Fate of Blood

Andrew stood in line at Starbucks, getting his morning coffee, when it happened. 

The first thing he felt was a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest - hot, searing and unrelenting, pulsating and expanding. Then came the blood. It exploded out of his chest, staining his white shirt and suit, spluttering onto the floor. It dripped out of his chest, right where his heart was, soaking his clothes and pooling onto the floor beneath him. Andrew gasped in a shaky breath, his hand clutching to his chest, blood staining his hands, as he collapsed to the floor. The pain was all-consuming and so incredibly hot.

Andrew toppled over, now lying on the floor, choking on his own blood, fighting back screams of pain and cries of agony. The people around him screamed, some attempted to put pressure on his chest, in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding. A woman was on the phone with emergency services, frantically begging them to come quickly. Andrew knew it was all in vain. He was coughing up blood with every ragged breath. Slowly, he felt himself get cold. From what he could see, vision going blurry, most of his blood was now outside of his body. The screams around him seemed to fade and dull. The cheap fluorescent lights didn´t sting his eyes no more. He let himself slip away, welcoming the numbness and the relief it brought. No more pain, no more blood, no more screams. Just sweet, dark, nothingness, like he was floating. He felt nostalgic, as if being reunited with the ether from whence he had come so long ago. 

And then he was gone.

To the poor people who had witnessed the scene, he seemed almost at peace as he took his last breath. They had seem him collapse out of nowhere, blood splurting from his chest like a fountain, completely inexplicably. And now, mere seconds later, he was dead. Someone tried to feel for a pulse. It was too late. Andrew was dead, killed by whatever force that had taken him so suddenly. 

And then he was back.

Andrew sat up, groaning, rubbing his chest. He spit out some blood, hating the coppery taste on his tongue. Then he rubbed his eyes, pushed his hair back from his face and sighed gloomly. He looked terribly annoyed.

 "I´m gonna kill him." Andrew got up, looking at the damage he had done. The floor was positively painted in his blood, his shirt and pants were soaking. "That was my favourite shirt, bastard." He then turned to the people looking at him with shocked faces. He had been dead - they had seen him die - and yet here he stood, complaining about a ruined shirt like it was the more important thing. Someone started screaming. Andrew simply took a strangers coat, covering his blood soaked pants and went to leave. 

 "Sorry about that", he said before the door fell closed behind him. 

He didn´t even look behind as he quickly made his way back to his apartment to change out of the soiled clothes. It wasn´t that he cared too much about what people thought - he absolutely despised the feeling of the bloodsoaked clothes on his skin. It made him itchy and icky. And havin gto move every couple weeks was an inconvenience, so he preferred to keep a low profile, at least for a few months or so, if that bastard let him.

Andrew reached his apartment where he had been living for almost four months now, unlocked the door and stepped inside. He went straight to the bathroom, careful not to leave too many dirty-bloody footprints along the way. There, he got straight into the bathtub, carefully undressing and then turning to take a quick shower to wash away the slowly drying blood. Once he was done showering, he got out, put on some new clothes and went to the kitchen to make himself some coffee. Andrew was lousy at making coffee, so when he had found out that this apartment was only a few blocks away from a Starbucks, he had been delighted. But that idiot just had to steal his morning coffee away from him, so a cheap homemade one would have to do for today.

As his coffee brewed, Andrew took out a small, curved knife. He rolled up his sleeve, placed his arm over the sink and started carving at his exposed flesh with practiced ease. The pain was miniscule compared to the onslaught he had experienced earlier, and he didn´t even flinch. With careful, precise movements, he carved letter after letter into his arm.

That was my favourite shirt, asshole.

He then rolled up his other sleeve and turned to his coffee that had finished brewing, siping it slowly, waiting. It took only a few minutes before he felt the familiar sting on his left arm. Stroke after stroke, letter after letter, words from blood were cut into his flesh as if drawn by the wind itself. 

Sorry. Got surprised. Red is such a nice colour though. 

Andrew scoffed and picked up his knife again. 

Fuck you.

The answer didn´t take long. It was a crudely drawn middle finger. Andrew took his knife and drove it deep into his arm, right into the middle finger, then twisted it. Blood gushed from the injury, deep crimson and thick. Andrew held his throbbing arm over the sink, refusing to get any more blood into his apartment today. 

