Blood of Gato

Arthur's house was bursting at the seams with people; even the neatly trimmed lawn was crowded with guys and girls clutching red cups, their laughter and shouts blending into a constant, buzzing roar. From the windows blazed shafts of electric light, as if the house itself had turned into a giant spotlight slicing through the night. The air was thick with the mingled scents of grilled meat, cheap cigarettes, and spilled alcohol—an unmistakable reminder that this was more than a gathering. This was a party.

When William first considered going, the idea had seemed perfect. A distraction. A chance to breathe. Just feel normal for a night, he'd told himself over and over throughout the day. But now, standing across the street and watching the house pulse with noise and bodies like some massive, living hive, he knew how wrong he had been. For him, "relaxation" wasn't harmless—it was dangerous. And too much tension was just as deadly. The moment he stepped out of his comfort zone, everything could spiral into blood-soaked chaos.

He lingered in the shadows, clenching and unclenching his fists. His fingers trembled faintly; his breathing came uneven and shallow.

Just knock on the door. Say hi. Smile. Everything will be fine, he whispered under his breath, bouncing lightly on his toes as if a bit of motion could burn off the panic taking root inside him.

But another voice hummed in the back of his skull—low, syrupy, venomous:

They're helpless. Fragile. You can already smell them, can't you? The sweat, the booze… the blood.

William ground his teeth until his jaw ached. No. He had to drown that whisper out. He had to stay in control. He would stay in control.

Forcing himself forward, he stepped out of the car, drawing in a deep breath of the crisp night air. For a moment, it helped. But with each step closer to the door, the smells grew stronger, heavier, more invasive—cheap beer, cloying perfume, the greasy smoke of the barbecue… and beneath it all, barely there but sharp as a blade: the tang of fresh blood. A cut on a hand, maybe. He caught it instantly.

The door flung open before he could even finish knocking.

"Will! Man, I didn't think you'd actually show up!" Arthur, red-cheeked from laughter and beer, grabbed him in a crushing hug, squeezing the air out of his lungs. "Come on in, brother—we're on fire tonight!"

William forced a smile, stretching it wide enough to look natural.

"Of course. I said I'd be here, didn't I?"

Inside, the noise hit him like a wave. The house was a sweat-drenched, chaotic press of teenagers and students: some yelling tunelessly into a karaoke machine, others jumping up and down on a couch with bottles in hand, while a heated crowd cheered on two guys racing to down pitchers of beer. Multi-colored string lights cast everything in sharp, feverish hues, flashing across a floor snowed over with crushed chips, empty cans, and sticky spills.

"Wow… you've really got a madhouse going here," William muttered with a low whistle, staring as a shirtless, heavyset guy with a crude otter face drawn on his belly tried to polish off a massive jug of beer while grunting out nonsense syllables.

Arthur laughed brightly. "All thanks to the coach. He convinced my parents to let us throw the team parties here. His words: tear up the field in practice, tear up your liver after!"

As always, Arthur looked like he'd stepped straight out of a commercial—tall, broad-shouldered, gleaming white smile. Golden hair, blue eyes, a body like it had been carved from marble. He was the very picture of the American dream—the football team's captain, golden boy, everyone's first choice for everything. In every way, he was William's opposite.

And yet… somehow, their friendship had endured. From childhood spent on the same street to this very moment—it had survived the years, and all the differences between them.

"Grab a drink and dive in, man! Don't stand around like a damn statue—we had enough of that last time. I'll catch you later!" Arthur clapped William's back with a meaty slam. Laughing, lit from within by booze and easy popularity, he pointed toward the drink table, then vanished into the pulsing crowd, leaving William stranded like a castaway among strangers.

With his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, William drifted reluctantly toward the table, where bottles, sticky puddles, and dented cups sprawled in chaos. He scowled, snatched the first beer he saw, and slipped back, moving as quietly as possible, like prey trying to pass unnoticed—though he was anything but prey.

"Sorry," he muttered as a drunk waved an arm dangerously close, nearly smacking him.

"All good, bro!" the guy bellowed, already forgetting William's existence a second later. Laughter, shrieks, sweaty embraces swirled around him, and still no one's eyes followed him. It was as if he were invisible, a shadow sliding among them unnoticed. And yet that only made the predator in him stir. They don't even sense the danger. They never do.

He dropped into a corner with his beer, trying to vanish in the noise. But a couple staggered over, collapsing right against him, lips locked, hands grabbing with desperate hunger. The girl's elbow dug into his ribs. The guy's knee shoved his thigh. Beer slopped down his leg, soaking into denim.

William's jaw tightened. "Maybe you two should find a more private spot?"

The beast inside split a grin in the dark.

They sit in your space, drunk, clumsy, smiling like fools… Do they deserve breath? Do they deserve to laugh while you starve? Snap the boy's neck. Slit her soft throat. Then you'll hear them scream.

Unbothered, still glued at the mouth, the couple hissed, "Maybe you should go play priest somewhere else!"

William inhaled sharply, fighting the fire crawling inside his veins. He forced a crooked smile, but his voice was low and sharp.

