“Kill them all, even if you can’t remember it anymore.”
Golden Reaper. In this life, you die for the greater good, not for selfish vengeance. I was in hell, and I died only to see the truth. Thɪs chapter is updatᴇd by novel•fire.net
Thoughts slip like water, the inner voice not mine, but that crooked one; and as I run through the red mist, the crimson moon drowning everything in its blood, the voice continues to rise from deep within.
He has long been dead. As am I. Your vengeance has driven you mad. It has carried you so far from morality that you are no different from the Hemorions—the “other blood” you claim to despise. Golden Reaper—Elliot—Farewell.
My pacing slows; blood splashes beneath my feet, birthed by this night where the changing moons bleed into the world. And in the end, the world itself slips from my grasp, spinning like a carousel, until I collide with the thick, warm ground.
I gasp for air, my eyes snapping open against the duvet in which I lie; my whole body is drenched in sweat that I mistake for blood. Again. One of those dreams—visions. But something feels off, wrong. They have been different ever since I left my home. Again, so vivid, distant, yet so near.
I reach for a bottle of water by my side. Cham and Gene, as well as Paul, are asleep in other rooms of this house.
Breaking into homes and living inside them—it’s easy. Stay for a day or two, then move on. Their infrastructure feels ordinary and civilized, yet it disgusts me; newspapers are folded neatly into mailboxes, and police officers patrol the streets; carriages serve as taxis, and inside their houses, interiors like anyone else’s—furniture, shelves, rooms—old-fashioned, yes, but civilized. Too civilized. Every single house feels the same, and it makes me sick.
Rising, I curse under my breath; my hand grips the window ledge as I stare at the golden moon, unfazed, and endless in its reign over this lesser place. The horizon breaks against pointed rooftops, a raven perched and watching me.
Below, passersby shuffle—merchants, beggars, vagabonds. I stand only a single story above them, but from this height, I feel superior for a moment. Then I cough blood, and reality drags me back.
My body slumps against the window ledge, my left hand gripping the surface until my knuckles whiten. My teeth clench.
I force myself to move, stumbling into the corridor; my legs tremble, and my throat swallows and swallows again—once a second, ten times in all—before I vomit, blood bitter-sweet on my tongue.
And then—something worse. A thick maggot, as long and thick as my thumb, crawls up through my throat. I choke, and it writhes free, tumbling onto the carpet in the hallway. This house, this corridor, this family’s bodies rotting in the attic above, slain by us, as always.
Gasping, I stagger into the bathroom; another rush surges through my abdomen. I vomit again, more crawling things forcing their way out—some I press through my body’s other end, the pain sharp enough to make me scream. But I don’t. I bite it back. I devour the scream like I devour every shred of my frustration.
When it’s over, I wash my left hand and face. My eyes lift to the mirror, and I see myself, but not alive. My reflection is hollow; my skin shifts, twitching, my eyes flickering between red and blue. Finally, my head jerks to the side without cause.
Spitting a mix of blood and water into the sink, I massage my temples. My joints ache, as if something inside me resists, blocking me from moving freely. My gaze locks with my reflection again, and my lips part.
The words leave me like a curse.
Turning from the mirror, I dress myself in a dark beige coat, looted from the wardrobe of the family we slaughtered: a man, a woman, and two children.
When I finally step outside, the cold golden mist greets me, its chill seeps into my bones. I move through the streets, the first colors of the world drifting past me. I don’t hide. No makeup disguises me; not tonight.
Because tonight, I will not slip into the shadows.
Tonight, I go on a rampage.
Tonight, I kill as many as I can.