Hell-Blood

I never had a normal childhood growing up. In addition to being homeschooled, my parents never let me make friends or go anywhere alone—and this only worsened over time. By the time I was a teenager, they were hovering over me all the time, even when we were out together shopping for groceries or clothes. I asked them when I was much younger why they were treating me like a prisoner and they said that I was haemophilic. They said I nearly died when I was three, so they wouldn’t leave my safety to chance. I understood their concern, but I still longed for my freedom; were they to surveil me my entire life?

We were shopping one day when I stopped to pet a puppy. My mother immediately pulled me away from it and told me never to do that again. I knew how concerned they were, but to call that an overreaction was an understatement. I wondered just how bad my previous injury was to make them so paranoid. Similar incidents happened in the coming months, with my parents pulling me away from plants and neighbours. It was getting out of hand.

One night, I decided to sneak out of the house and take a bus to the next town. I wasn’t planning on running away for good, but I needed to experience life for once rather than being stuck in a birdcage. I wanted more than to simply exist. I packed a bag and left in the middle of the night while my parents were asleep. After getting off the bus, I wandered the streets by myself for the first time. There were very few vehicles on the road, and even fewer people on the pavement, but something about the peaceful environment and the cool breeze brushing against my skin was so relaxing. I wished I could’ve experienced it forever.

It was not long before I was confronted by a group of boys my age who could barely walk straight. They asked me where I was headed and why I was alone. I tried to avoid them, but one of them grabbed my hand. I punched him in the face and he fell to the floor, wailing. One of his friends cursed at me and hit me in return; my nose broke and I fell on my back. But as soon as I hit the ground, the boy who punched me started screaming. I looked to find steam rising from his fist as his fingers began to fall off, one by one. They called me a witch and ran away.

I held my nose and rose to my feet. I then noticed something strange: the bleeding had already stopped, but the small spots on which my blood had splattered on my t-shirt were burnt. My parents needed to tell me the truth, once and for all. I took a bus home immediately and confronted them about my strange blood. They were reluctant at first but finally agreed to come clean.

My parents had tried for years to conceive before they finally had me, but I was born with haemophilia and did indeed sustain an injury that almost killed me as a toddler when I fell off a chair when my father was on a phone call. I was pronounced dead, but one of my mother’s friends was a witch who said there was a way to save me, although it would have side-effects that would hinder the things around me. My parents had agreed without hesitation.

The witch had created a potion to revive me. The potion also gave me physical endurance and strength, as well as instant regeneration. However, my blood itself was corrosive to anything but me: if any organic or inorganic material were to come into contact with my blood, it would decay almost instantly. The most chilling fact was that the witch’s potion included Hell Magic—I had demon blood coursing through my veins.