I was tired.
No, tired wasn't the right word. Exhausted? Drained? Dead on my feet? Yeah, that last one felt about right. Every step I took sent little jolts of pain up my legs, reminding me that Richter had really outdone himself tonight.
I lifted my shirt one more time and the bruise across had finally settled into a deep shade of purple.
The cafeteria doors had closed behind me with a definitive click, leaving me alone in the dark school once more.
Before, it had been eerie, threatening, probably a sixth sense to that monster, the Mormo. Now it just felt... empty.
I shuffled through the corridors, my footsteps echoing off the walls. I wanted to laugh a bit, I would have if it wouldn't have hurt to.
Everything that had happened settling finally. Turns out I was a bastard child of a god. A god or goddess. I guess that explains why I didn't have parents, or at least one of them.
I was a demigod.
Demigod.
Half-god, half-human.
It should have sounded impressive, but all I could think about was how it apparently meant I'd smell delicious to monsters for the rest of my teenage years. Great. Just great.
I pushed open the main entrance doors, the ones that had been sealed tight when the Mormo was hunting me, and stepped into the cool night air. The temperature had dropped from this morning, duh, and the chill made me shiver, aggravating my injuries. I pulled my torn jacket tighter around myself, though it didn't do much good with all the rips in it.
I couldn't even take the damn bus, not with my clothes still stained with blood. Even in the dim streetlight, the dark patches on my shirt were visible. I'd look like I'd just walked out of a horror movie, which, thinking about it, wasn't far from the truth. The last thing I needed was some concerned citizen calling the cops on me.
So I walked.
One foot in front of the other, my body protesting with each step.
Thank god, no not god, thank gods, Minnesota nights in early spring weren't cold, if this had been winter, I would have cursed to high hell and back.
I stuffed my hands in my pockets, sure it wasn't cold but I still preferred not having chilly win cut through my skin. Even though it was doing that already to all the gashes I had.
The streets were mostly empty at this hour, must have been past midnight by now. Occasionally a car would pass, its headlights sweeping over me before disappearing into the darkness. I didn't mind, it wasn't like they were gonna notice people on the sidewalk.
As I walked, my mind churned over everything Artemis had told me. Greek myths were real. All of them. Every story about Zeus turning into animals to seduce women, every tale of Poseidon's wrath, every legend of heroes fighting monsters - all true.
And I was part of that world.
"Camp Half-Blood," I muttered under my breath, testing how the words felt. A camp for demigods. A place where I'd supposedly be safe, or at least safer. North shore of Long Island, near strawberry fields, look for a big pine tree.
Should I go?
The rational part of my brain, the part that sounded suspiciously like my own voice rather than Richter's, said yes. I'd prefer if I didn't have to keep fighting monsters. Having Richter take over every time something nasty showed up wasn't sustainable. I mean I always had to patch myself up, do you know how hard it is to learn how to sew your own skin.
But another part of me, a stubborn part, resented the idea. I'd survived this long without their help, hadn't I? Four years of fighting monsters, four years of Richter and his battle-hungry nonsense, and I was still standing. Barely standing tonight, sure, but standing nonetheless.
Plus, there was the matter of the Wilsons.
They were good people. They didn't deserve to wake up tomorrow morning to find me gone without explanation. Then again none of my previous foster homes have given me an explanation before deciding to send me away.
So fuck them.
I turned onto Maple Street, three blocks from home now.
"Long Island, northern shore, strawberry fields," I repeated, again.
I pushed off from the streetlight and continued walking. Two blocks now. The 7-Eleven on the corner was still open, its neon sign buzzing faintly. Through the window, I could see the night clerk reading a magazine.
Part of me wanted to go in, buy a energy drink or something, I mean I was pretty tired.
One block.
I could see my building now, a building like any else, a seven-story apartment complex that had seen better days. The Wilsons lived on the fourth floor, a little more than the middle, almost like an analogy to their wealth status, just a little over middle class.
I was also their first foster kid, funnily enough. God well more like gods do really like their jokes.
I reached into my backpack's side pocket, fishing around for my keys. My fingers thank fully weren't numb, or at least not as numb as the rest of my body so it didn't take me long to find them.
Just two keys on a simple ring.
One for the building entrance, one for the apartment. Simple. Yeah I would never have to be nervous about not finding the right key if I was ever in a horror movie, which given my track record could be a very real possibility.
