Boy Meets Beast

✧ 52 ✧

Ilya lost himself in the smothering warmth of his feverish flesh, slipping between memory and nightmare. Or maybe they were the same.

Somewhere in the haze, his mother manifested in front of him, with her gentle smile and wavy strands escaping from a bandana with a pretty floral print.  Her hands—soft, trembling—cupped his burning face and wiped his tears. Her voice, barely more than a breath, whispered against his ear.

"He didn't mean it, baby."

But he did.

His father's hands—strong and sure—had shoved him away. Not with the intent to harm, but with the force of a man unraveling, a man too blind with purpose to see the little boy clutching at his coat, begging him to stay.

Aleksei had raged at a silent sky. Not at Ilya—never at him—but at the gods who had cursed their family. Yet to a six-year-old, it made no difference. Ilya had adored his father. He idolized him. Yet, he could not grasp why his father would shout, create distance, and abandon them.

Aleksei hadn't been the same for several months, ever since he learned about his wife's sickness. But the letter that had come that morning containing the latest test results was the final straw that broke the camel's back.

The man who once knelt in church benches now clenched his fists at the sky, lashing his anger upon the whole universe, especially at a God who had turned against him.

And then, he left.

Sworn not to return until he finds a cure or the disease consuming the love of his life. Until he defeats death itself.

But death had been faster.

After a long and agonizing battle with the disease, the spark in Julia's eyes faded until it was gone as if it was never there.

It rained the day they buried her. It rained harder when Ilya saw the open grave, the coffin's lid splintered, the earth torn apart like something had crawled out.

Reality fractured, the fever blurring the lines between past and present.

He was six again, standing at the foot of her bed. His mother, frail and pale in candlelight, reached for his face—soft, gentle, just the way he remembered. Then her fingers tightened. Her lips peeled back, hands locked around his throat, and nails digging into his skin. She dragged him close, her breath reeking of earth and decay, and then—pain.

His mother had sunk her teeth into his shoulder. A bite, searing and deep, ripped flesh from bone. Fire flooded his veins, unbearable, unrelenting—until suddenly, it changed.

Heat became ice.

The cold shock tore through him like a scream

The fever shattered. The dream dissolved.

Ilya woke up with a gasp; a gasp so heavy that left his lungs wheezing for more air; more air to stop this sudden pain, this freezing pang across his sick body.

Hyperventilated, he shook and blinked into the light.

Ilya witnessed the change of scenery since his last visit to the waking world. Two faces greeted him; one familiar, while the other had a wide eerie grin and dark eyes like holes. A female, nonetheless, but for sure wasn't human.

Wet and cold. Too cold. Ilya felt like his organs were freezing from the inside out. He splashed, trying to get out of this freezing bath. Chunks of ice cubes scraped against his fevered bare skin.

Then a strong grip held him still.

"Filthy leech," Billy hissed at the woman. "Do your job!"

Billy kept degrading her with rude comments and sneers.

Then, long polished nails scratched Ilya's shoulders. The woman's face drew near. Silent. Smiling from ear to ear. Voids for eyes, and blood for lips.

Tubes were hanging all around him, penetrating his arms and legs. A transparent liquid inside them slowly dripped into his veins. Ilya was conscious of his surroundings but couldn't remember how he got there. If his memory served him right, he was in Pig's apartment, filling his starving belly with spaghetti for dinner.

Shivering, he let out separate words that formed his question:

"W-where.. a-am.. I?"

But words and chills weren't the only things being voiced. Panic sent him screaming.

"Where am I?" He thrashed. "What are you doing to me?"

"It's OK. She's trying to help you."

The look Billy sent to the women didn't feel like he trusted her. If that wasn't a giveaway, her eerie silence and him pushing her aside were evidence enough.

The woman retreated into the shadows behind them.

"Phew," Billy sighed. "I'm glad you still have some fight in you, but I really need you to stay still now."

The hold on Ilya's arms became increasingly tight and painful, forcing him to stop resisting. He winced, half-opening his unscathed eye only to see a juice box handed to him.

"Here," Billy said. "You need to drink this."

Ilya grabbed it without hesitating. The fever left him thirsty for any beverage. If Charlie had handed him that roach-infested tea right now, he would've gladly drank it.

He stopped panting once the straw was in his mouth. He closed his eyes and downed that surgery drink with an urgent appetite. His hands were shaking. With little clothes on him, he wanted to escape the ice bath, but thrust dominated his other survival instincts.

He kept swallowing until there was no juice left. 

Not a moment too soon, another juice box came his way. Billy was practically trying to push the drink down Ilya's throat.

"You might wanna drink more."

"Why?" Ilya answered before quickly sucking on the straw.

Billy turned to the shadows, where the women's eyes glared at him. She stepped forward, showing her long white teeth, as sharp as knives.

Ilya flinched, dropping the drink in the process. He rubbed his eyes, thinking he might have imagined things. However, that woman's predatory gaze and her canine growth only intensified.

Something was seriously wrong about her that made Ilya shiver in the confinement of this suffocating bathtub.

"Because," Billy dreadfully added, "you're about to lose a shitload of blood."

Uh-oh. What does that mean? What's gonna happen? 👀

So, I'm back... but a bit slow and rusty ^^' Ahaha

Did ya miss me? ;P