Origins of Blood (RE) -
Chapter 77: Sebastian (3)
Chapter 77: Sebastian (3)
My heel twitches and I try to kick him under the table—get him to shut the fuck up—but I stop halfway, swallowing a mouthful of dry saliva.
God. How many of them are armed?
I sweep the bar with my eyes. Dim lamps, shadows, faces watching. How many of them are Skinwalkers?
The Greens. If they’re here? We’re already dead.
Why am I even here?
Because I must be, because I feel some twisted obligation to be here. My legs walked me in like they had a mind of their own.
It’s just like with the blue-hanged man. I wasn’t in control, or maybe I was, but I didn’t want to admit it.
I’m about to whisper something—anything to calm Gene when he suddenly screams.
But it’s a grotesque sound, morphing in the middle into something like laughter. Like lust.
He’s faking it, moreover, the end of it. He truly is filled with anger and the lust to slaughter them all.
My heart hammers against my ribs, my skin itches, and my right shoulder throbs like it’s about to split open. I clutch it, trying not to show my teeth—my red gums.
I drop my head, and my vision swims. Gene stretches, cracks his neck, and acts like nothing’s wrong. The other blue-blooded turn their bored eyes away, but I still feel my heart pounding in my ears.
Cham doesn’t even move; he just stares melancholy at his fingers on the table, eyes glazed, miles away.
He always thinks about his family... There’s a voice now. Coarse and thick. “Who wants to go next?!”
Boots slam onto a bench next to an old man with a face as red as a squashed tomato. Over Cham’s shoulder, I see it; The rope loosens, and the old man crumples to the ground, only leaving with one last breath—a groan full of salvation.
A man is there with a knife, and drives it into the corpse’s eyes, scooping out the sockets with practiced casualness. Just like they did to Ren.
The pain hits me like a jagged blade twisted inside my guts. Not a clean stab. A slow, scraping torture that rips me apart. I try to keep my face neutral. Don’t see red. Don’t see red. I say to myself, closing my eyes.
But I can’t.
Because when I open my eyes, I see a kid taking the place of the dead old man.
Half-naked. One sock on, underwear dirty and ripped, the other foot bare. He’s crying while they tie the rope around his ankles.
“Old man and small child,” someone says. He’s next to another one with greasy brown hair, who yanks the kid’s head up roughly.
That one has a face like an unfinished sculpture, eyes that can’t focus, mouth gaping open. He tries to talk but just drools.
“Rape... only with two holes... Old man and child... one can be hanged... and played with... with knife and—”
He chokes on the words, spitting more than speaking. He reaches for the knife lodged in the old man’s eye socket.
Some in the bar look bored, others lean in with sick anticipation.
“A hole is a hole!”
That one yells from the back. The voice is nasal, cracked, coming from a head with a receding hairline and a face that would make his own mother flinch.
Laughter erupts among the Blues.
My people? They’re crying. I feel the blood boiling under my skin, flooding my veins until my whole body shakes.
Move. Do something.
But now I don’t, my legs won’t listen. I stand and don’t even realize it at first, but my head twitches, my neck jerking from side to side like I’m fighting off ghosts.
My jaw locks so hard it cracks, and I see the back room.
The one where they took the blue-hanged man.
Suddenly, my moves, however, reluctantly not to the boy but to the bar, even though every part of me wants to carve that fat blue bastard open right here and now.
My vision bleeds red, and through it, I see Gene behind me.
He’s watching me with those fanatical eyes, like he’s witnessing a god emerging from my skin.
He sees Eos, not me.
He doesn’t see Elliot.
And I keep moving.
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