The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a wooden ceiling. Rough, uneven boards, cracked by the passage of time, some of which let in meager rays of light. I inhaled deeply, feeling the smell permeate me, heavy and visceral.
I moved slightly and an icy shiver ran through me. Beneath me, a sticky pool enveloped me. My fingers brushed this warm, thick liquid, sliding over my bare skin. Bringing my hand back to my eyes, I saw this deep, almost hypnotic red spread over my fingers.
Intrigued, but strangely calm, I brought this liquid to my lips. The taste struck me immediately: an intense, ferrous flavor, mixed with a hint of organic bitterness. Every part of my tongue was invaded by this primal, brutal taste, an essence of life that seemed to awaken something deeply buried within me. An insatiable desire. A hunger.
A hunger that wasn't just stomach hunger, but something more visceral. My stomach seemed to twist with an almost painful anticipation. My mind whispered a certainty: I wanted more.
My right hand, still stained with that shiny red liquid, suddenly felt precious, almost sacred. I brought it to my mouth and slowly licked my fingers, feeling the sticky texture slide over my tongue. The contact electrified me, amplifying the hunger that was already rumbling inside me. Each drop seemed to feed that insatiable emptiness that inhabited me, a chasm that grew deeper as I fed it.
But it wasn't enough.
My hands were shaking slightly now, not from fear, but from an irrepressible need. I looked down at the ground. The pool of red liquid lay at my feet, glistening in the dim light, like a macabre mirror reflecting the greed in my gaze.
I crouched down, my knees hitting the ground with a thud, unmoved by the coldness of the wet stone against my skin. My fingers dipped into the puddle, splashing slightly. I brought my filled hands to my mouth and drank with renewed urgency, as if this liquid were the only thing that could keep me alive.
The taste washed over me again, more powerful, richer. But far from calming my hunger, it only exacerbated it. Each sip was an incomplete promise, a caress insufficient to calm the storm within me.
"More," I murmured, unaware.
I leaned closer, my lips touching the smooth, cold surface of the ground, and drank directly from the source. My breaths mingled with the obscene sound of aspiration, each swallowed drop sounding like a simultaneous victory and failure. The metallic smell invaded my nostrils, mixing with that of stone and dust, creating a brutal, primal symphony.
The sticky liquid stuck to my lips, to my chin, sometimes running down my neck in thin, warm trails. My fingers, wet and slippery, sometimes slid over the surface of the puddle, creating little whirlpools.
But it didn't satisfy me.
No, it only made this infinite emptiness inside me deeper. A dull anger began to rise, a visceral discontent with this inadequacy. My belly, full to the point of pain, still screamed, demanding more, demanding something that this pool couldn't offer.
I raised my head, short of breath, my gaze searching the room for another source, another promise of satiety. The taste of blood was still on my lips, a haunting flavor that wouldn't leave me.
Then I saw them.
A circle of silhouettes stood a few meters away from me. They were motionless, their gaze fixed on me, like living statues. Six children and one adult.
The children were young, their faces marked by a strange neutrality that seemed far too adult for their age. Their clothes, simple but dirty, were stained with blood. One of them, a little girl with tangled black hair, was clutching a doll, a doll whose face was splattered with red. Her brown eyes seemed empty, as if all emotion had been torn from her. Beside her, a boy with messy blond hair stared at the ground, his fingers clenched around a split wooden stick, his eyes shining with a strange light, halfway between fear and defiance.
The other children, younger and older, formed an arc around the adult, like planets orbiting their sun. Yet this "sun" seemed about to go out.
The adult was a man in his forties, tall and thin, but his stooped posture and slumped shoulders made him appear more fragile. His face was pale, almost cadaverous, and streaked with deep lines that seemed to have been etched by a lifetime of worry and toil. His clothes, a worn shirt and threadbare trousers, were also stained with blood. His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed as if he wanted to chase me away with his gaze alone. His eyes were sunken, a dull gray, but despite their apparent fatigue, they projected an intensity that struck me like a stab.
I could almost feel his emotion, as if it were emanating from him. It was a complex and dark mixture: fear, hatred, disgust.
