Bad Blood

A Bloody Mess

The first day out of the basement is heaven on earth. I wander the large house like a forelorn ghost, hands gliding across wallpaper and old paintings. It hasn't changed much since the last time I've seen it; it's cold and still. Reminds me of my mother.

My father doesn't speak to me once, but I can tell he's watching. Making sure I don't get too bold and think I'm even half good enough to go outside.

"Do you really think you're like them?" He points out the window, to a small group of teenagers walking down the street, "You think they'd accept you? That anyone out there would? You're not a person, like them, Samuel. You're a monster. You're what they're afraid of."

I sit in the empty room that used to be mine. The walls are a pale red, the lacey white curtains moth-eaten and tattered. The floor is bare, save for the floorboards, and the closet has no door. It's a husk of a happy family's former life, and I hate it. I keel over and dig my claws into my hair, crying out. It's a guttural, raw crying, that I imagine I've been holding in for a very long while. the tears that fall down pale cheeks are a translucent black color, and my vision is swimming. My breaths catch in my throat with every thought of what we could have had, if I wasn't a fucking monstrous freak. The sobs eventually become hollow and the tears stop coming. I stay on the floor, laid out like a corpse, and let the regret wash over me in waves. Eventually one of the housekeepers, a young woman with long white hair, pokes her head into the open doorway. The look she gives me can only be described as pity. Maybe she knows where I've been the last seven years.

"Your father wants you to join him for dinner," She speaks softly, like someone coaxing an animal out of a cage, "If you'll follow me?" I pull myself to my feet, wiping what dust will come off of my pants and sweater. I wonder how much she actually knows, about the family. I follow behind her to what I remember being the dining room, where my father sits at a table meant for someone who actually had a family. The only other chair is as close to his as he could have put it. The growl in my throat doesn't go unheard, and the young woman looks fearful for her life. I give her a toothy grin, because fuck it, I might as well live up to my reputation. She backs out of the room quickly, and I don't see her again for weeks afterwards.

Dinner is a mockery. My father insists on only feeding me raw meat and what looks to be the aftermath of a bad accident. It's insulting, at first, until I realize it's fucking satisfying. I'm disgusted with how natural it feels to shred into flesh and bone, and rip it apart with ease. How filling it feels to eat, and dine, and feed. The feeling of blood drying on my hands and face isn't that bad, in the end. I'll wash it off in the shower. I can feel the blood on my teeth, and under my nails, and everywhere. It feels like second nature, and for a moment I stop eating to regain my thoughts. This is some new, dark, frightening hunger that I desperately want to bury away and never feel again.

After dinner, I head back upstairs, to the only bathroom I can find. The shower is small, and antique by now, and dirty with disuse. I let the water run for a few minutes, while I look in the dusty, cracked mirror. I'm horrifying; my teeth and mouth are covered in blood, dripping down my chin onto my throat. My hands are stained red, and the blood under my nails is drying fast. I look animalistic and...wrong. My eyes are sunken and practically glowing under the matted fringe of dark hair. My face is thin and tired, and my throat is still covered in bruises I shouldn't have to explain. The sweater I'm wearing barely fits anymore, and hangs off of one shoulder. I can't stand it, and close my eyes, the tears welling up again. I reach up and snap the mirror off of the wall, turning it over on the floor. I pull the now bloody sweater over my head, only worsening it's condition. I pull off my ragged jeans and boxers, and step into the scalding hot water of the shower. It's instant gratification. The burning is a distraction from the beast I saw in the mirror, and the reddening of my pale skin is almost welcome. I bring my fingers up to my hair, scrubbing violently. I want desperately to be clean. I watch the water under my feet turn red, and the coppery swirls travel down the drain. I wish I could follow them. I wash my face, and stand under the boiling water for as long as I can. I step out of the shower, startled by the sharp shattering from under my feet. I'd forgotten about the mirror. I curse under my breath and pull my clothes back on, shuffling quietly back to my room. The trail of bloody footprints wasn't my problem. I sit on the hardwood floor, in the faint light of the hallway light, and pull the glass shards out of my feet. What a great first night home.