Origins of Blood (RE)

"What is it?" I ask, pressing my left hand against my arm, where a dull ache is beginning to pulse beneath the skin. My lungs burn as I straighten in the chair, an ache that makes each breath heavier. I try to rise, but this time the cough forces its way out—louder, drier. I feel it splatter warm against my bare arm, where the sleeve of my shirt ends at the elbow.

But it isn't the red I expect. Thin streaks of blue run across my skin, the texture watery yet clinging in places. The sight makes them shift uncomfortably, their unease deepening.

"E–Eos," Gene finally says, his voice higher than usual. He doesn't look at me, his eyes search for Paul instead, as if the boy might have an answer.

"What?" My tone comes out sharper than I intend, more irritated than curious.

Gene stays silent. I draw breath to ask again, but Cham speaks first. "We've… talked to others. Many. They all said the same thing. If someone consumes too much blood—especially from other kinds—they can die from something called corruption."

He says it quickly, as though trying to keep me from fully hearing it. Maybe I'm imagining things, but he won't meet my eyes either.

"And you believe them?" My voice is low, flat.

Cham doesn't answer; instead, Gene steps in, his bulk towering over me as I sit hunched in the small chair. "Eos…" He says my name almost gently, but there's pity in his gaze.

I swallow hard and clench my teeth at that look. I hate it.

"We killed them all," he continues. "That was what they said in their last moments. We promised to let them live."

My hands curl into fists. What now? Don't they realize I already know something's wrong with me? What difference does this make if I'm dying anyway?

Gene doesn't stop there. "Maggots… manifest inside the body. Vomiting is common. Blood tries to force its way out." He stammers now, his eyes flicking up to mine in a way Cham's never does.

"How long?" I ask.

As if in answer, the taste in my mouth thickens, metallic and bitter. I spit into my palm—just enough to soak a pencil in crimson.

"A month at most."

A short laugh escapes me, low and humorless.

"It's said there are three phases," Gene continues. "The first is what you're going through now—vomiting, coughing, weakness. In the second, the mind begins to break down. Corruption… It clouds your thoughts. You can't think straight. You crave only destruction… and more blood."

He hesitates.

"And?" My voice lashes out, sharper now, forcing him to finish.

"And… in the third phase, you turn. Into one of those brainless things. The ones we call zombies."

I can't help it—I laugh again, though this time it's tinged with something close to amusement. "Any cure?"

He shakes his head. "No—Eos."

I look down at my hands. "What a life…" The words slip out in a mutter. My tongue runs along the inside of my mouth, pressing hard against the upper jaw until it aches. The pressure travels down my throat, sharp enough to make me wince.

A few weeks. That's what I have left. What does that hold?

This time, the sound that escapes me isn't laughter. It's broken, ragged breathing. It shakes my chest and tightens my ribs until the edges of my vision blur. But it never becomes a true sob—not until my breath catches and the tears finally come, falling heavy into the cradle of my hands. The skin there is rough, crusted with drying blood, but the tears carve warm trails through it.

I turn my head, my gaze drifting toward the curtain. Just beyond it, the boy sits on a small wooden chair, silent as always. My eyes narrow as I peer past him through the gap in the fabric. Shapes move beyond the window, a family of blues.

I watch them with my eyes stinging, the red bleeding into my vision as the tears continue to fall. I can make out their faces clearly when the curtain shifts to the right. Smiles. Laughter. Light in their expressions.

And it devours me from the inside.

The sadness twists, darkens, sharpens into something else, something deeper, and heavier. It swells until it's no longer grief but a heat that burns in my chest.

No, not just anger. Something far beyond that.

Hatred.

I want to kill them. All of them.