Black and White

Chapter 38

As my razor digs into the flesh of the creature, peeling it away from its face, blood spills over my hands. Warm, gritty, smooth, cold. Nothing describes the texture of blood, but the smell can quite simply be summarized as metallic, as though you can taste it in your mouth.

I might have lost a few teeth.

As the creature raises its hand to its face, trying to staunch the flow of blood, it slashes blindly at me with its knife. That is about when I recognize a problem with the razor. You see, a big problem that comes with a razor is, if you are to, hypothetically, dig it into something's skin, it gets stuck quite easily. So easily in fact, that if you are to, say, try and tear it off, you find your arms are much too weak to pull it away.

And that is what happens, my razor left dangling from its cheek as I fall, its foot smashing into my ankles. Its dagger grazes my arm as I meet the ground, blood rising up to the surface in anger. Pain dances lightly along my side as my body crashes into the floor. I manage to keep my head from hitting the ground, barely holding myself up at the expense of my elbows.

The creature tugs the razor out of its skin in the time it takes me to get up, blood staining the floor, mama, everything. It reeks.

The razor skitters along the floor, disappearing under the couch. The only hint it was ever there is the trails of blood that follow it.

The creature slashes my arm once again, this time shallower than the first. As I swing my arm around to try punching it on its wounded side it grabs me. I am sent spinning around, the stars returning as I watch blood, sweat, and tears fly around the room. I manage to still myself, though I can do nothing as it forces my hands behind my back.

"It's time to stop being difficult." Its words are hindered by the wound, its mouth avoiding movements that pull the skin too harshly. Still, its voice holds a heavy weight, a boulder lodged in shallow water.

I struggle, stomping its foot. The creature slams me into the wall in frustration, and my nose crunches on impact. Heat sears my face, and blood spills over me, joining the walking puddle that I am.

Everything burns, my eyes, my fingers, my toes, my hair, my cuts. Anything that couldn't be felt before is certainly making sure it is known now. The world swirls into a million colors, exhaustion finally catching up with me.

I sag against the wall, my knees barely holding me up as I try to push myself away. Not a single part of me moves. I am frozen, just like every time something needs to be done.

Cold pain, much different from the warmth in the immediate aftermath of each wound, flows through my veins. It freezes my will, my body giving up on me as I mentally scream at myself to fight. To win, win, win. The creature ties my wrists together, inventing new lines of pain along my arms.

But the grip of the frozen wounds that tug at the ache in my heart wins, myself resigning to be the loser. Victory will not be snatched from the jaws of defeat today, that is the tale of a hero, a tale twisted to make the weaker man the villain. Every time I fight the creatures they win, they always, always, win.

And I always lose, no matter how hard I fight, no matter how long I fight, no matter how many times I try and fight. I will forever lose.

My head leans against the chipped paint, my body collapsing in on itself. I am only supported by it and the creature's claws digging into my wrists, my legs have given up on me. The world has given up on me, I have given up on me. Everything is slowing down, my blood is stopping its flow, my muscles stopping their work, my mind ceasing to move.

My eyes are the only things that explore my own house. It is foreign in every way, everything is changed, the lighting is dimmer. The walls, originally a light beige color, are now only and utterly red with more blood than seems possible.

Every difference is a mark on my mind, of how whenever I enter an equation I bring it down into the negatives. During my travels, I wonder, without much force behind the thought, if this will become another unsolved mirder case that ends up becoming its own documentary. Maybe, maybe they'll say I killed her, which would be about half true.

My gaze begins to stop its wandering, boring of the same color scheme of red and more shades of red. The view my half-closed eyes finally decide to stop upon is mama.

Her empty gaze, the blood that decorates every corner of the house, including the walls that hold me, the smile that displays her red teeth, her corpse a picture of dying pain. The flickering light finds its home on her, exploring the ways it can reflect along the vital fluid that has been emptied from her body.

The creature forces me backward, towards him, twirling me around and making me walk to the door. Cold, lilac visions of pain float across my line of sight, the world disappearing as I rely only on my touch, hearing, and smell to tell where I might be. Taste doesn't help as much as the others, as the taste of blood is eternally there.

Though touch only informs me that my feet are wet, with a substance that is better not seen, hearing is even less help. I can't hear into the future, so the only thing I know is that wherever we are walking is littered with large, splashing puddles of something. The creature remains silent, so it leaves me with no clue as to where we're going.

Of course, I know where I'm going, back to Estruebar, back to where everything started. Not even mama could keep me from there, though she tried, I failed her. I failed. There is nothing I can do, my hands held in place, my vision shifting in and out of focus, my legs barely able to support me as leaves crunch underfoot.

At some point, the stench of blood, the stench of death, clears from the air. The taste of it remains, the taste of my own blood unnervingly familiar. Everything here is pure, but from the swirled paintings of my vision, I watch my blood taint the fresh, young, life blossoming here, staining the flowers left on the ground.

For a moment, only a moment, we pause, and the creature whispers a few indistinct words. The twisted branches that wrap around each other, forming a perfect circle, begin to sprout new offshoots, and a few flowers begin to bloom. I feel a sneeze coming on.

The rapid growth isn't the most remarkable thing, as a galaxy, though blurred, has begun to form. It's much like Astrea's eyes, streaks of white, splashes of purple, and flecks of gold inhabiting the small circle. It's oddly beautiful, even though I can only see it for a few seconds as I am shoved forward. Straight into the portal.

A flash of burning white light spreads across my vision before the world shifts, the air swirling around my head, a few indescribable noises, somewhat similar to the sound of nails dragging along a chalkboard, and then silence. The silence surrounds me, spilling out of my body. It pulls at my throat, ripping at my skin.

The darkness fills my vision, cold against my skin.

My eyes snap open, though I didn't realize they were closed, and my vision is no longer blurry. I can see everything, feel everything, hear everything.

Everything.

Including a gentle, barely there, a whisper of life, of noise, of my captor's thoughts.

The creature leading me to this world is just stepping through the portal, smiling proudly as he takes a long breath, grabbing my arms once again. I feel a droplet of power swim through my body as our skin connects.

Power.

The return of the thing I have longed for for two weeks. Something that can elevate me, hold me up, a clever ally to a low simmering rage, a close friend of the emptiness carried around in one's heart.

My power.