Skinned

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I was back home after Reed had urged me to clear my head.

Seated at sofa with my laptop at hand and the flashdrive already inserted, all I could hear was the debate running through my head as I asked myself if I really needed see its contents for myself.

There were four video files in total, all of which were five years apart, and I let the cursor hover over the the very first one that was named with the same set of numbers burned on the skin of Killian’s clavicle, 1065.

I was scared to know that the vampires could do a great level of harm, especially when I was a witness of it alone. It made me wonder what else they had in store for us.

And to what extent?

I drew in a heavy breath and swallowed down my dread, and before reluctance could hinder me, I immediately hit play.

There was a short moment of plain static taking over the screen, voices of different people filling the audio as they spoke in a foreign language. A few seconds into the conversation, I heard a man speak up, his voice carrying a strong accent to it, “1065 is our second subject with superior breeding.”

“And 1064?” A woman asked.

A short pause.

“Undergoing second phase of trial.”

“This one, does it come from the same lineage as the previous subject?”

“Yes, only this one is a year older, twelve. Even the blood tests suggests that he’s of the same relations with 1064.”

“Brothers?”

“Yes.”

The static complete disappeared, and showed a boy confined in the middle of a purely white room. He had his shoulders curved forward, his posture frail as he sat alone and terrified on the steel cold chair. And I felt my heart ache for him as he looked down at his ceaselessly trembling hands, both of which were restrained under a pair of silver shackles.

In a weak attempt to control his body’s tremor, he laced his fingers firmly together and tucked his hands tightly between his thighs.

And I felt my heart drop when he looked directly up at the camera mounted on the corner of the room, forcing me to immediately hit pause and freeze the frame exactly on the clearness of his face.

It was Killian as a mere boy.

I reached out a finger, tracing the details of his features as I caught sight of the spiraling dread and despair that marred his youth. His profile was soft, innocent, yet his purely brown eyes told me that he had already witnessed enough to last him a lifetime.

And what he endured as a pup, instead of days spent in pure games, had instead been torment that even I failed to imagine.

Killian turned his head to the two-way mirror in front of him, his features breaking into a display of sorrow as his eyes turned into a pool of tears.