Origins of Blood (RE)

Now I can run. Now that he’s gone.

I want to hate myself for this. I want to be the man who stood there and pulled him free, who risked everything in a noble sacrifice. But I’m not. I’m just a student, a doctor—an unarmed man with no training for this.

I want to live.

If I’d moved a moment sooner, if I’d just reacted instead of freezing, maybe I could have taken him with me. But I was afraid. I am afraid.

The fear of dying crawls over my skin, nestles under my ribs, whispers that survival is the only virtue worth having.

I run.

And I hate myself for it.

But I keep running.

Others run with me, just as selfish, just as desperate. A herd of survivors pretending not to see the ones falling underfoot. I feel something give under my boot, a wet crack—an arm, maybe. I don’t look down.

I just keep going.

But his face haunts me.