The morning of the funeral was gray and cold, the kind of chill that seeped into the bones no matter how many layers you wore. Abraham stood before the mirror in his apartment, the faint golden glow of his eyes reflecting back at him. They shimmered like molten metal, an otherworldly trait he couldn't hide, no matter how much he wanted to.
The suit he wore was new, sharp, and tailored perfectly to his wiry frame. Black on black, with no splash of color to hint at personality. It felt appropriate—somber, understated. But as he adjusted the tie for what felt like the hundredth time, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was wearing someone else's skin.
He stared at his reflection, tugging the knot of the tie tighter. The funeral wasn't for him. It was for them—Marcus, his mother, the endless string of distant relatives he hadn't seen in years. He was just the extra piece, the spare part, the one who hadn't even bothered to help when their father had died.
His last conversation with Marcus before all of this replayed in his mind like a bad dream.
"You take care of it," he'd said after their fight, the words dripping with venom.
And Marcus had. He'd handled everything—the arrangements, the paperwork, the painful calls to old friends and family. While Abraham? He'd stayed holed up in his apartment, pretending the world didn't exist.
But it did. And now he had to face it.
—
The cemetery was a short walk from his apartment, tucked away behind rows of skeletal trees whose branches swayed against the cloudy sky. By the time Abraham arrived, most of the mourners had gathered, their black-clad figures clustered near the casket.
He spotted Marcus almost immediately, standing at the head of the group like the dutiful son he was. His older brother's face was a mask of grief and restraint, his shoulders squared as though holding the weight of the world. Next to him stood their mother, her expression tight and unreadable.
When Abraham approached, Marcus glanced at him, his sharp blue eyes flicking over the suit. He gave a curt nod, then turned back to the service without a word. Their mother barely acknowledged him, her gaze fixed on the casket as if Abraham wasn't even there.
The priest's voice droned on, offering platitudes about their father's life: his dedication, his sacrifices, his love for his family. Abraham barely heard it. He stood at the back of the group, keeping his distance, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
The golden glow of his eyes caught the attention of a few distant relatives, their whispers carried by the wind. He ignored them, staring instead at the casket as it was lowered into the ground.
When the priest invited people to speak, Marcus stepped forward. His words were precise, rehearsed, the kind of eulogy that painted their father as a saint. Abraham watched from the sidelines, bitterness creeping into his chest. Marcus had always been the golden boy, the favorite, the one their mother leaned on when things got hard. And now, here he was again, shining in the spotlight while Abraham was just... there.
The reception hall buzzed with muted conversation, the murmur of grief laced with obligatory pleasantries. Abraham sat near the back, the bitter coffee in his cup long gone cold. The room felt suffocating, a performance where everyone played their roles to perfection—except him.
His mother, Helen, stood near the center of the room, clutching Marcus's arm as though he were her lifeline. Her face, always sharp and unyielding, softened only when she looked at her eldest son. To Marcus, she was warm and doting, the grieving mother who could lean on him in her time of need. But when her gaze flicked to Abraham, it was as though a shadow passed over her features.
Their aunts and uncles had gathered in small clusters, sharing stories about their father. Most of them barely glanced at Abraham, their expressions ranging from indifference to thinly veiled disdain. A few, like Aunt Miriam and Uncle Jack, offered him fleeting smiles of sympathy, but even they seemed hesitant to approach him.
Abraham remained silent, watching from the sidelines, the faint golden glow of his eyes drawing occasional wary glances. He'd long since stopped trying to hide it—it was a part of him now, whether he liked it or not.
—
As the reception dragged on, Abraham finally made his way toward the center of the room. He wasn't sure what he intended to do—maybe offer a strained word of condolence to his mother, or at least show Marcus he wasn't completely checked out.
The moment he stepped closer, Marcus noticed him, his face hardening. Helen turned as well, her expression immediately souring.
"Abraham," Marcus said, his voice clipped.
"Marcus," Abraham replied, matching his tone. He looked at their mother, his jaw tightening. "Mom."
"Don't call me that," Helen snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.
The tension in the air thickened, drawing the attention of nearby relatives. Aunt Miriam and Uncle Jack exchanged uneasy glances, while others outright stared.
"Why are you even here?" Helen continued, her voice low but venomous. "You didn't lift a finger to help. You didn't care then, so why pretend to care now?"
"I didn't think you needed me," Abraham replied, his voice steady but cold. "Marcus had it all under control."
"That's not the point!" Helen's voice rose, drawing more attention. "You didn't offer, Abraham. You didn't even try. You've been nothing but a disappointment, and now you show up like this, like you belong here."
"Maybe I shouldn't have come," Abraham said, his eyes narrowing.
"Maybe you shouldn't have," Marcus snapped, stepping forward. "You've always been selfish, Abe. Always. You think everything revolves around you, and when things get hard, you run. You don't care about this family—you never have."
The words stung, not because they were true, but because they were so easy for Marcus to say, so effortlessly cruel. Abraham clenched his fists, the glow of his eyes brightening slightly.
