Origins of Blood (RE)

I see something in his eyes that I recognize in my own, and something I rarely see in others. He likes it. He’s lost something precious, though I’ve never asked him what it was, but I know he has. And now Gene lets out a bitter laugh as the man with fingers like fat sausages stumbles back, trembling. He’s grieving for what he lost, but even then, he turns away. No matter what they lose, they never want to die. They cling to their lives like the filth they are. And in answer to that pathetic tenacity, the urge of the reaper grows in Gene’s heart. He lunges, punching the big, soft-bellied man in the ribs, cracking something inside. Gene refuses to grant him a quick death like the child before. Instead, he draws it out.

...

While Cham and I shower off the blood and filth, while we scrub the stink of sweat and fear from our skin, Gene is still with the man. We check the bastard’s belongings, count what little coins he had, take anything useful. And Gene tortures him for a full hour before finally killing him. He’s slow about it. Deliberate. He won’t let the man scream too much. Doesn’t want to attract anyone. But he makes sure every breath is agony before it’s over. Only when he’s satisfied does he come to clean himself, silent and sour and spitting flecks of blood into the drain.

Time feels so vivid.

Outside, the breeze of the cold town catches my hair, whipping it across my face. The day itself is a lie: hot, glaring, the sky lit by that blue sun like something out of a faerie tale. A sun that looks cold as ice but burns like fire. By nightfall it all reverses. The darkness swallows the glow, and the moon dominates the heavens, with real coldness. The kind that seeps into your bones and feasts on you from the inside.

I look up at the golden moon. It’s so close it feels like it’s going to crash down and annihilate us all, craters as big as the old colorless moon I remember from the nights with Ren only a month ago. I wouldn’t mind if the world ended now, if every last one of these monsters was pulled with me into hell, I’d welcome it.

I exhale into nothing, watching the fog catch the light of the gas lamps in a swirling golden haze. At night, it isn’t pitch-black, not really—there are streaks of dark violet across the sky. The stars burn through them, bright and indifferent. Too beautiful for a place like this. Too beautiful for eyes like mine. Or for the eyes of those monsters who sleep safe behind those sharp-peaked roofs, oblivious and dreaming of better days.