My left lung is punctured.
Get up.
I can't breathe.
Pull yourself together.
My strength is fading.
Get up.
My left lung is punctured.
Get up.
I've lost so much blood.
Stand up.
I'm bleeding out.
Get up.
My arms have been cut off.
Get up.
My team needs me.
So get up.
My left lung is punctured.
Pull yourself together.
I need to help them.
Stand up.
My left lung is punctured.
Get up.
I. Can't. Get. Up.
…
Heavy petrichor caresses the edge of my frayed senses, filling them to the brim; the scent fully occupies my mind. Why am I alive—how? What happened? My family, my friends, my team, my everyone, they're all... gone? No. No, no, no. Surely someone is alive, please, someone, I can't be alone. Have they left me alone? Why? I promise I'm good enough, I promise to be better. Was I not strong enough?
Fragmented memories of the battle—the massacre—plunge their jagged edges into my thoughts, twisting and shattering, stabbing me with their sharp reminders, embedding themselves further and further into the crevices and folds of my mind, searing the image of the blood—of my family's blood—splattering across the dirt, painting the scene with sickly red fluids, flowing endlessly from their dying bodies. I wasn't strong enough to help. I was a liability. I let them down. Why wasn't I strong enough? Why did my failure have to be the death of them? Was my whole life a waste?
Tears gather in my eyes, the ones I refuse to open. I can't bring myself to set my sights upon my shortcomings, on the lifeless bodies of the ones that gave me meaning, that gave me purpose. Subconsciously, my hands lift to cover my face, hiding my emotions from those who set their sights on me. Not that there's anyone here to witness me cry. They're all dead, because of me—wait, hands?
With some hesitance, I open my eyes, beams of light meandering their way through the gaps between my fingers. Fingers. Weren't my hands cut off by those... those Strigoi? I flex my fingers, observing each minor twitch and movement. Every minuscule detail is somehow clearer. It doesn't matter; what matters is that I have hands. Does that mean that it was all just a bad dream? A horrible, despicable dream? That's right! Ah, surely that's what happened. It was all a figment of my imagination.
My emotions bubble up, welling in my throat. "Haha... ha... hahahahahaha!" None of it was real. Sighing, my body relaxes. Ah, maybe I shouldn't have been so expressive... if Mother were to hear me... I shake my head, discarding that thought. Well, if that was all a dream—a nightmare—then how did I get outside? The scent of petrichor, the blinding light, nearing painful, spreading its rays to illuminate the world. Hmm. Definitely outside.
Placing my hands on either side of me, on the dirt below, I push myself up and shakily get on my legs. Legs. They, too, were ripped off at the joints in my nightmare. Twisted until my muscles tore, the ease with which they were pulled out of their sockets still haunting my thoughts. I still have legs, so, without a doubt, that was all simply a nightmare, not my reality, not an actuality. Thank the stars.
My delusion is shattered the moment I begin to take in my surroundings; my gaze sweeps over the corpses surrounding me, the dirt caked with their dried blood. The blood of my family. Deceased family. I expect to feel my heart flutter, clench and twist in an expanse of overwhelming emotions, the ones I felt when I replayed the memory of their deaths, yet all I feel is this deep, raw, primal hunger. A hunger that intensifies with each waking moment I stare at the blood. The scent, it's magnetic, threatening to take control of my body, pull me towards the source of my desires and make me take.
Without a word, I begin to move. My body is slow, painfully so, or am I just perceiving so much of my surroundings that it just feels slow? My body bristles; it knows the answer. Deep inside me, I know the answer, and the world returns to its normal pace. A pulse, a beat, and the hunger surges through me, welling in the back of my throat, making my teeth ache with such intensity I can't help but brush my tongue over them. They're sharp—sharper than before, sharper than what I'm used to—but they're mine. They're how I'm supposed to be. I feel complete. Almost.
My feet stop just as they touch the side of my brother, Xior. The emotions I expect to fill me are absent from the scene, evading me. Why do I want to feel something for these… lowlifes anyway? My whole life, they've abused, used, and discarded me. Not once did I have a moment I could truly call mine. They took it from me, forged me into a weapon at their beck and call. And I allowed it. Yet here they are, decapitated, ripped limb from limb, innards spilling from their bodies, while I live to see another day. Maybe this is a moment I can call my own. A moment that is mine. They can't interrupt. No, no, they can't. Though they can watch me from the depths of the 7th realm as I make a mess of what's left of them. Hm, perhaps those moments where I neared the point of tears spilling weren't due to them dying. It was due to me failing my soul purpose in life, all those years wasted in a few perilous moments. My strength couldn't protect. No, but it could destroy.
