Blood of Gato

A bunch of red balls bounced back and forth, ricocheting off the polished, creaky wooden floor of the gym, as if it were a giant aquarium and they were frenzied goldfish. The air was thick, saturated with sweat and cheap deodorant, and something sweetly sour that made William's stomach churn. It was Thursday—the day when gym class became a mandatory trial—and even the fluorescent lights on the ceiling seemed to shine brighter and harsher than usual.

William held his breath, trying not to inhale the poison. He hated these classes not only for the constant jumping, push-ups, and the coach's shouting, but also for how quickly his classmates started to smell as soon as they broke a sweat. Lately, his sense of smell had sharpened: every foreign scent felt sharp, almost tangible, and the sounds were painfully loud. He could hear the squeaking of sneakers on the parquet, the quickened breaths, and sometimes even the thumping of someone else's heart, like someone tapping a spoon against a pot. Whenever another ball whizzed across the floor or bounced off the wall, his jaw would twitch.

Today, they were divided into teams and forced to play dodgeball. Hardly anyone understood how dangerous this game could become with a student who was barely holding himself together among them. Bloody fantasies flickered through William's mind: he stood in the middle of the gym, splattered with crimson, surrounded by bodies arranged in a grotesque, painful sculpture. He raised his hands, one holding Sofia's head, which smiled mysteriously at him and whispered, "So, handsome, do you want me?"

A sharp clap brought him back to reality: a red ball slammed into a student standing nearby. Someone from the team shouted, "Farrow, grab the ball! What are you doing, sleeping on your feet?!"

William blinked and grabbed the ball. His dry palms squeezed the rubber, and he threw it back quickly and accurately, hitting some guy from the other team right in the side. The guy yelped and hissed, rubbing his ribs, but in the general chaos, he didn't even register who had hit him.

"Good job, Farrow!" the coach shouted, his eyes gleaming from under his baseball cap. "But if you freeze up again, you'll get a fat F for laziness! Move it!"

"Yeah, sorry," William muttered quietly and started to hustle, dodging balls even though his vision was swimming.

Max ran up to him, cheerful and chewing strawberry gum. He smirked, spinning a ball in his hand and yelled, "What's up, princess? Did you spend all night watching your favorite adult films?"

Max threw the ball but missed, the ball hitting the wall with a dull thud.

"No, dude, I just haven't been sleeping. I think maybe I should start taking sleeping pills," William replied, trying to smile but failing.

Two more balls flew their way. William nudged Max in the side, and he barely managed to keep himself upright, but the balls flew past them.

"Whoa, thanks," Max exhaled. "That would've definitely knocked me out. You're really on edge today. Everything okay?"

"It's just the smell in here," William said quietly, grimacing as if a bitter taste of iron had appeared on his tongue. His gaze became unfocused, sliding somewhere beyond the gym where the air was fresh, not saturated with sweat, rubber, and cheap colognes.

Max snorted in surprise, loudly inhaling, lifting his head slightly like a hound on a scent.

"What are you talking about? I can't smell anything," he said, genuinely puzzled. Then, as if to prove a point, he took a deeper breath and theatrically waved his arms, as if dispersing a cloud of odor. "Ah, the scent of youth, failures, and fine perfumes mixed with women's sweat!" he declared dramatically, grinning widely as he watched the girls from the opposing team squeal and dodge the flying balls.

"Forget it," William muttered, wiping his forehead with his palm. "I probably have something wrong with my nose. By the way, while I remember: you're into some occult stuff with Grace, right?"

"Oh, you're hurting my feelings, Will!" Max made a wounded face, pouting, but then immediately broke into a smile. "Do I look like the kind of guy who sacrifices stray dogs or hangs out in his mom's basement?" He dramatically spread his arms, nearly getting hit by a ball in the shoulder.

William raised an eyebrow skeptically, glancing at Max's shirt, which featured a giant zombie and a pentagram on the front.

"Right, right…" he mumbled, hinting at the irony.

Max laughed, throwing his hands up:

"Okay, okay, you caught me. By the way, my grandma gave me this!" He pointed to his shirt. "I dabble a bit, but only to impress the girls."

Max winked, tilting his head mischievously. "So what was your question? Planning to summon a demon to cheat off in algebra?"

"Would be better," William smirked, dodging another ball. "I just watched a horror movie recently but didn't get the ending. I thought maybe you could explain some occult stuff."

"Oh, what's the title? Maybe I've seen it!" Max's eyes lit up, and for a moment he forgot they were still in the middle of a game.

