His mustache twitches. He glares at the crushed girl, not like she was a person, but as if she were a broken product.

I look away.

I shut the window. The wind hisses, like a cry from something trapped outside. I hear the crowd scattering. The girl's body—what's left of it—disappears behind the curtain. I don't cry. There's nothing left in me for tears. Only a bitter silence.

I toss the comb aside and move downstairs.

The wooden steps groan under my weight, like something deep below doesn't want me coming. It reminds me of the basement back home, the one I was always too scared to enter alone. But I went. I was the older one. I did what needed doing.

Now?

There's a monster waiting down there. I know it. I feel it.

But I'm not afraid anymore.

I descend into the darkness. The smell of death returns like an old friend. Damp. Rotting. Familiar. The room is silent, except for the distant drip of water and the soft squelch underfoot.

I find him—the corpse, barely human anymore. Swollen, ruptured, broken.

I stop in front of it, unhook my suspenders, and loosen my waistband.

And I piss.

Right there. On what remains of him.

Because I don't feel fear.

Not anymore.

I'm a monster too. Just not the same kind.

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