Eli feels the crimson eyes around him. The hunger that defines what he is. Like a predator circling prey, the curse tightens. He is bound by it. The eldritch hunger lusts for the thrall, the blood, the vessel, sacred and profane sustenance.
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Eli wishes it to stop. The heart, the feeding. This ceremony inflicts pain, but he cannot let go. He has become one, the suction is in sync with his heart.
His fists tighten from sheer pain. He does not feel them, nor his body, light as ever. As he fades, he sees his sick mother in the hospital. No matter what, he cannot let go.
She has no one. This cannot be the end. The eldritch senses the hold of Eli to this existence, this haunting reality of being eaten alive. He has seen humans give in and let go. This vessel does not seem to let go. He clenches his fangs, which are buried deep into Eli's neck.
In his gargled voice, his mouth filled with blood, he speaks to Eli.
"What do we have here, a surprise."
Eli does not speak as he feels nothing. Visions fade, but in his eyes there remains a pure need and longing for this world.
The eldritch lifts his hand and pinches his arm with his other hand. Blood drips into Eli's mouth.
"The blood sustains the body, yes. But it cannot resurrect what the Reckoning has claimed. There is no resurrection here. Only prolonged descent into the abyss, wearing a corpse's face."
Eli closes his eyes, not knowing whether he will wake or if this is his last moment. Although immediate death was stopped, the blood loss continues.
He opens his eyes. At this moment there is not an instant realization of what had actually happened. He had laid there in a place between worlds, his body had been deteriorating and at the same time evolving. His wounds seem to have recovered, though some are still healing. Nothing comes to his mind.
He gets up and looks out through a window. A glimpse of the morning. He looks to see what is happening out there, whether some semblance of his past days remains, perhaps a trip to his mother.
He remembers that it may have been two or three days since he visited her. She would have been worried.
But as he looks carefully, there is a rejection in him. His orbs are blinded by the light, the heat simmers through his spine, his heart which he had not felt for a while beats. It is as if the light that sustains the humans and their nourishments wants him gone, as if he is not worthy to be here still.
Instantly he moves away from the window into the dark. He had not realized in that shimmer that he was burning for a while. He could not move. As it is what he had become, there is never a rejection like this. Had it been an instant or two longer, a live roast he would be, though would that even be the right word for something like him. A burned corpse, perhaps.
The pain sets in. His flesh adheres to the oncoming skin like a peeled layer. The burn had made him lurch halfway toward the window. He cries in agony. The pain is real. That has always been the one constant, the only thing no one is immune to, even a so called immortal, which he also is not.
He limps on what little strength he has left, strength that is being drained just to hold him together, just to heal. The refrigerator. The thirst is there and so is the hunger, but opening it betrays him too. Nothing inside to quench either.
He stays still beside the refrigerator in his kitchen, time passes and the darkness is upon him, very much now that it is what sways him, unclear whether what reigns is the shadows or still him surrounded by veils. A blackout of obscurity, that it is a phase and he will come out of it dandy, though with some blemishes.
He gets up and leaves the house, no matter how much he wants to believe he is not going out for that, for his vitae, but somewhere deep down it is clear to him, that is what he has to do.
That when he does give in to his urges, probably his sanity he loses, so for that instance he forgets what he is doing really.
He senses the rush in the air, the rhythms he is listening to, some of them soft, some paced, some just barely keeping up, later lying somewhere in the dark alleys. There is no stench, no trace of opened potholes, the air seems to have an exquisite taste, with each step the more refreshed he gets.
He does not want to, but moving through the pavements he thinks of the outcome of his actions, whether he will keep on this depravity, or keep on hunting with the knowledge that some people will see him doing that. He is anxious though his eyes gaze meticulously around the people, some smoking, an old man looks at him, suspicious of Eli. The people can sense in him that he wants something, but they definitely do not know the reasons. If they knew, they would run and not look back for a second. At that moment it is clear that he can sense it in his prey, whether they assume or are afraid, like the one who did it to him. Yes, he made me live, I can do that as well, just take some of my need, and perish. He stops. Will they turn like me if I let them live. Or some of them will.
While standing in this dirty air, amid the cackle and the roar of traffic, the bloodlust plays a symphony, and then he sees a man come to him. What is wrong, has everything happened, the man asks him. He is worried about me, Eli thinks. Poor man. He moves in an instant, grabs his neck, bends him and begins to bite him, in the dead of night, no one is there to save him and Eli continues to feast until no face of the man remains, only the torso. Still he did not manage to quench himself because all he did was eat instead of drinking what remained in his veins, and then he drags himself to the ground, sipping every bit of blood that he managed to waste, like an animal. Crazy to think that he did not even think of letting him live. He cannot.
At least he has nothing to be afraid of. Or does he.
The Inkwell Combined Writing Prompt #35 ~ Fiction or Creative Nonfiction
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