How did I know? How could I sense it, like a scent you smell or a warmth you feel on your skin? I had no idea, but there it was, an insurmountable evidence.
A heavy silence reigned in the room, broken only by the distant sound of a drop falling somewhere in a dark corner. My gaze wandered for a moment over each of the faces, searching for an explanation, a reason for this absurd scene.
Then that hunger came back, tugging at me, insidious. The more I looked at them, the more I felt that urge rising inside me. No, it wasn't just food I wanted. It was them. Their warmth, their vitality, something they possessed and that I desired with all my soul.
I stood up slowly, my feet slipping in that sticky puddle. Each movement was accompanied by a wet, sickening sound, but I paid it no mind. I took a step forward, my feet slipping again in that red pool. The man stepped back instinctively, holding out a protective arm in front of the children.
"Don't come any closer!" he spat, his voice hoarse and trembling, but filled with a desperate strength.
I took a step, then another. Each movement reduced the space between us, and with each step, his gaze changed. The fear in his eyes, that raw, animal fear, gave way to something darker, deeper. A despair that devoured his being.
I could feel that emotion, like a cold mist that insinuated itself into my veins. It nourished me as much as it intrigued me. This transformation, this passage from fear to renunciation, had something fascinating, almost hypnotic.
Then, suddenly, he moved.
With a leap, the man stood up, a hoarse cry escaping from his throat, like the howl of a cornered animal. His fists clenched so hard that his knuckles turned white. I saw every muscle in his body tense, every fiber of his will concentrated in this desperate gesture.
His hand went out, a right hand charged with a brute force, but disordered. It was an attack that he had put into everything he had left. But to me, it was like watching a tree fall: predictable, slow, already over before it had even begun.
I stepped aside with ease, my body reacting almost without my command. The air displaced by his blow brushed my cheek, a useless breeze. His fists continued to strike, left, right, again and again. Heavy movements, devoid of strategy, carried by nothing but rage. But I dodged each one with an almost amused fluidity, as if I were dancing to a rhythm he couldn't hear.
His breaths quickly became short, labored. Each inhalation sounded like a rattle, a silent cry from his exhausted body. And finally, he collapsed.
He fell to his knees, his arms hanging, his shoulders shaking. His fists, once so determined, slowly opened, his fingers sliding on the bloody ground. He looked up at me, his face bathed in tears, his cheeks streaked with the salty trail that formed there.
I stopped, looking at him.
Something inside me vibrated. It wasn't compassion, no. It was… joy. A dull exultation at this desperate and futile fight. A strange, almost euphoric satisfaction at seeing him fight against the inevitable, only to collapse, broken.
I leaned down slightly, holding out my right hand to him. His breathing quickened, a gasp of terror passing his lips. But he didn't move. Perhaps he had already understood that there was nowhere to run.
My hand gripped his neck.
His skin was warm under my fingers, but damp with sweat. I could feel the beating of his heart, rapid, frantic, like that of an animal caught in a trap. I squeezed, gently at first, testing what fragile resistance he could still offer.
Then I squeezed harder.
The sound of his breathing changed, going from a desperate gasp to a hoarse gurgle. His hands, trembling, rose to grip my arm, his nails digging into my skin in a desperate attempt to free himself. But his efforts were futile, feeble, like a child trying to stop a storm.
I lifted him up then, almost effortlessly. His weight meant nothing to me. His feet left the ground, beating the air in a vain attempt to find support, a stability that eluded him.
My eyes, captivated, fixed on his.
They were large, bloodshot, lined with red veins burst by the pressure, their dull glow amplified by the sheer terror that read in them. He stared at me, no longer with hatred or defiance, but with an icy resignation, a painful acceptance of his imminent end. That look, charged with all the emotions of a man on the brink of nothingness, captivated me.
And in that gaze, I saw something that stopped me briefly: my reflection.
My own eyes, sparkling and lively, appeared to me in the trembling glow of his agony. They were a celestial blue, so clear that they seemed made of crystal, a cold and fascinating light that seemed to project itself out of me. But that was not all.
In that perfect blue, something was dancing. Tiny points of light, like stars caught in a still sea, pulsed gently, rhythmed by a mysterious energy. They vibrated, almost alive, like fireflies enclosed in a case.
