The room was still and quiet, dark and peaceful. A plain brown couch sat
against the wall, where it covered an outlet slightly. The carpet was a
poorly maintained beige, with clawed footprints and markings where objects
had been drug across it shag surface. A single lamp lay overturned
unceremoniously upon the floor, where glass shards sat peacefully upon the
carpet surface. A single end table was attached to the couch, where a drink
had spilled upon it’s finished wood surface, and the liquid continued to eat
away at the varnish. Two doorways led away from the living space, but were
dark and uninhabited.
Five forms decorated the space in chaotic fashion. A white furred
hekshanian with closely cropped hair was upon the couch, his hand reaching
toward the emptied glass on the end table, where it hung lifeless over the
arm of the couch, a line of blood drawing it’s way up the figure’s arm. His
eyes were devoid of feeling, as a mess of crimson liquid tangled within the
fur near his neck. Another hekshanian lay upon the ground in a heap,
stricken dead as if passing beyond the mortal coil had occurred instantly. A
river of red flowed from the female’s chest and stomach and soaked deep into
the carpet. A second male’s form was distorted, the head torn and rent into
a horrible shape, hideous to look upon, laying propped against the legs of
the end table. A third male shape sat propped against the wall, a single
bullet wound to his chest. The hekshanian was younger and still living,
grimacing in pain and shock.
“Dren... Dren, you there?” He asked the darkness. Another form was heard
shifting on the other end of the room, laying on it’s back. “Dren?” He asked
again.
“D? That... you?” A young male voice asked, hoarse and barely audible over
the complete silence. “D?” The hekshanian against the wall persevered to
stand, grunting in agony, squinting to deal with the pain. His hand was
pressed against the wall, ensuring his balance. Entering a beam of moonlight
offered through the window, the hekshanian hobbled shirtless across the
room, his powerful form carefully walking over the three dead bodies of his
kin. Mom, Red, Erink. Damnit! He thought, trying not to look at the corpses.
Concentrating to stay standing, he grasped harshly at the bleeding wound
just above his heart. He pressed, squinting into the darkness, vision
blurred by the beam of moonlight.
“Dren! Where are you?” He asked. Several seconds passed before he received
a response. He asked again, only to be interrupted by the voice.
“D-d-doorframe.” The voice stuttered. “D?”
“I’m here.” D said, stepping over the corpse of his mother. He held back the
tears welling up behind his eyes. “I’m here.” He knelt beside his younger
stepbrother, Dren, who lay sprawled in the doorframe. “You okay?” He asked
quietly.
“I-I- I th-th-think they got me twice...” Dren said, coughing up blood
violently. D slipped his bloodied palm behind Dren’s head and lifted it,
helping his kin to sit. His dark grey shirt was slicked with blood in the
gut. Looking closer, he noticed blood dribbling on the backside of the
shirt.
“It passed through. Where else does it hurt?” D asked, trying with
difficulty to keep his voice stable. He gently shook his stepbrother,
attempting to evoke a response.
“The st-stomach.” Dren stuttered, coughing once again. D lifted Dren’s
shirt, rubbing his fingers over the blood slicked fur underneath. D’s
yellowish eyes became wide when he discovered another wound, just beside the
other. Dren winced as his stepbrother’s finger passed over the tattered
hole.
“They both went through. You’re lucky.” D said, carefully slipping himself
under his stepbrother’s arm. “We’re going to get to the bathroom and patch
you up.” Dren’s eyes slipped shut. “Hey!” D whispered. “Stick with me here.”
His eyes began to tear, a single droplet running it’s way down his face.
Gotta stay strong, for him. Dren snapped back to consciousness.
“Y-yeah. Les’ go.” He grunted as D helped him to stand. Their height was
evenly matched at around six feet, making it less difficult to move as a
pair. D timed his steps with Dren’s, slowly rounding the corner a few feet
down the hallway. D stubbed his clawed toe against the wooden trim, but held
back the curse on the tip of his tongue. Sighing in pain, they continued
down the hall where it opened into a tiled bathroom. Good, I hope I can stop
the bleeding, D pondered. He set his stepbrother down gently against the
bathtub. A mirror was on his right, a sink and cabinet below. The black and
white checkered tile was blemished but shone in the thin slit of moonlight
coming in through the window on the opposite end of the bathroom,
regardless. It highlighted Dren’s pant leg, which was speckled with dots of
crimson. D tore his eyes away and threw open the cabinet, covering his own
wound with his bloodied palm.
