_ A Dead Woman’s Mercy

The old woman looks at her bite, then at me. "I don't want to turn," she says quietly. "I don't want to be one of them." 

 "It's not so bad," I say, forcing a smirk. "Maybe you'll get cool powers. Super strength. Heightened senses." 

She chuckles weakly. "Or I'll lose myself completely and eat the next person I see." 

…Right. 

She looks down at her lap, hands, and voice trembling. "I… I don't want to be a monster. Please. I don't want to… wake up hungry for… someone else's flesh." 

Hungry for someone else's flesh… the sound of that makes me wince audibly with guilt. 

I remember the taste. The raw, wet texture. The way it burned down my throat like it wasn't meant to be swallowed. 

I grip my wrist tightly, hiding the shiver in my fingers. 

The old woman lifts her gaze to mine. "Please," she whispers. "Before it's too late." 

I stare at her. 

At the way she sits there, resigned, waiting for the end. At the way she reminds me of what I used to be. This is the only way. She wants peace… I should be honored to be the one to set her free. 

I slowly pull my gun from my waistband. She closes her eyes. 

My finger rests on the trigger. 

And I take a breath.

The old woman keeps her eyes closed, hands folded in her lap, waiting.

I hold the gun up, finger resting on the trigger, but I don't pull it.

Not yet.

There's something about this moment that makes my chest tighten in a way I don't like. Maybe it's the peace on her face, the acceptance. Maybe it's the fact that she gets to die still human—that she won't wake up hungry, confused, wrong.

Maybe it's because I wasn't given a choice.

The longer I stand here, the more my hand trembles. The weight of the gun in my hand feels heavier than it should be, like it knows what I'm about to do and disapproves.

Would I have chosen this? If I knew what I would become, what it would feel like to wake up with that hunger crawling through my veins, would I have put a gun to my own head before it was too late?

I think I would have.

I should have.

But the universe had other plans.

"Do it, girl," the old woman murmurs. "Before I turn."

Her voice is soft as she mumbles the quiet request. A mercy she'll never know I envy.

I swallow hard. My fingers tighten around the gun. Tears blur my vision, but I don't let myself hesitate any longer.

I pull the trigger.

The sound is deafening in the tiny room. The old woman's head jerks back and a small hole appears right in the center of her forehead. She slumps, exhaling one last breath before going completely still.

It's done.

Silence swallows the space between us.

I lower the gun, but I can't look away.

She's still sitting there, eyes closed, looking more peaceful in death than she ever did alive. I should feel relief. I should be glad I saved her from the fate I was forced to endure.

Instead, I feel like I just took something away from my heart. Like I created another hole. 

A sob rises in my throat before I can stop it. The tears sting my eyes, and suddenly I'm breaking.

Tears spill down my face, hot and angry.

What the hell have I become?

I was human. I had people. I fought for them. I died for them. And now I'm here, walking around like a mockery of the person I used to be. Pretending. Lying. Hiding.

If I'm being honest… 

… I don't want to be here either. 

The thought creeps in so quietly that I almost don't recognize it at first. But it's there. And once it's there, I can't ignore it.

My fingers grip the gun tighter. The barrel presses against my temple.

My finger finds the trigger. 

Just one pull.

That's all it would take. 

No more hunger. No more pretending. No more nightmares. And so, I pull the trigger.

Click.

I frown when nothing happens. My heartbeat skips. I check the gun. It's fully loaded. I fire again.

Click.

Panic flares up my spine like fireworks when I see how alive I still am. 

I fire again.

Click. Click. Click.

My hands start to shake. "What the hell—?"

[SYSTEM ALERT: SUICIDE DETECTED. THIS ACTION IS PROHIBITED.]

I gasp at that crazy declaration, nearly dropping the gun. 

What? People can shoot me in the head and I'd die but when it's my turn to shoot myself, the gun doesn't work?

"What the fuck are you talking about?!" I roared, saliva flying out of my mouth. 

[System Alert: Host's termination request denied. Maintaining optimal survival parameters.]

I stagger back, my knees hitting the edge of a chair. This has got to be a joke. Funny how the world starts to spin under my feet. 

No, no… I can't let the system decide whether or not I decide to give up. 

I try again, aiming at my own chest even though I know a shot to the chest won't kill me. It's just to check if the gun works. 

Click.

Click.

Click.

No. No, no, no, no.

I clutch my head as my heart wrenches. 

I roar; a gruff and angry sound that rips out of me like a wounded animal.

"GO TO HELL!" I scream. "YOU CAN'T CONTROL ME! YOU CAN'T…"

[HOST WILL COMPLY.]

What follows is a loud BEEP! that explodes inside my head, sharp and jarring… like a siren blaring in my skull. 

And then… 

I feel it—a jolt of pain deep inside my skull, like something clawing through my brain, forcing me down. My body locks up for a second, and I can't move. 

Until… it's gone.

I pant, my whole body shaking. My hands are trembling so hard that the gun almost slips from my grasp.

I lower it slowly, staring down at my own reflection in the dust-covered mirror across the room.

Red-rimmed eyes. A face that looks far too haunted.

I wipe my tears angrily.

Fine. If I can't die, then I have to live. But I refuse to live like this.

I sniff and wipe my face again before forcing myself to move. I can't stay here. Not with her. 

The air is already filled with the smell of blood, and I can't afford to lose control again.

I step over the old woman's body, avoiding looking at her face. My boots scuff against the wooden floor as I move toward the back of the apartment.

I find the bathroom and step inside. 

The tiles are cracked, and the mirror is too grimy to see my reflection, which is probably a blessing. The pipes groan when I twist the faucet, but miraculously, water comes out. 

I don't even bother checking if it's clean. 

I just strip down and step under the cold stream, letting it wash away the filth and the blood. 

My fingers graze my own skin, tracing the scars; the places where my body has changed since I turned. My senses feel too sharp and too active. 

I scrub at myself like I can erase what I've done. Like I can scrub away the hunger burning in my gut. 

By the time I step out, the water is rusty red, swirling down the drain. 

Well, time to get down to business.