My chest feels like it's been cored out with a rusty hook. The air dries to dust in my lungs, and I'm dragged away—no, pulled—by a force that doesn't care if I break. I want to scream for Ren, for myself, for mercy.
But there's none to be had. And then—I'm back. The room. The shelf. The paper where the mummified index finger lay in between the books.
The finger I swallowed is gone, but its taste lingers, foul and oily in my mouth. The candles gutter, their flames exploding outward in one last act of defiance before they die, plunging everything into absolute darkness. I open my eyes. They hurt as badly as my ruined shoulder, and subsequently, I vomit.
The splash is wet and solid, hitting my boots and the floor with a sickening slap. The smell is worse than anything—sweet rot and bile. I try to spit it out, but something wriggles.
Maggots. One, two, squirming on my tongue, my inner cheeks, and on the ground.
I gag and claw at my mouth with my sleeve, only to remember too late that my right arm is gone. My shoulder bumps uselessly against my upper chest, fabric folding over emptiness.
My breathing is ragged, wheezing. I can feel my body again. It's mine, and it's disgusting.
My legs buckle. My chin smashes into the table's edge to my left. My face lands in the puddle of my vomit. I taste it, try to moan, but only retch harder.
I fight to rise. With only one arm, it's nearly impossible. My right would have been my strong side. It's gone. Just like Ren. Watering eyes build up, but I crowd them out. There is no place for grief.
I finally manage it, staggering upright. My body sways. Sweat blinds me, and a shadow looms on the wall, huge and moving.
"I guess I had too many drinks…" I mutter, my voice cracking. The lie tastes worse than the vomit, but it's all I have.
I keep my gaze low. I don't want her to see my eyes, to see the terror or the truth or the tears threatening to spill for my brother, for myself. * (*) hosts the original.
Then, finally, she turns away.
Her silhouette is long and graceful against the wall, made monstrous by the flickering shadows.
"You can stay," she says, voice cold, in a matter-of-fact tone. "But if you want to leave, nobody's going to stop the three of you."
As she retreats into the dwindling light, I lower my head, listening to the boy's fading screams. The boy. The thought bites deep. I don't run. I move quickly, forcing my ruined body to keep pace.
Cham and Gene sit in the corner near the blue flames, sweat soaking through their clothes, shadows dancing on their gaunt faces. I see them and feel the heat of urgency in my chest. We need to go. We can't fight all of them. Not even a quarter. Not , not with me in this pathetic wreck of a body. I shouldn't have come here at all.
My eyes drift to the evening's attraction. The old man lies dead on the floor, his neck twisted at an impossible angle, two fat flies lazily circling his slack-jawed head. But the boy is gone. Even so, the screaming hasn't stopped.
"Where is the boy?" I ask. My voice emerges wrong, not the cold blues tone I aim for. The woman behind the counter doesn't bother to turn fully. Her hair falls over one icy eye, her expression dull as tarnished silver. She glances at me sideways.
"He was bought by a single customer, and not by the whole party. Paid a fair price."
That answer scalds me, but I swallow it. I turn away, my gaze sweeping over Gene, lingering on the tense set of Cham's shoulders. Gene knows this look in my eyes. It's the mirror of his own. Fury. Madness. The bloody inheritance neither of us asked for. He rises immediately. Cham follows seconds later, slower, reluctant, but loyal.
We leave without another word. Outside, the golden fog of moonlight swallows us. The houses grow taller, sharper, as if they lean in to listen. The streets seem to narrow with every step, and I feel watched. Not in the simple way of curious onlookers, but as if some vast hand controls my strings, turning me into a marionette forced to dance in someone else's cruel little play.