Deaths Possession

"Maybe I should keep you Pet." he murmurs. “Dig around inside and figure out what you really are. Feed you. Fix you. Fuck you. Teach you some respect."

Ten minutes ago, I was cutting through the slum alley behind an old boiler. Now I am listening to super hot guy talking about fucking me!

The Ash Ring, a dumping ground for the poor, sick, and unclaimed, never gives you a warning, just a gut feeling that if you’re smart, you listen.

As always, I was half-expecting to hear footsteps following me, so took a second to creep forward.

But none came. No footsteps. No voices. Just the internal twist that said I'm not as alone as the street wanted me to believe.

I made it three steps into the next alley before I knew I'd made a mistake.

There was a man standing at the far end, blocking the exit. Lean, long limbed, head down with his hoodie shadowing most of his face. He looked like the others round here, worn thin by too many sleepless nights and not enough money. Something about the way he held himself was off. 

People in the Ring don't square their shoulders like that. They don't wait that still.

I stopped walking. My boots sent loose chunks of concrete shifting under my weight. He still didn’t move.

He lifted his head, slowly, it took effort. Maybe it hadn't been lifted in a while. His face caught the light and I saw too much, cheeks stretched too tight over bones, eyes completely unblinking like smudges of coal. All pupils, no soul.

From the look of him, he shouldn't have been standing, or breathing, let alone walking. But here he was, waiting for little old me.

"I wouldn’t." I said. With just a hint of boredom. My hands stayed in my coat pockets, one wrapped around the broken bottle I'd been sleeping beside for a week. 

Weapons are hard to find, so I had wrapped it in cloth to keep it from gutting the coat lining. 

Funny how the things that protect you still want to cut.

He stepped forward.

I pulled the bottle.

He lunged.

I twisted to the side and his arm slammed into the wall where my head used to be. Bricks cracked, dust sifted down. The smell of mildew and rust filled my lungs. I didn't wait, stepped in close, grabbed his hoodie, and dragged the jagged edge of the glass across his shoulder.

The skin gave way, but not like it should. There was no warm rush of blood, just a thick line of something dark that doesn't belong in a body. It slid down his chest, slow and slick, clung to the fabric like tar.

He grunted, more annoyed than hurt, and whipped his arm around toward my ribs. I ducked, barely, and stumbled back out of reach, bottle still raised.

He watched me then. Smiling. He'd seen how this ends, and it's not with me walking away.

He lunged again. I ducked, caught a shoulder to the ribs, and hit the ground with enough force to knock the air out of me. He was on me in a second, one hand pressing into my chest, fingers tightening around my coat. My wrist had taken a blow on the way down, it was now frozen in place.

"Wasn't supposed to fight," he growled, low and crackling.

"Then you didn't do your homework." I said.

My right arm still works, that's all I need. I drove the bottle into his ribs.

The sound he made ripped through the alley, making the walls feel too narrow. He jerked back, staggering to his feet. I rolled, coughing, and pushed myself upright with one hand. My hands were slick, my shoulders throbbing.

But I wasn't done.

He stood a few feet away, hunched and panting, head twitching, trying to realign himself. That black liquid was still leaking from the hole in his side, it hit the concrete and sizzled.

"You're different," he muttered.

I picked up a chunk of brick and flung it at his face. The duck came, but not fast enough. It clipped his temple with a dull thwack and sent him stumbling.

I drove into him with everything I had. Straight into his chest with my full weight, shoulder first. We slammed into the brick wall behind him. His head cracked back, I felt it reverberate through the wall, through me. His whole body slumped.

I drove my knee into his face before he could think about recovering.

Then he dropped.

Hard.

I stood over him, chest heaving, knuckles split open. The glass was still in my other hand, coated in something that, most definitely, is not blood.

Run you idiot. I was pleading with myself.

Nope, I watched instead. His chest rose, fell, then stilled. I nudged him with my foot. Not dead, I didn’t think. But not breathing either. More like, paused.

Whatever he is, he wasn't built like me. The street behind me was still silent. I backed out of the alley slowly, eyes scanning every window, every rooftop. My wrist was still frozen, I tucked it close to my ribs, pressed it tight, trying to warm the feeling back into it.

That presence, the one from earlier, came back. Only this time it was stronger.

Whoever they are, they were not worried about hiding.

They wanted me to know.

"That shouldn't have touched you, Pet."