Blood.
It was everywhere, seeping into the cracks of the ancient stone floor, splattered across the high-arched ceiling like some grotesque fresco. My hands trembled, stained with crimson; my clothes hung heavy with it, soaked through in places where warmth still clung. The air was thick, humid with copper, each breath a struggle against nausea and sorrow. The room reeked of finality. Or that was how I saw it.
I stood amidst the ruin, heart thundering like war drums, chest tight as though my ribs had become a vice. My breath came in shallow bursts, fogging in the cold stillness of the chamber. And in the center of it all, at my feet…her.
Elara.
My Elara.
The name echoed in my mind like a dying prayer.
She lay sprawled across the flagstones, her once-lithe form limp, her skin pale as winter frost. Her eyes—eyes that used to shine with mischief and music—were fixed and glassy, staring into a world that no longer held her. Those hands, those delicate, golden fingers that once coaxed songs from strings and coaxed laughter from my lips, were now mottled with blood; mine and hers, impossible to tell apart.
I dropped to my knees, as if gravity had finally caught up with the weight of my sin. As if my body itself could no longer carry the weights. My fingers reached for her face, hesitant, reverent. I tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, though I knew she wouldn't feel it. It was a futile gesture, born not of hope, but of guilt.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, though the words cracked in my throat, barely audible to even myself. "I'm so sorry."
But the dead do not forgive. They do not answer.
The room, which once served as my refuge, my sanctuary, was now a tomb. A mausoleum bearing the weight of one tragic act. A single moment of weakness. A single lapse in control.
A single, fatal hunger.
The darkness inside me had always lingered, like a whisper just beyond the veil of thought. It prowled in the corners of my soul, patient, cunning. For centuries I'd kept it locked away, buried beneath rituals, discipline, and isolation. But Elara... Elara was a light incarnate. And light invites shadows.
I should have stayed away. Should have left when I had the chance. Should have let her pass through my life like a comet; brilliant, untouchable, fleeting.
But I didn't.
I was selfish.
She came to me with music in her hands and stars in her voice. She saw through my silences, through my detachment, and never turned away. She found beauty where others found a monster. She found me when I was already lost to myself.
The night it happened, the hunger had already begun to win. My veins burned with it, my mouth ached with it. Every second was a war. And she—poor, trusting Elara—had stepped into the heart of that storm with nothing but compassion in her hands.
She had said my name like it meant something. Had cupped my face, whispering reassurance. Her voice—a balm. Her presence—warmth.
But the beast within... it knew only need.
One moment, I was reaching for her hand. The next, my mouth on her throat, the taste of her flooding into me like fire and moonlight and sorrow.
She had gasped—not in fear—but surprise. That sound... it will haunt me forever.
And then, silence.
Not the quiet of a room gone still.
A silence that screamed.
I stumbled backward, heart shattering into a thousand shards. Her body folded like parchment to the floor. I remember the sound it made. A soft, final exhale as if the world itself mourned.
My scream tore from the depths of my soul. I don't even remember falling, but suddenly I was beside her, pulling her into my arms, cradling her broken frame like she was still whole, still here. My tears were useless. My apologies too late.
"I love you," I whispered, though she'd never hear it again.
And then I made a vow.
Never again.
No more closeness. No more tenderness. No more chances to destroy something beautiful.
I became a phantom. I drifted through time like fog, untouched, unanchored. Centuries passed. I forgot the names of cities, the faces of strangers. But I never forgot hers. Never forgot the weight of her body in my arms, the final warmth fading from her skin.
I hunted only when I had to. The hunger was a leash around my throat, but I kept it taut. I locked myself away from the world, my music gathering dust, my soul curled in on itself like a dying star.
Even now, in moonlit halls and shadowed corners, I still see her. In dreams, in memories I never asked to keep. Sometimes I think I see her in crowds. Just a glimpse. A silhouette. A laugh that sounds too familiar. My mind plays cruel tricks.
But the truth always returns.
She's gone.
And I remain.
A remnant. A mistake. A cautionary tale.
I stand before mirrors and see only the monster. The hunger that stole the one thing I ever dared to love. I've tried to bury it in silence. In solitude. In music.
But the past is a stubborn ghost.
And tonight, as I stood in that quiet chamber with blood on my hands once more—not hers this time, but another, another I could not save—I realized something bitter and cruel.
I never stopped hungering.
Not for blood.
For redemption.
But some monsters are not meant to be forgiven.
Some are born from shadows not to be redeemed but to remember.
To mourn.
To wander.
To burn.
Forever.