Inhaling, tremors cascading down my spine, I let a smile split my face. This situation doesn't call for tears, and instead, I find myself amused. Crouching, the scent of iron fills my nostrils. The hunger intensifies. The hunger for blood. Instinct takes over, my hand surges forth, nails sharpening and plunging into the depths of Xior's neck. The wet crunch as my hand deftly severs muscles, shatters cartilage, destroys membrane, it echoes throughout my forearm, reverberating in the very essence of my being. And then I lean forth, hand tugging at the corpse, pulling it up to meet my face, and bite.
Instant relief trickles into my mind. Ahhh~ My sigh fills the otherwise silent atmosphere. Gulp after gulp, the hunger fades into the background. The once incessant thundering of desire recedes, whispering its pleas silently to itself in the corners of my mind.
I pull back, mouth dripping with vivid reds, and yank my hand free of the flesh wrapping around it. What happened to me? I've never felt a thirst for blood before.
As much as I question the specifics, it's unnecessary. The answers are already there. Ones I refuse to listen to. Those Strigoi were the ones who caused this chaos. They left me on the verge of death and must've turned me into one of them. Stripped of my beastkin blood, replaced with the essence of bloodsuckers. Though, evidently, I am still beastkin. My horns, tail and wings are still here; that much hasn't changed. I've simply… become something more.
The wind picks up, and my senses catch the sound of fluttering pages. My head turns, eyeing the source. Since when was there a book here? Survival instincts out the window, I approach the book, lifting it into my hands. The pages are worn thin, and the cover is as ancient as time. Deep emerald with a touch of decay. Mmm, not ominous at all.
Turning through the pages, emptiness greets me. One after the other, the lack of ink on parchment irks me, until I reach the final page, that is.
~Oi, Beastie. Sorry for the family, you don't need 'em anyway. Dunno what boss was thinking with this plan, but welcome to vampirism. Heh, I'm sure you'll have fun. Jord is leaning over my fucking shoulder as I write this, so no secrets for you missy. Cunt, I know. I've gotta deal with his ass daily. Anyhoo, I think it's fair to give you a rundown of what happened now that you're one of us.
Our goal was to find a beastie like yourself, only requirement is that they're of the younger generation. You happened to fit the role, poor you. Anyway, next step was to incapacitate you, which is always a pleasure to do, not receive. I'm not sorry for that part. Boss was the one to swoop in and bite you, spreading the vampirism to you. Oh, and he fed you the previous primogeniture's heart. So now you have the powers of a primogeniture, and so does boss. Make sense? It totally does, you didn't look stupid when I saw you so I'm sure you get it. Eh, you'll figure it out. You're now the vampiric beastkin primogeniture and boss is the vampiric primogeniture. Like the human one but we don't say that. You got all that? Awesome. Fuck me is writing this out boring. Ignore that scribble on the corner of the page, I blame Jord.
We're the clan for rogue vampires: Noctem, by the way. Join us or don't, none of us really care. This was just an experiment to see if a beatie could turn since none before have managed the transformation. Congrats, you little shit. You're the first.
Since you probably don't know what to do right now, I suggest going with the flow. Do whatever the fuck you wanna do, kid. You didn't seem happy, but now you have the power to change that. Go cause a riot. You could say I'm rooting for you, I guess, but that's too nice. Trying not to die is always a great start. I've got to go now so I can't write anymore, not that I wanted to anyway. Let's have a scrap when you're a little older. You'll find me somewhere.
Don't fuck yourself over,
Kallan, the best vamp to ever suck blood.~
I blink, twice, and then drop the book. Why does his writing radiate the feeling of belonging? He seems more brotherly than my actual brother, the one I feasted from. I shake my head; such thoughts are irrelevant. What I should be mulling over is my next course of action. My family were taking me to the altar to find my Esse-Statera, my balance. A ritual every beastkin goes through at the age of 16 to find their ancestor. Excitement rushes through me, yes. That's what I'll do. I'll find out which beast is my ancestor and, from there, I'll decide what to do next.
The chuckle leaves me before I can stop it. Surprisingly, becoming a Strigoi isn't as upsetting as I thought it would be.