All I see is white—a blinding void swallowing everything else. My pupils shrink to the point of near extinction, my eyes clenched shut against the overwhelming brightness. A hand, not my own, shields my face. It is the hand of the brown figure—one whose presence I had failed to feel until now. Even now, I sense nothing. Instead, I see only a black silhouette, a stark figure breaking the piercing, luminous glow. The image reminds me of the eclipse on the ship. Instinctively, I try to look down, but I cannot.

  “Kaila, it’s time to eat.”

  A man’s voice cuts through the light—gruff and gravelly. He wields a staff, the tip aflame, holding it just before me. His figure is difficult to discern, but the faint details emerge: a full beard framing a broad jaw, sharp teeth glinting between his cracked lips. His pale skin carries a faint brownish hue, and his bald head gleams under the light.

  He waves the staff at me, the flames casting flickering shadows. Then, he thrusts the glowing tip closer to the hand before my face. His wrinkled features twist into a grotesque grin, bits of flesh caught between his jagged teeth.

  “Kaila, it’s dinner time. Aren’t you the least bit excited?”

  His voice carries a mockery, as if taunting me. His sharp gaze meets mine, though my vision remains blurred. My half-lidded eyes barely register the movement.

  “I said, it’s time to eat, you worthless piece of filth!” he snarls.

  Veins darken on his hands, turning a deep brown as he presses the fiery staff against the hand before me. A hiss echo, skin sizzling under the heat. Yet, there is no reaction—not from me, not from this Kaila he addresses. Not a flinch, not a wince, not even a bead of sweat betrays discomfort. There is no fear, no trembling, no tears streaking down cheeks. My expression remains vacant, eyes fixed on his hateful glare. The man exhales sharply, slamming the base of his staff against the ground.

  “This isn’t fun anymore,” he mutters, turning away.

  His broad silhouette moves deeper into the dimming light, the glow fading as he departs. My vision clears incrementally, though weakly, and my gaze shifts downward. The hand before me—charred and blistered, marred by scars and boils—is unmistakably brown.

  The scent hits me like a physical blow. Burnt flesh. My stomach churns violently, yet no sound escapes my lips. This Kaila does not scream; she does not cry. She stares at the grotesque figure retreating into the darkness. As the light wanes, her gaze lowers to the ground, to the sickening pool of liquid before her. Red and white swirls bubble faintly, an unholy concoction seething like a cauldron. It is not in a bowl or plate but smeared across the filthy floor. Against my will, this Kaila leans forward.

  Every instinct within me rebels. My nostrils flare at the rancid stench, my body convulsing with dread. My thoughts scream for the brown figure to back away, to retreat from the revolting sight. But no, Kaila inches closer. Her hand—scarred, trembling—reaches toward the viscous pool. Thick, congealed liquid clings to her fingers as they dip into the sludge. It flows over her blisters, grotesque rivulets of red and white merging with her flesh. She raises the substance to her lips.

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  I do not feel the sensation—neither the texture nor the temperature—yet I taste it. Metallic and putrid, the flavor invades my senses like a sick mockery of nourishment. It is the taste of blood, a crimson echo of the sustenance I once relied upon. My eyes sting with tears, but they do not fall. My body refuses to retch, though every fiber of my being demands release. Instead, Kaila chews, her movements mechanical, detached. The thick, syrupy liquid drips from her mouth, pooling on the floor as she swallows.

  Memories resurface, unbidden and cruel. The taste conjures visions of my own kind, of the unspeakable horrors I endured to survive. I remember tearing through them, their blood staining my hands, and my lips. The realization strikes me like a dagger to the heart: I am no better than the brown ones. I am a monster.

  But I am a monster who will survive. I am the creature destined to stand atop the food chain. I am neither red nor blue, neither gold nor any mortal blood. I am divine crimson—a god amongst men, above even the golden so-called deities.

  The taste shifts, a sickly sweetness mingling with the metallic tang. My stomach twists violently, but instead of retching, I consume more. My hands scoop the vile mixture, shoveling it into my mouth with abandon. Bone shards crunch between my teeth, cartilage sticking to my gums. I recall a time long past, a moment when I swallowed a tooth by mistake. Now, it is not a tooth but fragments of someone else’s body—knuckle bones, ribs, a splintered femur.

  I am a cannibal, and there is no denying it. I loathe it; I despise every bite. But I eat. I must eat. There is no alternative. Darkness engulfs me, yet I continue to devour. The light has vanished, and Kaila—this fractured identity I have assumed—sits silently, absorbing every ounce of pain and humiliation. She does not lash out, does not seek vengeance. Instead, she endures, swallowing down the horror one grotesque mouthful at a time.

  The viscous blood clings to her throat, the sinewy meat grinding between her teeth. Every swallow feels like a betrayal, every bite a surrender. I hate it. I hate myself. Yet I eat, unable to stop.

  A sudden flash blinds me, a burst of brown light accompanied by a violent gust of wind. It tears through my mind like a storm, leaving shattered fragments of unfamiliar memories in its wake. They claw their way into my skull, forcing themselves into the deepest recesses of my being. I see the light, but just as quickly, it fades. The darkness returns, but now I see—clearer than before.

  Soft, dim light filters into the room. A door creaks open, and I watch as the burly man enters. He is younger now, his beard thinner, his wrinkles faint. His skin is darker, carrying the warmth of life. In his hands, he cradles a newborn. The infant’s body is slick with brown fluid, the umbilical cord still attached. Without hesitation, he rolls the baby across the cold, filthy floor like a discarded bowling ball.

  My heart lurches. The baby does not cry. It lies motionless for a moment before weakly pushing its tiny limbs against the ground, struggling to move. The burly man laughs, a sound so vile it reverberates through my very bones. His pale brown eyes gleam with sadistic amusement as he watches the infant flail.

  I want to scream. I want to lunge at him, to drive my fist into his leering mouth and rip his jaw apart until he can never laugh again. My veins burn with fury, my vision tinged with red. But before I can act, he vanishes, and the infant transforms. No longer a helpless newborn, it is now a small child.