I inserted the first key with shaking hands, turned it, and pushed the door open. The lobby light flickered on, just a single bulb providing enough light to see the mailboxes and the elevator, it almost made me jump out of my skin given the Mormo had also made the lights flicker, but nope that was an actual feature here.
Home sweet home, or the closest thing I had to it.
I pressed the elevator button and waited, jingling my keys nervously. The elevator was ancient, probably installed when the building was constructed in the sixties. It groaned and wheezed its way down to me, taking its sweet time.
The elevator finally arrived with a ding that seemed too loud in the quiet lobby. I stepped in, pressed the button for the fourth floor, and leaned against the wall as it began its slow ascent.
"Should I leave a note?" I wondered aloud, my voice sounding strange in the small space. If I did end up leaving, I kind of wanted to fuck over the foster system that fucked me over, but I knew a note wasn't going to do that.
Still I thought of the possibilities. It made me smile.
The elevator dinged again.
Fourth floor.
The doors opened with their characteristic swoosh, revealing the dark hallway beyond. I stepped out, automatically reaching for the light switch. My hand fumbled along the wall, missing it as always.
Could never figure out where exactly it was.
After a few seconds of futile searching, I gave up and just started walking down the corridor. I'd made this trip enough times to navigate it in the dark.
Door 23 was at the end of the hall. As I approached it, I released my stealthy self, a.k.a make as little sound as possible. After all what if the Wilsons were still up? What if they started asking questions? I didn't have the energy to explain my injuries.
So I decided to gaslight them, tell them I came home hours ago and they just didn't remember. It had worked before, weirdly enough.
Whenever I really needed them to believe something I said, they always did.
I inserted the key slowly, carefully, trying to make as little noise as possible. The lock clicked open softly. So far, so good. I turned the knob at a glacial pace, grateful that the door didn't creak.
I peered through the crack. The living room was dark, no flickering light from the TV. No lights on anywhere that I could see. Good sign. They were probably asleep.
I slipped inside, closing the door just as carefully as I'd opened it. The apartment was silent as could be, not a whisper.
I started making my way toward my room, noting that all the other doors were closed. Normal for this time of night.
My bedroom door was slightly ajar. I didn't remember leaving it that way, but then again, I'd left in such a rush this morning that I might have forgotten. I pushed it open gently, stepped inside-
What.
The blinds were closed, leaving the room in near-total darkness. But I didn't need light to know something was wrong.
The smell hit me immediately.
Copper. Strong and metallic. A scent I'd become intimately familiar especially with tonight.
It was a scent I myself wore.
The smell of blood.
So much blood.
My eyes, adjusting to the darkness, looked down to where the scent was strongest.
Blood matted the floor, thick and viscous, a deep shade of red that looked almost black in the dim light filtering through the blinds. It pooled around something on the floor, something that my brain took a moment to process, to accept.
Mr. Wilson.
He lay crumpled on the floor like a discarded puppet, his neck torn open in a ragged wound that exposed all the muscle, cartilage and arteries. His eyes were still open, staring at nothing, glazed over, however what unsettled me was his face.
He was smiling.
A broken grin.
A grin of pleasure.
But the blood didn't end there.
It followed a trail across my bedroom floor, drops and smears leading like breadcrumbs to my bed.
I looked, though every instinct screamed at me not to.
Mrs. Wilson was there, sprawled across my sheets. Her neck bore the same ragged wound as her husband's, though hers was still weakly seeping blood onto the mattress, staining my pillows a dark crimson.
She must have died more recently.
That smile however was exactly the same.
A passionate one.
Her body was draped across someone's lap.
Someone sitting on my bed.
Someone who had been waiting for me.
Two eyes opened to look at me. In the darkness, they almost seemed to glow, her eyes slit like those of a cat.
They were red.
The color of blood.
A/N: Damn Julius can't catch a fucking break today, talk about bad luck, the man's luck is worse than... I don't know can't think of an unlucky character right now. Oh wait, Kazuma. Yes his luck is worse than Kazuma's.
As you can see I enjoy ending in cliffhangers it gives me a pleasure like no other, as a friend of mine would say. It's better than sex.
Either way, Thx for reading. Reviews and stones are appreciated.
Author out.