"Fine. Enjoy yourselves… while you can."

He rose, moving with careful, deliberate steps. Fighting, here and now, would be too easy. Too messy. The house sprawled with rooms; he just needed space. Restraint. Just awhile longer.

Upstairs offered no mercy. Almost every room was taken, filled with couples who weren't stopping at kisses. Guttural sounds slipped through cracked doors, tangled with the smell of sweat, cologne, and stale liquor. William flinched as the hammerbeat of their hearts reached him—all the shallow gasps of drunken passion pounding into his skull until his head throbbed with it. He felt like a lion shoved into a barn stuffed with bleeding sheep. Each one warm. Weak. Ripe for the taking.

His nails bit half-moons into his palms.

"I just need to go home," he whispered. "TV, couch, X-Files. That's safe. That's clean. Before I do something—" His throat tightened. "—something I can't take back."

And yet, instead of heading out, his body turned toward the kitchen. The quieter air felt like reprieve, a cage with the bars spread wider. He poured a whiskey-cola, lifted the cup, trying to force the animal down with the burn of liquor—when another voice, loud and booming, shattered the fragile calm.

"Bro, hiding again?"

Arthur clapped him on the shoulder, all warmth and blinding grin. "C'mon, Will, look around! So many gorgeous girls here, and you're posted up like a ghost with your little drink."

William didn't dare look up, staring into the caramel fizz of his glass as though it could anchor him. His grip was tight enough to crack the cup. "Arthur, I… I think I'm heading home. My head's killing me."

Arthur barked a laugh. "A headache? Come on, man, the party's barely started! No shot you're bailing this early. Nah. C'mere. You need some company."

Before he could resist, Arthur shoved him forward—toward heat, perfume, movement. Two girls stood by the doorway. One tall, chestnut hair spilling down, every inch of her dress designed to provoke. The other shorter, cropped hair, a sharp but inviting smile.

Arthur threw an arm around William's shoulders. "This guy's my best friend—we grew up together. He's quiet, sure, but he's solid."

The two women exchanged a glance. The shorter one stepped forward.

William finally lifted his eyes. And the moment his gaze landed on her, the beast roared awake.

Her pulse was there, faint but rapid—quicksilver flowing just under delicate skin. The perfume that clung to her only amplified the truth beneath it: breath, blood, warmth. His tongue pressed hard to the back of his teeth.

She's close. One step and you could taste her. One moment, and the hunger would vanish. Show her. Show all of them.

He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.

"Arthur mentioned that you're at the same university as him. I'm Peggy." She extended her hand—slender fingers with a neat manicure, her smile radiating an expectation of warmth in return. "And your name is…?"

William's gaze lingered on her hand, then drifted up to her face. Politeness dictated he shake it. But politeness was foreign to the thing coiled inside him. He could hear the pulse tapping faintly in her wrist, could smell her skin beneath whatever perfume she'd chosen. Instead of taking her hand, he only dipped his head in a stiff nod, muttering, avoiding her eyes.

"Yeah. We're in the same university."

Peggy's smile faltered, and she withdrew her hand. The taller girl beside her immediately snickered.

"God, it's like he can't even talk. You sure he's not mute?"

Arthur, choosing obliviousness over tension, clapped William's shoulder with a laugh.

"Come on, man—don't be so grim. Relax!"

But inside, the beast was clawing, restless and vicious.

They laugh. They mock. How long will you keep pretending?

"Sorry," William said quietly, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. "I don't feel so good. I should probably go."

The tall girl's gaze sharpened, lips curling in a smirk. Then, with deliberate cruelty, she drawled,

"Wait… aren't you Sofia's ex?" She burst into a laugh, sudden and sharp. "Peggy, this is him—the guy who told Tyrone his girl had, you know… something contagious between her legs. Can you believe that?"

Her voice was too loud, meant for the room. Perfectly aimed. Within seconds, William felt the shift of heads turning, eyes sliding toward him with hungry curiosity. Peggy, caught in the blast, recoiled as though his clothes had sprouted pus and rot.

Arthur frowned, baffled, not piecing together the story. But William didn't miss the only part that mattered—the name. Sofia. That bitter parasite still clinging to his shadow. A problem that followed him. A problem that needed removing. Permanently.

For a moment, his eyes slid shut. In his chest, the beast stirred, raking claws against ribcage, whispering with electric hunger:

Shatter her laughter. Snap her voice in your hands. Let her choke on that poison.

When he opened his eyes again, restraint won by a hair's breadth. His smile was brittle, bloodless, and his hand cut through the air as he muttered, "Alright. I'm out."

But the tall girl refused to let him slip away. Straightening, filling her lungs, she shouted over the music with glee:

"Tyrone! Hey, Tyrone! Your girl's little ex is right here. The asshole who trashed her name!"

The crowd pivoted like a living thing, attention snapping toward him.

William's focus drilled into her face, his stare blackening, sharpening like a blade. In his skull the words pulsed, searing:

You vile little bitch.