Chapter Two: The Scarred Table
The Sanctuary was a fortified timber lodge, slumped and stubborn at the world's end, high on a cliff and completely surrounded by a vast rainforest and towering mountains that were visible from afar.
He narrated to himself as he descended the wooden stairs from the low-roofed, cold attic of the boys' dorm after a refreshing warm bath, his hair slightly wet. Now he wore different attire: a dark draped sweater jacket, huge pants, and black woolen socks.
With his pajamas in hand, he arrived at the warm ground floor, tossing them onto the black drum beside the entrance.
It seemed he was the first one here—that was what he thought until he noticed a brown-haired girl fidgeting with her nails from across the far end of the ground floor, near the chimney.
Without bothering to wave, he made his way to one of the benches with a scarred table. This was the Canteen, where they had their breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Given the nourishing scent wafting from beyond the closed door adjacent to him, he could tell it was underway.
This lonely place was the Sanctuary. He had been here for nearly a year, minus a month. He didn't know if he had been drugged, but he had somehow gone from selling newspapers in the bustling streets of Alaves to an orphanage in the middle of nowhere.
Here, they were given food by masked people—about five of them, called Caretakers. They rarely spoke, only serving them food three times daily. Other than that, they were free to do as they wanted—a perfect illusory freedom. The majority of the kids here had accepted their fate and played along.
Perhaps even he.
Slowly, in ones and pairs, more kids started trickling in—some bustling with laughter, others in hushed silence. His eyes lingered on the golden-eyed, black-haired boy as he arrived, settling alone at a far desk near the wooden wall.
There were a lot of vacant seats and benches once filled with teens like them almost a year ago, but it seemed that by the end of each passing week, four of those teens would mysteriously vanish.
The Caretakers said they had been sent on a decent ferry to the world beyond, where there were real people and towns.
They termed it The Solstice.
His eyes wandered in intent, looking for the crimson-eyed girl, but simply halted when a slightly bulky hand grabbed his frail shoulders. His silhouette was drowned in the shadows of three lanky folks and a bulky, fat teen who had ruby hair and freckles over his face.
He sighed.
The third-class bullies: Bellion and his cohorts.
"Hey, Empty. Saving a seat for your god?" The boy with ruby hair pestered, bringing his face near his in cheap spite—a mock plea.
The rest of the lanky fellas erupted in laughter, settling around him—some in chairs, others on the bench. But he just stared at them with lifeless, abysmal eyes.
Such cheap creatures.
"Come on, Bellion, go get a life," an anonymous feminine voice cried through the circle of five girls, but he was guessing it was the brown-haired girl.
Like a buffoon ready to charge, Bellion glared.
"Huh? I totally heard that." Then his lanky cohorts—mostly dark-haired—rose with him. "Hey, who said that? Who the hell said that?!"
He made to charge toward the frightened girls. This was perhaps due to the fact that Bellion was one of the three Awakened—ones said to have signed a contract with deities—but since he didn't manipulate any elemental or astral abilities...
He was guessing he was either a Soul or Body Type Awakened.
His ravaging fury died to crisp silence when a feminine figure with dark hair and crimson eyes that drank the light descended in an unnerving calm into the scene, right as the Caretakers brought each a pair of food.
The lass he was looking for.
The rumored Bloodsucking Awakened. He didn't know why, but he had just happened to catch the name, and it stuck.
She merely traversed to the feminine circle, then seated herself silently amidst them, her head placed on her palms. She glanced absentmindedly at the green mountains outside.
Seemingly defeated and slightly spooked, Bellion returned to his white-haired, feminine prey, who was now ferociously stuffing into his mouth chunks of butter bread and mouthfuls of salted pickleberry soup.
Bellion gritted his teeth in anger, his feet folding in a furious crisp. Even his lanky cohorts backed out a little, with worry etched on their faces.
Well, but the white-haired figure continued eating in huge mouthfuls, his hands reaching for the last chunk of bread.
"Hey, you know that's supposed to be mine!!! Don't you...?" Bellion pulsed in anger, his hand slightly burrowing into the scarred table.
He absentmindedly pointed his hand at Bellion's portion, which was sitting idly on the scarred table.