Bastard. 

Andrew could see the faint shiver in the strokes of Zayne´s crude answer. Good. At least he had felt it. He then removed his blade from his arm, letting it fall into the sink. The wound was deep and pulsating, blood splurting out in regular intervals. Luckily he had hit an artery. He briefly considered cutting his wrists to die, but then a smirk crossed his face. Zayne owed him one. And after the stunt today at Starbucks, Andrew would most likely have to move anyways. So, he dressed his wounds with practiced ease, wrapping them in a nearby kitchen towel to soak up the still flowing blood. He didn´t even bother trying to stop the bleeding. The apartment door clacked shut behind Andrew a few seconds later as he left.

Andrew chose a nice, high cliff. It was about 50 meters high. He had chosen it because of the spiked rocky bottom. Without much of a second thought, he stepped off. A yodel rang free from his throat as he fell, arms outsretched. The wind ripped at his hair and clothes - old ones, because he knew he would make a mess of them. An insect splattered against his arm. The fall was exhilerating. All Andrew could hear was the wind and his own blood pulsing in his ear. And then he hit the ground with a satisfying splat.

Andrew barely had time to register the impact before agony overtook him. The air was punched from his lungs as his body flattened against the ground, ribs snapping like brittle twigs. His spine crumpled under gravity's merciless grip, sending a white-hot shock of pain through his nerves. His skull struck a jagged stone with a sickening crunch, the force splitting bone like a shattered eggshell. Shards of his own skull drove into his brain, blinding him with a burst of agony—sharp, searing, unbearable.

For a moment, his body refused to accept death. His fingers twitched, a feeble, meaningless movement. His legs spasmed once, then again, as if trying to flee from the inevitable. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the dirt, warm and thick. A ragged breath tried to force its way past his ruined ribs, but it came out as a wet, gurgling whisper.

Then, at last, the pain dulled. His vision darkened at the edges, his body going slack as the final flickers of life drained away. The last thing he felt was the cold embrace of the earth beneath him.

And then—nothing.

And just as quickly, he was back. 

Andrew inhaled sharply, filling his flattened lungs with air. He cursed a little. For his liking, the death had been almost too clean, too quick. He took a quick surveyance of his surroundings -blood staining the dirt, his clothes completely messed up, and a few twigs and dirt in his hair. He got up and began his trek back up the cliff, where he had left his change of clothes and two bottles of water to wash up. A smug smile was on his lips.

He made it about halfway back up when he felt the familiar sting and blood trickle down from his arm, which had once again been bare of any injury.

What the fuck was that.

Zayne´s bold script bloomed on Andrew´s arm. Andrew resumed his walk up the cliff. Among his clothes was also his small knife. A few minutes he reached his stash and took out the knife, pushing away the remnants of his shirt to carve out his answer.

Your payback, asshole.

He was petty, he knew that, but Zayne wasn´t any better.

Did you get rolled over by a tank or what??

Nah. Cliff. 50m. Gravity. Splat. 

To get his point across, he drew a few squiggles around the word "Splat". 

Tank is a good idea though, for the next time you ruin my morning coffee.

Fuck you.

Fuck you too Zayne.

Andrew leaned back against a boulder, stretching out his legs and enjoying the sun. After a while, he took his knife again.

So, how was the mission? To what do I owe the joy of bleeding to death in the middle of Starbucks?

He then watched as the faint lines of Zayne´s answer got etched into his skin. A few drops of blood fell into the dirt below him. 

Mission was good. Can´t tell you details tho, yk how they are. Got impaled by a steel rebar from a crashed heli. 

Nice. Didn´t have that one before, did we?

Nah. 

I better be off and pack my things before the police figures out who the undead man in Starbucks this morning was.

Where you going this time?

Maybe south. Idk.

You think we´ll ever meet?

Andrew looked at his arms, contemplating his answer. They were covered in the cuts of their conversation, leaving barely any place for an answer. Slowly, he raised his hand again and began cutting.

Idk. I do wanna see the face of the bastard who makes me die a couple times a week one day

Yea. Sorry. Being the military´s personal attack dog comes with certain disadvantages.

Andrew snorted at that. 

Anyways, I´ll reset now. Talk to you later, try not to die for a few days, I wanna have some peace while moving.

And before Zayne could respond, Andrew slashed his carotid artery.