Descend into Darkness (BOOK 1)

| 02 | Basement Dweller

"You don't remember what happened?" I shook my head, fixating on the thin needle embedded in my arm.

   A translucent tube fed me blood from a packet on a metal stand. I glanced up. Dad slouched forward; his hands pressed together against his lips as if in silent prayer. His brow furrowed, and his eyes shifted from side to side, searching for an explanation.

   The doctor was unable to explain my sudden anaemia since there was no family history, and my diet showed no noticeable deficiencies. They said I was fortunate not to have suffered any physical injuries when I blacked out—though I wished I could say the same about my mental health.

   I trembled uncontrollably, the image of those red eyes seared into my mind. Even if I could explain what had happened, I wouldn't. Dad was already under enough stress from work; I didn't need to add to it.

   "You don't recall what happened?" 

   I shook my head, my gaze fixated on the slender needle embedded in my arm. A transparent tube connected me to a packet of blood hanging from a metal stand. Even if I were to reveal the truth, who would believe me?

   I glanced up. Dad was slouched forward, hands clasped together against his lips, as if in silent prayer. His brow furrowed, and his eyes darted from side to side, desperately seeking an explanation.

   The doctor was at a loss, unable to determine the cause of my sudden anaemia. There was no history of it in my family, and my diet showed no apparent deficiencies. 

   They said I was fortunate to have not sustained any physical injuries when I blacked out—but I couldn't say the same for my mental state.

   I trembled involuntarily, the image of those crimson eyes seared into my memory. Even if I could recount the events, I chose not to. Dad already had enough stress from work; I didn't need to contribute to it.

   "I'll be okay." I forced a smile and attempted to steady my hands on my lap. His eyes studied mine. He tried to reciprocate the smile, but his expression quickly dropped. He sighed and stood up. 

   "I know, kiddo—I'm just worried." He rubbed my shoulder. "I need to step out for some air. Be right back."

   That was code for 'I'm going to have a smoke.' A bad habit he resorted to when life became overwhelming. He often claimed it came with the territory of being a chef and made an effort to avoid smoking in front of me. I suppose he wanted to dodge the guilt of being a poor role model, but the scent would trail him like a specter, so I always knew when times were rough.

   For a long time, that smell became a source of comfort—a reminder that he was still there, doing his best.

   I rested my head against the pillow, exhaustion settling on me like a heavy wool blanket. It felt as though, at any moment, my body would dissolve into the paper-thin mattress. Despite this, my eyes refused to close; they wandered the room. White walls. White floors. Two empty beds and a half-shut window.

   A glass vase had been placed on the windowsill. Inside, a single crimson rose burned against the cobalt sky. It struck me as odd—Dad had never been the type to give me flowers.

   My fingers unconsciously brushed across my neck. I paused. There was nothing there. I brought my other hand up and searched my skin, but again found nothing. No trace of the bite.

   I swung the blanket over my head and buried my chin into the pillow. It had happened. It was too real not to have happened. A flash of memory; those eyes. There was no way it was a hallucination, as much as I wished it had been.

   Footsteps.

   Dad had returned sooner than I thought. I exhaled and quickly wiped my eyes before pulling back the blanket. I propped myself up and shifted around. My heart raced. My breath hitched in my throat.