Origins of Blood (RE)

Elliot's POV

"I shall not see a future where others, who have dragged me into misfortune, can live a life full of happiness."

—Elliot Starfall

It happens quickly—smoothly—like disconnecting my Bluetooth from my ear pods back in my old world. Only, instead of a soft chime confirming disconnection, hands drag me back into the void. They tear me from that other body with the same unnatural pull as before. And, as always, there is no feeling in this void, just weightless nothing. Still, it passes as swiftly as the last time I severed my link to the Hanged Man.

When I open my eyes, I'm back. I sit in a dark room where the only light slips in through narrow gaps in the curtains. The rest is heavy shadow. I am alone—if I ignore the boy, little Paul—his name oddly reminiscent of Paula, the one Frank had mentioned. The connection strikes me as strange, but I push it aside.

I feel better than I did moments ago. Now that I'm in my own body again, the cold sweat clinging to my skin is beginning to fade. But the moment my consciousness reclaims this flesh; I double over and vomit. There's little left in me to give, just the same filth as always: a few writhing maggots, and those dark, bluish-black particles that shouldn't exist in any healthy body.

"I am Elliot," I murmur, my voice rasping through the stillness. I repeat it, firmer this time. "I am Elliot." The third time, I add, "And nobody else." My name becomes a tether, something to keep me grounded.

I wipe the bitter taste from the corners of my mouth and reach for the curtains with my left hand. The fabric feels worn beneath my fingers. I pull it aside, and my eyes catch the color; dark yellow, with a sickly hue that leans into green. Outside, the streets of this city carry on as if my life hadn't been cracked in two.

Men in suits walk with their canes loosely tucked into their palms. Some sportsmen wear gleaming monocles that catch the sunlight. Their steps are out of rhythm, though the occasional clop of a horse's hooves tries to impose order, only to be broken again by the groan of the carriage they pull.

Paul sits in his corner, small and silent, just as he always does when Gene isn't here. He doesn't look at me, doesn't speak. My attention drifts from him back to the world beyond the glass. My gaze moves from building to building, shop to shop, blue to blue, the colors of this world are well-fed. My foot taps softly against the floor as I lean against the ledge window, drinking in the details of a life I'm no longer part of.

I cough twice, the sound harsh in the quiet. A few moments later, three more coughs tear through me, these into my palm. The fabric of the curtain slips from my grasp—my reminder that I have only one functioning arm—and as it falls back into place, I see the smear of red in my hand. My blood.

It's not a good sign. It never is. I should feel frustrated, maybe even fear. Instead, there's dull acceptance, as though I've already resigned myself to the path I'm walking. I pull the curtain open again and, for a moment, something inside me lifts.

Two men, no older than I am, cross the shimmering, water-washed street with their heads bowed. Above them, the sun burns bright, the doves scatter from the sharp-angled rooftops, and the turquoise sky stretches endlessly. It's beautiful in a way that feels cruel.

I let the curtain fall shut again, leaving the light outside where it belongs. My steps take me back into the room, away from the window and the world I no longer fit into. This time, I don't sink to the floor—don't settle beside the cold, silent family whose presence still clings to this space. Instead, I sit at the table on a chair, the same one where the Blues must have eaten their breakfast not long ago.

Click.

It's the oh-so-familiar sound—one I used to hear when Ren would come visit me back then. The memory stirs something inside me. I miss it deeply, but I allow myself the faintest smile. A cough rises in my throat, and I force it down, trying not to show it too obviously. My hands brush along the sides of my trousers, smearing away the faint stains. They're not mine. The fabric is tainted with blue blood.

Gene and Cham stand before me, and neither of them looks pleased. More than that, they can't meet my eyes. There's something in their posture—a stiffness, a quiet guilt.