"Oh, feigning ignorance, huh?" Bellion rolled up his sleeves. His hand descended toward him in a jab. "How about a brief reminder?!"
Typical third-rate bully.
His head, instinctively and partly grateful to the wrecking life of the streets, ducked to the side, dodging the jab, while his hand made for his fork—the cutlery gleaming in the light—impaling Bellion's hand with bloody ferocity into the scarred table.
"Arghh!" Bellion let out a ferocious cry as his other hand shook and tried to pull his impaled hand free.
He glanced at his soup, now dripping with slight crimson. He sighed. His meal was ruined.
His lanky cohorts, seemingly recuperating from the shock, lurched at him in jabs and punches. But he reacted too, clutching his runny plate of soup and dousing it on them. They yelped, losing balance, with their hands reaching to scrub the hot liquid off their faces.
But that was all he needed. He tackled one of them onto the floor, giving his head a straight jab. His eyes squirmed as if losing consciousness. He reached to smack him again when another one lurched at him, pushing him onto the ground and smashing his empty bread plate onto his face.
His world exploded into a cacophony of sounds as his eyes squirmed disorientedly, which worsened further when another punch connected with his jaw—simultaneously as one did his stomach.
Blurp!!
He nearly vomited; his body struggled to breathe while his dizzying eyes caught sight of his three lanky assailants, one reaching to pull the fork out of Bellion's palm.
Leaving two with him—this was his chance. He lunged forward, headbutting one straight on the nose. His visage smashed against the scarred wooden table.
The other one—he had long amber hair—reacted with a violent jab, connecting with his jaw.Pain bloomed in his jaw. A metallic taste filled his mouth. His body was a distant, malfunctioning machine.
He bit down on the amber-haired boy's shoulder. The scream was satisfyingly real. Blood, warm and coppery, painted his tongue. It was the most flavor he'd tasted in weeks.
The boy let out a violent cry as his teeth ripped out a chunk of flesh. His mouth was now dyed in blood like the makeup of a clown—one with a frenzied smile and dark, soulless eyes.
"Ha... ha..."
He exhaled, his hands wiping the blood off his lips as he stared at the three groaning fellows on the ground. Before he could react, a rough hand caught him, lunging him onto the concrete floor and causing a crater. The pain wracked his back, but his defiant eyes locked on those of the furious Bellion.
His eyes wandered to the rest of the kids who now feigned ignorance, as if scared of angering Bellion if they intervened and also shockingly, even the golden eyed lad and crimson eyed lass-the two Awakened (Dormant)-only watched with Detachment not moving to stop it.
After all, he smiled sadly. What was he thinking? That someone would stand up for him? Since when did slums like him have such dreams?
Bellion's angry fist traveled with dangerous force toward his defiant eyes, only to be halted by the huge gloved palms of one of the Caretakers, releasing a silent ring of force that rattled the plates of everyone in the room.
The masked Caretaker loomed from above. The dark socket voids of his clown mask gleamed precariously, enough to make Bellion falter out of his rage—though his freckled face was still reddened. He restrained himself.
"We'll see another time, Nether. Pray you better not be alone!!" he baited.
He and his gang crashed onto their bench, focused on their meal, as if nothing had transpired in the moment.
The Caretaker reached out his gloved hand toward him, which he took. In the next heave, he drew him out of the mild crater in the ground. He gave a slight bow of gratitude and lowly said, "Thank you."
His hands motioned again to wipe the blood trickling from his nose and lips.
"Here..."
The Caretaker, emotionlessly like he was feeding an animal, pressed a purple pill into his palm before walking away.
He glanced at the pill; he knew what it was for. It was a body-mending pill; it helped ease pain and hasten recovery. He swallowed it, prying his swollen lips painfully open. It usually took up to an hour before it began its effects.
So anxious from the boring stares of the rest of the kids on him, he made his way outside into the dazzling sunlight, which only lasted for six hours before the dreary six-hour fog came.
He crashed onto the field tinged with daisies outside, before a tree—a huge evergreen tree that had 343 markings on its bark. Bringing a glass shard from his pocket, he gave it another marking: the 344th.
His bruised face gave a satisfied smile as he rubbed his pale hands over the spot.
It was his 344th day surviving this hellish world.
And it may perhaps be his last.