Death is immortality.
Death is your second chance.
Velian Terrashine belongs to a classless society of equality, art and democracy; a land full of creativity and mindfulness. It is in that perfect political system that one wrong movement, one carele...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
THE FLOOR SEEMED LIKE A BATHTUB bulged with glowing, black blood. His arms all the way from the wrists to the elbows were like a fountain of darkness and pain. I tried to look away, take my eyes off that cruel image of heartbreaking agony and terror. But I wasn't in control of my body. I didn't even have a body. For one more time, I'd been thrown into another fever dream with that guy who looked like the prince of blackness, the prince of death.
His eyes were shut. For a moment I wondered if he was alive or had died from the blood loss and I'd been left to stare at a fucking corpse in my sleep. Yet his lips were half-opened and his chest moving faster than my raging heartbeat. Alive. Alive and struggling to stay that way. I tried to reach him, to extend an arm toward his side and whisper to him to come with me. Such a hopeless, careless thought. To come with me and do what?
Strain was dangling on his face. His cheeks were stained with specks of gleaming blood. I wondered what kind of power he possessed not only for his blood to glow whenever in despair but for his tears to have the color of darkness as well.
An echo lingered through his cell. A name, a plea, a battle cry. His lips trembled as if he could hear it too. And then I saw it. Saw her.
A young woman in her late twenties with long, black hair and also black, depthless eyes was sprawled on the floor next to him. I couldn't understand what she was saying but her mouth was moving, forming words, whispering or screaming at him, I didn't know. It was like we were separated by a glass wall—I could see through, but I couldn't hear a thing.
Shaking him, painting her hands with his blood, she ripped off her shirt and used some parts of it as bandages to stop the blood from flowing endlessly. I couldn't look at them for one more second. I didn't want to imagine what it was like to be that woman, trying to save something she hadn't caused. And I couldn't even look at the guy anymore. At his so, so deathly slim body; at his colorless and lifeless skin; at his hands.
He wasn't fragile and thus, I wasn't afraid that he would break. In fact, he was already broken in a million pieces. In my eyes, the eyes of an observer, he looked pathetic. In Velian's eyes, he looked relatable.
The woman took his face in her hands, stroking his cheeks, touching his lips, then massaging his shoulders. He slightly opened his eyes and the woman almost cried of joy.
Yet he didn't. He looked disappointed, disappointed that he was still alive. Ungrateful. So ungrateful.
Why would he do something like that to himself? Why had I attempted to do something like that to myself? Why did he cry when he realized he hadn't died? Why had I done the same thing the moment Denfer had gotten me to the surface of the ocean?
The image started blurring, slowly fading away. And there was only one realization in me. That guy was exactly like me. That guy was pathetic. And so was I. But the difference between us was that I didn't want to stay that way.
