Chapter Fourteen

I'm drenched in blood. It’s in my hair, clinging to my clothes, trailing down my arms in slow, sticky ribbons.
It's not mine.
Screams echo in my head--Adrian’s. Logan’s. Their faces twisted in agony, their voices raw with fear.
And I smile. A low chuckle bubbles up, involuntary. Serves them right.
Then--
The alarm blares. I bolt upright, breath heavy, chest tight.

Naturally I fall back to my routine. Same routine every day. Workout. Freshen up. Breakfast. Survive the day.
But today feels different.

Today, I can’t keep the past buried. Can’t pretend the damage doesn’t claw its way up from my spine like fire. Their faces--just memories--make bile rise in my throat. My hands twitch with the need to hurt something. To let the rage spill out. My vision clouds with red. I want blood. I crave it.

I work out. I train.
I slam my fists into the punching bag until my knuckles split open.
But it’s not enough.
It’s never enough.

So I come up with something to help me blow off steam. Surely there’s a zombie or two wandering nearby--strays from the city. I grab a knife. Then the steel baseball bat leaning against the wall--bought specifically to bash in heads if someone ever intended to break in.
And I head out.
Let's go find a zombie.

I've been walking for about half an hour now. The search is mind-numbingly dull, and it's not helping my mood. I let out a loud grunt and slam my fist into the nearest tree.
“Where the f**k are you hiding? Oh, zombiiieeess,” I call out mockingly.
A twig snaps nearby.
Gotcha.
The zombie must've heard the noise--drawn in by the promise of fresh meat. Too bad. I'm not the one on the menu today. It stumbles out from between the trees--tall, almost too tall, with limbs that hang loose like its joints forgot how to work. Its clothes are torn but mostly whole: a flannel shirt stained with dirt and something darker, jeans that drag across the forest floor. The skin is pale, almost bluish, stretched too tight across the cheekbones, but there’s barely any rot. Just stillness. A faint trail of dried blood traces down its chin, and something that could've once been a name tag clings to its chest, fluttering slightly with each step.

I swing my bat blindly, but with brutal force. The hit lands with a sickening crunch, tearing through blood-slick, rotting flesh. I keep going--swinging again and again, caught in the red haze. If the undead could feel pain, this one would be screaming for mercy.

I ram the bat into its mouth and tackle it to the ground. While pinning its head down with the bat, I draw my knife with my free hand and start stabbing. Over and over. Until I'm soaked in gore and breathless with fury. Then, slowly, I saw through its neck until the fight drains from its twitching limbs and the head rolls to the side.

I lean back, breath ragged, and look up. The branches sway above me, cutting jagged shapes out of the morning sky. Light filters down in shards, like the forest is trying to hide the sun--afraid of what it's just seen. Leaves dance slowly in the breeze, fluttering like they’re trying to escape. Everything smells like blood. The wind brushes my blood-slicked face. And in that moment, I feel grateful for the apocalypse. The zombies give me something to take my rage out on. So thank you, me. Good job being a monster the monsters can fear.

The walk home is quiet. The voices in my head… not so loud anymore. For now at least. I hate when I can't stop myself from thinking about the things I’ve buried deep down. Things that claw their way up when I least expect them. I should have control. Over myself. My mind. But sometimes, I don't. And it pisses me off.
I head straight to the river.
When I reach the riverbank, I pause. The water glints in the late light, winding like a silver scar through the forest. Trees lean in over the banks, their reflections rippling across the surface. I strip and sink into the riverbed, letting the current wash the blood off my skin. The chill runs deep, cleansing not just my body, but something else too. Something heavier. Something stained I can't name. Blood unfurls from my skin in lazy spirals, blooming like ink in water. I watch it swirl and drift downstream, as if the river itself is peeling my sins away.

I close my eyes.
The ache in my muscles hums like a second heartbeat. My breath slows. The water laps at my collarbones, slips into the spaces behind my ears, wraps itself around my spine like a cold embrace.
For a moment, I feel clean. Not whole. Not forgiven. Just clean.
I stretch my hand out, fingers drifting just beneath the surface. The current tugs gently, like it’s trying to carry me somewhere softer. Somewhere quieter. But there is no such place for people like me.

Maybe in some other universe, there's a version of me untouched by this. Someone who didn’t have to build themselves out of broken pieces and pain. Someone lighter.
But I’ll never be that person.
Because that version of Sylus Deveraux died before it ever had the chance to exist.