"That's not fair," Aunt Miriam interjected, her voice firm but gentle. "Abraham's here now. That's what matters."
Helen rounded on her. "You don't know what you're talking about, Miriam. You didn't see the fights, the laziness, the way he always shirked his responsibilities. You don't know what it's like to raise a son who constantly lets you down."
Abraham's breath hitched, the weight of her words settling heavily in his chest.
"Mom—" he started, but she cut him off.
"Don't you dare call me that," she hissed, stepping closer. Her hand shot out, aiming for his face, but Abraham caught her wrist mid-swing.
The snap of bone was immediate and unmistakable. Helen cried out; Abraham stood frozen for a moment, his body tense and still as the heavy silence of the room pressed down on him. His gaze lingered on his family—those few who were left and who still cared, and those who clearly did not. His mother was now at the center of a quiet storm of shock and fear, her wrist bent awkwardly in his hand. His brother, Marcus, was seething, but he hadn't moved—his arrogance had faltered for just a second, and that was enough for Abraham to savor the moment.
His uncles and aunts were too stunned to react. Their collective breaths held, unsure whether they should intervene, each caught in the realization that the boy they thought they knew was no more. Abraham was no longer their obedient, soft-spoken son or nephew. They were now facing something else—something darker.
Abraham's eyes flicked over to his mother, who stood there, still glaring at him with a mixture of disbelief and growing resentment. He slowly let go of her wrist, but the tension in the room didn't dissipate.
"You don't get to touch me, you hear me?" she finally spat, her voice laced with venom. "After everything... you just show up like this? Like nothing happened?"
His voice was low, almost cold, but there was an edge to it—a sharpness that hadn't been there before. "What exactly did you expect, Mom? Some son who would just let you and Marcus walk all over him forever? I'm done with it."
Marcus finally stepped forward, his expression twisted in outrage. "You always were the disappointment. You think you can just show up and make things right? You can't fix this, Abe. It's over."
Abraham's hand clenched into a fist. The sudden pulse of anger that surged through him almost made his vision blur. The power, the hunger inside him, it felt alive—filling the hollow spaces left by the years of neglect. He'd never felt more disconnected from these people than he did now. It wasn't even anger—it was just... indifference.
"Fix things?" He laughed softly, bitterly. "Do you think this family can be fixed? Do you honestly believe I ever had a chance? You don't even see it, do you? You never did." His eyes were burning now, glowing gold, and the subtle crackle of energy filled the air around him.
His mother flinched at the sight, but her face tightened with fury. "You don't get to—"
He took a step toward her, his presence filling the space, towering over her in a way he'd never done before. The room felt too small now, like a cage.
"You know what's funny?" he continued, voice growing darker. "You all think you know what's best for me. You don't. You never did. And I'm not going to pretend anymore. I'm not the little boy you can push around. You can't control me. Not anymore."
With that, he turned on his heel and started walking toward the door, every movement sharp and deliberate. He wasn't going to say another word.
Marcus's shout reached his ears just as he reached the door. "You'll regret this, Abe! You can't keep running from your family forever!"
Abraham paused at the door, just long enough to look back at them—his eyes glinting like gold fire as the words slipped from his lips, slow and steady. "I'm not running, Marcus. I'm just done pretending."
With that, he slammed the door behind him, the sound echoing like a final punctuation mark.
Outside, the cool air hit him with a sharpness that cut through the tension inside. He breathed deeply, drawing in the crisp, sharp air, trying to clear the fog from his mind. He had nothing left to say to them. The funeral had only been the beginning, and now, as he stepped away from the remnants of his old life, it felt like he had crossed some invisible line. There was no going back.
But there was something else inside him—a pull, a hunger. Something he couldn't ignore. It had nothing to do with family or regret. It was deeper than that. He could feel it gnawing at him, tugging at the edges of his mind. The power.
He didn't need to fix things with them. He didn't need their approval. All he needed... was more. More power, more control. More of the feeling that surged through him when he had his hands wrapped around his mother's wrist, when he had broken Marcus's delusions with a single sentence. The world was out of reach, and it felt good. He felt alive in a way that was intoxicating. But the hunger... the hunger never stopped. And it wasn't for food or connection. It was something else entirely.
Turning away from the family home, Abraham knew one thing for sure: this was the path he was on now. And there was no going back.
—
Later that night, the park where he had once tried to pretend he was still human became his refuge. The shadows of the trees were long and twisting, the moon casting strange patterns across the ground. He found a bench and sat, watching the stars above. It felt so... trivial. The normalcy of it all. He was different now. The world that had once felt so familiar now felt like something he was only just beginning to understand—something foreign, distant.
A soft breeze swept past him, and Abraham closed his eyes for a moment. The hunger gnawed at him again, but this time, it was a hunger for something far deeper. He wasn't sure if it was power, knowledge, or just a need to feel something—anything—that could remind him of the human he used to be. The Abraham who still cared. But that was gone now.
And so, he waited, letting the night swallow him whole, as he quietly made plans. Tomorrow would bring new creatures to hunt, new power to absorb. He needed to get stronger. He needed to feel more.
There was no going back.