William shrugged, making it up on the spot:

"I don't remember—something Hungarian. I doubt you've seen it. There's this guy in a village who wakes up, and suddenly his body starts changing: he becomes stronger, faster, claws. At night, it's like someone leads him out of his house, and he starts… well, killing people. He doesn't remember anything afterward, as if he's not the one doing it."

As he spoke, Max listened intently, hardly blinking.

"Damn, sounds intriguing! If you remember the title, let me know, okay? Or if you still have the tape, let me borrow it; I'm running out of horror flicks," he offered seriously, adjusting his glasses.

"I don't have the tape; I returned it to the rental," William waved him off, slightly irritated. His fingers nervously fiddled with the hem of his shirt. "But what interests me is what happening to this guy... is he possessed, or is it just some brain disease?"

Max burst into laughter, slapping William on the shoulder.

"Come on, have you ever watched horror movies? It's almost always one of two things. If he drinks blood, he's a vampire; if he prefers meat, he's a werewolf! Or, at worst, a demon has possessed him, but that's boring. Usually, he gets bitten by someone at night, wakes up, and that's it: he starts running around at night and eating people," Max added for emphasis, showing imaginary fangs and growling.

William paused for a moment, then asked the question that had been bothering him for a while:

"Is there any salvation for him? Can he… well, heal? Or is it permanent?"

Max laughed even louder, almost hitting a passing girl in the head with a ball.

"Will, you're something else! It's a horror movie; there's always just one cure. Either die or become a monster forever! Usually, if the hero is good, he kills himself in the end so he won't hurt anyone else. So, healing is death, dude. That's their happy ending!"

William and Max exchanged glances. Max continued to have fun, his eyes sparkling with mischief and a wide grin on his lips. But inside, William felt a tightening anxiety—his heart raced, his palms were sweaty, and a heavy unease settled in his stomach. Every breath felt difficult, as if the air had suddenly thickened like syrup.

"Hey, you look like you just got told the world is ending in five minutes!" Max joked, winking. "Relax, it's just a game…"

Before he could finish, a red ball whizzed through the air and struck him in the cheek with a loud thud. Max lost his balance, swaying desperately before falling onto his back with a dull thump. His cheek instantly flushed with a raspberry mark.

"The blue team has only one player left—William!" the coach's voice rang out, clear and harsh like a gunshot. "If the yellows knock him out, I'll give them the highest score!"

William's vision swam. He instinctively clenched his fists, trying to gather himself, but the din of voices and the thumping of sneakers on the wooden floor merged into a single noise, turning an ordinary school game into a real Vietnam.

******

In the long corridor of the clinic, the dull clack of heels echoed alongside the muted rustle of a coat. Two detectives, both middle-aged with weary faces and heavy steps, walked side by side, while ahead of them, nervously, walked the doctor. He frequently tucked his hands into the deep pockets of his white coat, as if searching for a hint of confidence.

"Believe me, it's best if you don't interfere just yet," the doctor said quietly, almost pleadingly, glancing back over his shoulder. "The patient has just regained consciousness. I can't guarantee that he's stable…"

"Doc, you've already said that three times," sighed the bespectacled detective, rolling his eyes. His fatigue was evident in every movement, but irritation tinged his voice.

The doctor stopped, his expression growing serious as he scrutinized both detectives, lingering on each just a moment longer than usual.

"I can repeat it a hundred more times if necessary," he said firmly. "You don't understand; the patient is in extremely critical condition, and questioning him right now is dangerous. Everything can wait at least a couple of days."

Carl, the second detective, scratched his head and raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

"I understand, doctor, but we don't have time," he said, trying to soften his tone. "Your guy may have been attacked by the person we're looking for. If we don't talk to him now, it might be too late."

The doctor sighed heavily and shook his head, but he seemed to realize that arguing was pointless. They reached the room, and he gestured for them to enter. Silence filled the room, interrupted only by the steady ticking of a clock above the door. On the hospital bed lay a thin young man, his pale face barely visible beneath bandages and plaster. His eyes were half-closed, his lips cracked from dryness, and his breathing was barely audible.

"Can he even speak?" Carl asked cautiously, stepping forward and pulling a notebook from his inner pocket.

The doctor nodded, his gaze lingering on the patient.

"Yes, but with difficulty. Almost all of his teeth have been knocked out, and he has over seven fractures." He paused for a moment and sighed heavily. "I haven't worked in trauma for long, but even with my experience, I've rarely seen someone beaten so badly. Honestly, I'd be more inclined to believe that a truck ran over him."

Carl jotted something down in his notebook, then, not looking at the doctor, asked,

"Did he have any stab wounds? Neither he nor his friends?"

The doctor flipped through the medical file, glanced at the papers, and shook his head.