C’mon, shit. Don’t we have any fucking gauze or anything!? Damnit! D cursed
silently. He rifled through towels and past plumbing, finally stumbling
across a plastic green box that advertised FIRST AID upon it’s cover.
Flicking the container open, he quickly yanked a roll of gauze tape from
amongst the contents. Accidentally soaking the roll with his own blood, D
wiped some of the red away on his back fur in frustration. “Stick with me,
man.” he whispered to Dren.
“I-I-I’m still here, D. D-don’t worry.” Dren said, coughing once again,
whilst wincing. D began to panic, quickly wrapping the gauze over and around
Dren’s midsection. After seven revolutions, the roll was used up.
“You’ve been shot twice, man. Sorry if I’m worrying. Who wouldn’t?” D said,
his composure beginning to slip away. “Still with me?” he asked, Dren’s eyes
fluttering open and closed with a series of lazy head bobs.
“Yeah, st-still here.” Dren said, slipping in and out of consciousness. “It
feels better, r-really.” he said with a failed attempt at a chuckle, which
spat more blood. “What about you? L-l-looks like you got nailed once, too.”
He nodded at D’s chest, who was still searching the first aid box for
anything else of use. D looked up at Dren, then down quickly at his own
wound.
“Forget it, I’ll be okay.” he said, his voice containing a hint of
irritation. “Shit!” he shouted, tossing the first aid box against the wall,
it’s useless contents spilling upon the floor. Dren looked his older
stepbrother up and down, D’s face written with contempt and anger, fear and
uncertainty. He was crying now, as Dren could plainly see.
“I’m not gonna... m-make it, am I?” Dren said, seemingly not bothered by
the concept. He once again tried to laugh, but failed once again as a
result. D’s eyes locked on Dren’s.
“Quit talking, Dren. Save your strength, please, man. Please.” D said, his
voice quivering. He leaned closer, trying to keep his stepbrother alive by
straightening the gauze and tightening the wrappings.
“I gotta talk, I g-gotta.” Dren stuttered, coughing up another wave of
blood that dribbled down his lips. He ripped his head sideways as D tried to
wipe it away. “You... always were trying to keep m-me on t-track... after
Dad died.” His yellowish eyes, much like D’s, glazed eerily in the low
light. “You were always my brother... You were never a stranger t-to me.”
“C’mon, save your strength. You have to.” D said, hopelessness and sorrow
setting in. He cried more fiercely, the tears wetting a river down his
cheeks. “You have to.” he repeated.
“N-never got to... beat you... at chess.” Dren said, his chest heaving and
falling with every other syllable. “I-it was... important. Always had to be
tougher... had to be...” he said, breathing roughly.
“No! I’m not losing you like Dad, like everyone else!” D said, his hands
holding Dren’s face. “Snap out of it! C’mon!” Dren smiled lightly, blood
dribbling from the corner of his mouth. D pressed closer, the torn knees of
his jeans sliding with a quiet screech across the tile.
“Take care of... yourself.” Dren said as his eyes closed. His muscles went
limp and D shouted.
“NO! Don’t go!” He felt for a pulse at the wrists and neck, but it was
extremely faint. He panicked further and found the first aid box,
frantically searching and tossing objects aside. He dropped the box and felt
for the pulse again. A few seconds passed.
“No...” he said, finding no sign of life. His arms fell to his side, the
back of his hands resting upon the tile as he sat upon his clawed feet. D’s
head leaned back, the sparkle of tears in his eyes reflecting as the thin
slit of light caught his face almost cinematically. Minutes past by while he
sat, staring at the tiles in the ceiling, gently sobbing, creating the only
sound that could be heard. He spoke briefly, issuing only a single hoarse
word.
“Why?” he asked. He leaned forward, slipping onto the tile. He wrapped his
powerful arms around the midsection of his recently deceased stepbrother,
rubbing his teary eyes against the cotton fabric of the dark grey shirt that
met his face. He squeezed tighter. “Why?” His knees curled into his stomach,
as the blood from his chest began to mix with the tears that streamed down.
“Why?” he asked before he slowly began to drift away, the blood from his
body beginning to create a pool beneath him.
He sobbed quietly for nearly an hour. He could hear the faint sound of
gunshots and quiet screams far away. His eyes closed and the dark took.
