He stoodd up from the ground and looked around.
The people nearby were still staring at him. Someone looked scared, some confused, while a few whispered to each other. No one said a word to him.
He adjusted his shirt and turned away.
He didn't have to wait for the police to come, the only thing in his mind was — home. And no one tried to stop him or ask him questions.
As he walked away, his steps felt lighter than usual, his body moved freely, without pain or stiffness. That alone showed that something was different about him and it made him nervous. He had bbeeen injured a few moments ago, he remembered the pain, he felt it. And yet now... There was nothing.
The city felt different. The streetlights burned brighter, he could hear sounds — footsteps of people, car engines, voices.... Things that he shouldn't be able to hear from this far away.
It was overwhelming.
He reached out his hand and pressed it against his chest. His heart was beating fast but beneath it was something else. A slow and heavy rhythm that did not stop.
He did not understand it.
Soon, he arrived at the doorstep of his apartment — a fairly sizable house with a few broken windows and leaking ceiling.
He pushed open the door and went in, shutting it behind him instantly. He stood there for a while, glancing around. He could hear loudly sounds of rats running around.
A deep sigh escaped his lips as he made his way to his room. As he walked past a particular door, he halted. The heavy breathing coming from the room was loud enough for him to hear. He was about to place his hand on the handle of the door when he suddenly halted. After a brief pause, he lowered his hand and walked past it, entering his own room instead.
Without bathing, he lay down on his bed. He closed his eyes, exhaustion finally catching up to him. Not like he was physically exhausted — he was mentally exhausted after all that had happened.
At midnight, his eyes suddenly flew open.
A sharp pain twisted in his stomach.
It was hunger.
Not normal hunger — this one was intense, violent, and unbearable. It felt as though he had not eaten for weeks. The pain forced him off the bed and onto the floor.
He groaned and curled over, clutching his stomach.
Without thinking, he crawled toward the mini-fridge at the corner of his room. He opened it and began pulling out whatever was inside. Bread, leftovers, cold food.
He ate everything. He did not stop to think. He did not taste anything. He only ate like a beast.
When the fridge was finally empty, he sat on the floor, breathing heavily.
For a moment, he felt nothing.
Then seconds later, the pain returned. Stronger than before.
With a loud growl, he held his aching stomach and left his room. Just as he was about to walk past that other room, he stopped again. He staggered to the door and placed his face on the door.
For a brief moment, he hesitated. Then he pushed the door open and went in, at once, the smell hit him.
His stomach clenched violently.
The room was dim. The curtains were half drawn. The light from outside barely reached the floor. And there, lying on the ground, was his mother.
Her body was still. Blood pooled beneath her, spreading across the floor. It stained her clothes. It stained the sheets nearby. The dark red color stood out sharply against the dull room.
She was not moving.
His mind registered it slowly. That she was hurt, she was bleeding, she was no longer breathing.
But those thoughts felt distant, like they belonged to someone else. What filled his senses was the blood.
The smell was overwhelming, thick, and rich. It pulled at him harder than the pain in his stomach ever had.
His legs gave out and he staggered forward and fell to his knees beside her. His hands pressed against the floor, slipping slightly in the blood. The warmth seeped into his skin. His breath hitched.
His heart pounded wildly, but beneath it, that slow and heavy rhythm grew louder. He leaned closer without realizing it, his nose hovered inches above the blood-soaked fabric of her clothes. He inhaled deeply and the moment the scent filled his lungs, his entire body shuddered.
The pain in his stomach eased for a brief moment, replaced by something else. Relief and satisfaction. A terrible sense of rightness.
His lips parted. His tongue felt dry. A thought surfaced in his mind, clear and terrifying.
'I want to taste it.'
His eyes widened. "What am I thinking…" he whispered, his voice hoarse.
His hands trembled as they clenched into fists. His nails dug into his palms. He tried to pull back, tried to stand, but his body refused to listen.
With what little sanity he had left, he forced himself to move.
"No… no… no…" he muttered under his breath.
He squeezed his eyes shut and pushed against the floor. His arms shook as he struggled to stand, every part of him screamed to stay. To kneel there and give in to the urge.
But he didn't.
He stumbled backward, away from her, away from the blood. His chest burned as he breathed hard, each breath dragging that scent deeper into him even as he tried to escape it.
He turned and staggered out of the room. The moment he crossed the doorway, he gagged and leaned against the wall. His stomach twisted violently again, the hunger raging even harder now that he was denying it.
"I can't… I can't stay here," he said hoarsely.
He moved through the passage in a rush, nearly tripping over his own feet. He grabbed his jacket from the chair without thinking and pushed the front door open.
Cold night air hit his face. He stumbled outside and slammed the door shut behind him. Only then did he breathe out.
He stood there on the street, hunched over, hands on his knees, gasping for air. The city was quiet at this hour. Streetlights hummed softly. The road was empty except for a stray cat watching him from a distance.
But even out here, the hunger did not fade.
If anything, it only sharpened.
The smells of the city flooded his senses. Sweat, exhaust fumes, garbage, food waste... And beneath it all, something else.
Blood.
His head snapped up.