And at the center of this perfection, a reptilian slit split my irises, black and deep. An animal pupil, foreign, impossible, but undeniably there. It betrayed a sharp conscience, a cold and distant intelligence. It breathed an absolute indifference towards the world, a calm and eternal contempt for all other forms of life.
My smile slowly widens.
The body I held slowly stopped struggling, its strength fading like a dying candle. I could feel its heart beating against my palm, an irregular and fading rhythm, a desperate music that grew weaker with each passing second.
I tilted my head slightly, bringing my face closer to its own, to better see that strange reflection in its eyes. Its breathing was raspy, almost a gurgle, and a smell of fear permeated the air, mixed with the metallic smell of blood.
I could feel it all: the damp heat of its skin against my palm, the tension of its muscles that struggled in vain, and even the failing breath that escaped its parted lips.
In this silence broken only by its last gasps of life, I savored the power of this moment. Not the violence, nor even death itself, but this pure, raw power that I felt flowing through my veins.
And as I squeezed tighter, his eyelids fluttered one last time. His gaze gradually emptied, the reflection of my eyes fading into an opaque nothingness. His life, that throbbing heat, was escaping, and I could almost feel it, that energy, slipping between my fingers.
I squeezed tighter. His fingers gripped my wrist weakly, his nails sliding over my skin without leaving a mark. The whisper of a question died on his lips, carried away by the gurgling of his last breath.
BAM!
A sharp, brutal noise.
My body shuddered slightly, an electric wave running through my muscles. The impact resonated in the room, breaking the bubble of silence I was bathing in. An unpleasant sensation ran along my shoulder, like a blow received by surprise, light but enough to divert my attention.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw splinters of wood flying through the air, drawing fleeting arcs before falling back to the ground. The acrid smell of split wood mixed with that of blood now floated in the already heavy atmosphere. I turned my head slowly, almost curiously, searching for the source of this disorder.
He was there.
A boy, young, maybe ten or eleven years old, stood a few steps away from me. His tousled blond hair seemed to dance in a harsh light, accentuating the feverish brilliance of his eyes. In his trembling hand, he held the remains of a wooden stick, broken in two, the splinters still fresh and sharp.
His gaze was a confusing mix of contradictory feelings. Hatred burned there, intense and raw, but it was intertwined with an almost paralyzing fear, like that of an animal aware of having crossed a forbidden line. And yet there was something else: a desperate disbelief, as if he himself was struggling to believe his own act.
The boy was breathing rapidly, almost panting, his small shoulders rising at a frantic pace. His hands, despite their trembling, remained firmly gripped to the makeshift weapon, as if it were all he had left to protect himself from the shadow that weighed on him.
I let out an almost imperceptible sigh, feeling the interruption rumble inside me like a wave of frustration. My smile, frozen for a moment, faded slightly. I released the man, his body collapsing to the ground with a dull thud, like an abandoned rag doll.
"You," I murmured in a low voice, almost soft, but vibrating with a new curiosity.
The boy did not move. His eyes, large and bright, remained fixed on me, as if he were trying to unravel a secret, to understand what was before him.
I took a step towards him.
He stepped back slightly, gripping the stick tighter, his knuckles turning white under the pressure. The crunch of his shoes on the ground was a tiny, almost inaudible sound, but in the tense silence it resonated like a drum.
"You thought that would be enough?" I continued, my voice tinged with icy amusement.
He didn't answer, but his body spoke for him: an almost palpable tension, a tremor he tried to mask with a rigid posture.
I took another step. The ground seemed to resonate beneath my foot, amplifying every movement, every beat of this uneven dance between predator and prey.
Another step.
His gaze wavered, just for a moment, a flash of panic, but he pulled himself together, planting his feet firmly in the ground, like a tree facing a storm. A spark of defiance lit in his eyes, faint but real.
I smiled again, this time wider, revealing a row of white teeth that contrasted with the darkness of my expression.
"So?" I said, spreading my arms slightly, as if inviting him to strike again. "Go ahead. Show me what you've got."
The boy hesitated, his fingers sliding lightly over the rough handle of the broken stick. Then, with a cry that mixed fear and anger, he charged.