We Are Bulletproof | 2

ichor [anecdote]

ichor

•∞•

"You don't bleed red like the rest of us," the boy told her earnestly, a whiskey bottle in his underaged hand (he didn't really drink, he just liked the masculinity of holding a glass bottle).

"Pardon?" she asked, curious. She was leaning against the timber of the bridge they were perched on, watching the city lights and cars driving for a moment before she turned to him (she doesn't drink, either, but that's only because the brand he bought tasted too bitter).

They were up high, fearless, and to teenagers who felt so inferior, it was power.

He coughed, air collecting in his lungs instead of alcohol. "You know, how everyone says that underneath all of this skin and bone, we all bleed the same. You don't."

"What are you trying to imply?"

He looked at her uncertain face. "You bleed gold."

"Gold?" she repeated. "Hey, are you sure you didn't drink too much? Are you going to say I have vines growing out of my chest next?"

He shook his head, clutched the bottle in his hands and stared straight ahead. "Do you feel empowered up here? Sitting this high up, watching the world shake, feel timeless?"

She fell at his bait, though not ignorant of him changing the subject. "Well, I wouldn't come here if I didn't find a thrill, right?"

He took a chug of the whiskey, ignored how his chest burns (is it just the whiskey?). "We're on Olympus, kind of."

"I guess," she said.

"Then you understand, right?" he told her. "Us mortals, we just bleed red."

He takes his bottle, upturns it and they watch, mesmerized, by the amber liquid streaming down like tears from the sky. "But gods and goddesses, like you? They bleed gold. And you're no exception to the ichor."

•∞•