"No, not a single one. Just bruises, fractures, and abrasions. Everything points to blunt force trauma."

The detectives exchanged glances. The bespectacled one stroked his chin and thoughtfully said,

"Something about this doesn't sit right with me. The area matches, but the nature of the injuries… it's too brutal and not typical for us."

Carl nodded in agreement. He glanced at the young patient, then back at his partner.

"Maybe this isn't even our guy," he muttered. "Though who knows… Maybe he felt sorry for those kids. After all, they're just kids…"

A heavy silence hung in the room, broken only by the soft hum of the equipment. Outside, the rain drizzled, and quick footsteps echoed in the corridor.

"Alright," Carl sighed, making a note in his notebook. "Let's try to talk. Gently."

Carl cautiously approached, squatting down to be at eye level with the patient. His voice softened, becoming almost paternal; for a moment, he transformed from just a detective into a person trying to pull the victim from his nightmare.

"Son, I'm Carl, and this is my partner Tom. We're from the police," he said quietly, watching the young man's reaction closely. "We need to ask you a few questions. Do you mind? If it gets too hard, just let us know, and we'll stop immediately."

With effort, the young man turned his head, his gaze cloudy. He nodded faintly, gripping the edge of the sheet tightly enough that his knuckles turned white.

Carl nodded in response, offering an encouraging smile, and gently placed his hand on the young man's arm.

"Thank you. Try to remember… What happened that night? How did it all start?"

A trembling lip appeared beneath the bandages. The young man squinted, as if trying to push away the memories, but they only tightened their grip on him.

"We… we were with the guys at the playground," he began, his voice weak and strained, as if each word was a struggle. "It was already late… And then he came, that… that freak. He started yelling… about how he was abandoned… what a bad day he was having…"

He fell silent, a shiver running through his body. His heartbeat quickened, and the machine behind him beeped slightly louder. The doctor tensed and stepped closer, but Carl subtly shook his head, keeping him back with a gentle gesture.

Victor stood a little further away, arms crossed over his chest, watching the young man intently as if afraid to miss a single detail.

"Did you say anything in response?" Carl asked gently, keeping his gaze fixed.

"Yes," the young man nodded, forcing out the words. "I… yelled… something… the others did too. He… got angry. We thought we could teach him a lesson. But it turned out differently…" His voice broke, breathing became rapid and uneven. "He just… seemed to go insane. He lunged at us… like something possessed him… He was hitting, screaming… he wasn't human, I swear…"

"What was he shouting?" Carl asked softly but insistently, tightening his grip on the victim's hand. "Did you remember any of his words?"

The young man shook violently, gripping the sheet so tightly that it seemed he was trying to tear it away from himself.

"He… he was screaming," he squeezed out through tears and pain, "Do you like sleeping around? Like whores!?" At that moment, his voice broke into a scream.

Carl felt the young man tense up, his body arching. In the next second, he suddenly jerked, as if seized by a cramp. A trickle of crimson ran down his chin. He tried to say something, coughed hoarsely, and suddenly spat a clot of blood right onto Carl's cheek. The detective recoiled, lost his balance, and fell to the floor, staring in shock at the red stains on his palm.

Victor rushed to him, helping him up. The doctor, seeing the spike in the monitor, dashed to the bed and began calming the patient, quickly pressing the alarm button.

"For Christ's sake!" the doctor shouted, grabbing the young man by the shoulders. "It's okay, you're safe, can you hear me?"

Carl, wiping the blood from his face, glanced down at the floor and froze: among the red droplets lay a few knocked-out teeth. The young man had vomited his own teeth—an unbearable, horrific sight.

In a last desperate surge, the young man suddenly turned his head toward the detectives. His eyes were wide open, filled with a fear bordering on madness.

"He… he was white…" he whispered, barely managing to speak through the blood and pain. "But you'll understand, he… had… cat eyes…"

He gasped, his body trembling again in convulsions. Nurses rushed into the room; one deftly inserted a needle into his vein while the other held the young man's head steady.

"Enough!" the doctor barked, turning to the detectives. His voice was icy, like a scalpel. "Get out of here, both of you! Immediately! If you want him to survive—no more words!"

Carl slowly rose, tossing the bloodied napkin into the trash and, breathing heavily, looked at Tom. Without saying a word, they left the corridor. Behind them, there were shouts, the noise of machines, and the slamming of doors.

The corridor was quiet. Still catching his breath, Carl wiped his forehead with his sleeve and whispered,

"Cat eyes… Have you ever heard of that, Tom?"

His partner simply shook his head, thoughtfully watching the trembling fingers.