Origins of Blood (RE)

A scream bursts from me, the knife quivering in my flesh, just inches from my chest. I block, barely alive.

Pound!

"You bastard!" I shout, voice raw; tears do not come. The pain is less than I imagined, yet unbearable all the same. My words slip out in my mother's tongue, torn from me by instinct. "Scheiß Bastard!"

"DO NOT SPEAK IN THE GOD'S TONGUE!"

The voice booms. The command is thunder, striking me harder than the knife itself. My body shakes, my bladder gives way; humiliation seeps down my legs. The curly-haired man trembles too, but unlike me, he halts at once.

Pound!

Twisting, I try to wrench free, my bloodied hand locked around the blade. He does not release it. Instead, he presses harder, forcing it deeper until it nearly touches my chest.

"Don't—" My voice cracks. This time, I speak in English again, desperately, and the overseer does not shout again.

Pound!

Stumbling backwards, he follows, his body pressing against mine, pinning me to the ground. His full weight bears down, forcing the blade through my pierced hand again.

Now it hurts. Now it burns.

The tip grazes my chest. My vision blurs, the world tilting. "Please!" I beg, my voice breaking, colors swimming before my eyes. Behind his silhouette, a glow flares—cold blue light—distinct and sharp against the haze.

And still, he pushes harder.

Pound!

"I have family!" I scream, tears flooding my eyes, salting my lips. His ragged breath washes over me, sour and vile, but he does not falter. He does not ease his grip. Instead, he pushes until the knife pierces the first layer of my chest. My skin.

Pound!

Too many heartbeats pass. Ragged breath. Shallow breath. He shouts in a language I don't understand. I choke out words in English. "Please!" Again, again, as if repetition could grant mercy.

Pound!

"Please!" I cry, pain swelling in my neck as I curl my body, straining against him. An eighty-kilo man, pressing everything he has into the blade, trying to drive it into my heart.

Pound!

Something rattles in the distance, but I cannot look. I cannot let go. My chest runs slick with red, my pierced hand bleeding endlessly. The pain lances through skin, flesh, and bone alike, every inch of me burning.

Pound!

His saliva drips across my brow as he groans. He forces the knife down. My heart pounds against my chest, pulsing through the torn grip of my hand. Slowly. Agonizingly, my strength fails.

Pound!

"Don—!" I scream, but my grip loosens. My arm twists, wrenched aside unnaturally, my own hand dragged toward my chest. The blade slips through—flesh splitting, lung punctured.

Pound!

I scream, gasping for air, as though relief and agony were the same. My chest fills with fire. Yet I push back with what little remains in me.

Pound!

It pierces deeper; a scream breaks from my throat. He shouts again, the words foreign, meaningless, but filled with hate. The world dims—light flickers. My strength vanishes.

Pound! Pound! Pound!

I gasp for air, but blood pours from my mouth, choking me. The knife is gone; the man's weight is gone.

No.

Turning my head weakly, I see him—shattered. His body sprayed across the wall, red painting the stones, organs smeared across the ceiling, bones broken into fragments on the floor.

I cough thrice, my body trembling and still bleeding, still fading. Above, the crystals shift in hue—warm, then cold, as though mocking me.

Stark. No. I am weak. I always was. I always am.

Another cough racks me, my vision fractured by flickering lights.

"You poor Red boy."

A voice. A silhouette. She emerges—taller than any woman I've seen, her teeth sharp as a shark's, her body immense and powerful. The colorful light fades entirely, leaving only her pale, shadowed form. Her right fist drips crimson, blood oozing down her arm.

Coughing again, my body convulses. Her black lips curl.

"You're my property from now on."

She turns aside, speaking gibberish, words tossed toward the ashen man—or the other tall one. My hearing blurs. My vision folds.

My eyes close.