Origins of Blood (RE)

Elliot’s POV

“I’m not a monster. Not by will, I’m their creation.”

––Elliot Starfall

I walk through the bluish mist of the city, a world that belongs to the blue and green monsters. The chill in the air is deceiving; this world is not mine, but theirs. I don’t belong here. Everything feels so alien, as though the very ground beneath my feet is artificial, a trap, as if I’m stuck inside a nightmare, in a game that I never chose to play. But I’m lying through my teeth. This isn’t a dream. This is real, harsh reality. No, harsh doesn’t even begin to cover it. Earth is a memory, a distant past. And this—this place—exists in the present, but its technology feels like it belongs to some other era, decades behind my own world.

I sigh, my gaze drifting down to the asphalt beneath my feet, where my leather boots tread. The same boots I stole from the monster—along with my pants, socks, shirt, and vest. Everything beige, except the socks and shirt, which are snow-white like the skin of the faceless creature whose head now lies in its chamber, shattered beyond recognition. Smashed—like the body of my brother, my blood. Ren.

The memory is still so fresh, as if it happened mere moments ago. His lifeless eyes, empty sockets staring back at me. His tongue hanging from his nose, the bloodied mess that was once his stomach torn apart. I still smell the stench of it. The blood. The carnage. It lingers, like a curse I can’t escape. I want to cry. I want to scream, to break down and fall apart. But I can’t afford that. Not now. If I shed a tear, I’ll ruin the disguise I’ve worked so hard to maintain. The makeup that covers my face—that is my mask. The one I found in the bathroom, after I pissed on the monster who tore my world apart.

The only thing I did before I left that place, the decrepit house that resembled my grandparents’ home, was brush my teeth. And then, I hid myself behind the mask of the people who enslaved my kind. I studied them through the windows, watching their every move. They have a strange, bluish tint to their skin, some even whiter than some of the Asian people from Earth, but there’s something more—a visible pulse of blue blood beneath their flesh. And so, I painted my nails, my knuckles, fingers, cheeks, ears, and lips. I turned myself into one of them, or at least, as close as I could manage. But it makes me feel sick. Uncomfortable. Like I’m wearing a suit of lies.

I walk past the people on the street, past the horse-drawn carriages, where the masters slap the horses to move faster. The way they treat these creatures—it’s the same as how they treat my kind. We are nothing but animals, beasts for their amusement. Less than that, even.