Praying Blood (3)

They were the ones who turned my world upside down, who killed my brother Ren and sought to destroy us all. It’s because of them that I’m forced to live in this hellish world, that I must wear this mask of a disguise to survive.

But no more.

I grip his head, pressing my thumbs into his eyes. He doesn’t scream. He’s already dead. His live is gone, mixing with the crimson river that courses through my veins. The red that is mine.

I sit back for a moment, savoring the power. The feeling that I can end someone’s life. That, for once, I’m in control.

The Red, the ones who have been oppressed, the ones who’ve been subjugated for so long—we can rule. I can feel it. I’ll change this world. One step at a time, one death at a time. I’ll be the one to turn the tables. We’ll take back what’s ours.

But it’s not enough.

I need to see them suffer more.

I look to the second blue, still gasping for air, his hands clutching at his throat, but his gaze locked on me—his eyes wide with terror. I step forward, placing my hands over his eyes.

“Rest.”

The words come out flat, void of any real meaning, but I say them anyway. I can feel the warmth of his blood against my skin as his eyes slowly roll back. I don’t know why I do it.

Maybe because it feels... right.

Maybe because it feels good.

With one final twist, I feel his neck give way. He dies in a single moment, the last thing he sees my face. The last thing he knows is that I—I—ended his life.

I glance down at the third one, the human they tried to sell. His skin is pale, almost translucent, and his body is thin, gaunt. He might be bigger than me, but his body is nothing but bones and fragile flesh. The smell of starvation clings to him.

He’s been through hell.

His eyes, though, are different. They shine, despite his hollow cheeks. They glimmer with the remnants of hope. I know, though, that there’s no room for hope in this world anymore. My brother is gone.

But when I look at him, I don’t see a slave. I don’t see someone meant to be cast aside, used as a tool, or tortured like the others before him.

I see a kin.

I see someone who belongs to me. To us.

I reach out, my hands still coated in the blood of his captors. He stares at me, trembling, but his eyes don’t look at me with fear. Instead, there’s understanding. Something ancient, something instinctive. He knows what I am.

He knows what I’ve done.

And he knows what I’ll do.

I hold out my hand to him, the blood still dripping from my fingers. The warmth seeps into the air, mingling with the cold mist.

He hesitates for only a moment before he kneels before me, hands shaking as he places his lips to the blood on my palm.

“Drink.” The words come out cold, as though they’re not mine. They’re automatic.

His lips brush against the blood, his first sip cautious, then greedy. The moment he tastes it, he drinks deeper, as if he’s been starved for it. His eyes, once clouded with desperation, now gleam with a newfound hunger.

I let him drink.

I don’t know why.

But when I see the way his body fills with life, with strength—something deep inside me stirs.

I drink, too. Not because I need it, but because I want to. I want to feel the power surge through me. To taste the sweetness of vengeance, of change. To let them know that the monster they have created shall accomplish them into hell but never back.