Origins of Blood

Damian's POV

"How absurd words can sound in situations, even if they are normal."

—Damian Stark

My head throbs, light flickering behind my eyelids in uneven bursts.

Black, then red flaring into orange, shifting to violet, green, and blue until my sight is drowned in restless hues.

My eyes snap open, and pain crashes over me in a single wave; every bone aches, every muscle screams. Lying flat against the stone floor, I force myself up—rising too quickly—my head pounding. The dizziness takes me down again, and my face slams against cold stone.

But I refuse to remain down. I drag myself up once more, swaying, my vision spiraling from left to right.

"Finally awake…"

The voice is familiar, but warped by distance, like hearing it through water.

Turning toward it, I'm blinded by the light spilling down from above, washing the figure in pink and yellow, magenta bleeding into blue.

Colors pulse and twist around me as though the world itself has fallen into a delirious trip. My body lurches, my feet unsteady, as if I stand on a ship caught in the teeth of a storm.

"Calm down, Dam. We're trapped. There's nothing we can do."

The same voice again, closer now, but still obscured; a silhouette sits before me, blurred, with two others flanking it. To my left, another. To my right, more, all shapes without faces.

I stretch out my hand, desperate for something solid, but my palm closes on nothing. My right leg braces against the floor to stop me from collapsing, but I twist, hands flailing in emptiness.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Sweat beads drip from my forehead and break against the stone beneath me. My stomach twists, and I vomit, bile burning my throat.

"Fuck, dude!"

A woman's voice this time, sharp and irritated. A sudden kick strikes my ribs, sending me back to the floor, my cheek pressed against the cold stone once more. I don't rise this time; instead, I let the chill seep into me, cooling the fire raging through my body.

From the corner of my vision to my right, I see a man stretched out across the ground. His leg twitches against the stone, head resting on his hands. His face is drained of all color—chalk-white—and his eyes bulge, grotesquely wide, like pale tennis balls staring at nothing.

"Another useless brat, Vanitas! Can't you bring us more than two halfway useful ones for once?"

The voice is distant, further than any of the rest, echoing as though it doesn't belong to this place at all. Slowly, painfully, I lift my head, dragging my body upright again, my eyes straining to adjust to the shifting light.

"No can do. Go suck someone's dick, Serena."

Another voice cuts through, harsh and mocking. Pressing my palm against my temple, I kneel as pain slices into my skull. My fingers find warmth—wetness. Blood coats them, not much, but enough to sting. I grit my teeth and clutch my head tighter, fighting back the nausea.

"Suck your own dick." The woman laughs, short and sharp, before adding, "No, better—let this cockless one do it."

She points, and my eyes are drawn leftward, where a man sits hunched, nothing left between his legs but scars and a ragged hole. Not just the testicles, like in the mutilations I have seen before—everything, all of it, carved away. His head hangs low, his shame laid bare.

"Leave him. He can't do anything for these greed-driven faceless fuckers."

Vanitas speaks again, his voice calm and with some sort of manner; he sits with one leg draped casually over the other, smoke spilling from his mouth in slow ribbons, a cigar clenched between his teeth.

Ash drips down, scattering across the floor like falling embers. Behind him, two massive figures loom, each towering higher than Frank ever did.

Frank!

My heart seizes. He is here. He stands before them in this very chamber.

"Don't be like that. Reds are Reds. No need to pity him."

The woman again. Her words are sharp, but my ears barely register them, because Frank is here. Still, my thoughts slip, and are replaced by another.

"Father! Where's my father!?"

The words rip out of me, raw, as my arms tense, my body straining through its aches. Vomit still clings bitterly in my mouth, dripping to the floor, but I don't care. My voice breaks in demand. "Where is he!?"

Nothing matters anymore. He was there—I saw him, I swear it—and then he was gone. A blow struck me, and darkness swallowed everything. But he was there. He must be here.

"Where—"

My cry is broken by resonant laughter.