Cyrus took a deep breath. He exhaled slow and unsteady, clearly struggling to absorb the full weight of the momentous revelation. He took another deep breath, chest rising to press against their clasped hands. He exhaled unsteadily and choked in another breath. It felt very much like an anxiety attack, though the symptoms he was expecting — thrumming capillaries, tinnitus, shortness of breath — were absent.
Seconds passed in silence as Cyrus glanced about the room. His wide eyes couldn’t focus on one thing: not on her, neither on the bed posts, nor on the overhead rafts. The things she had pointed out felt both distant and uncomfortably close. It was a sensory Baader-Meinhof phenomenon; what had been explained could not be escaped.
He exhaled with a semblance of a stutter, his eyes widening further as it dawned on him. Without a beating heart, there was nothing pumping oxygen through his body. It would explain why his anxious state wasn’t accompanied by the usual symptoms. It would explain why was so disoriented. The familiar thrum of his heart was absent.
Neither dead nor alive, she’d said.
There were very few things that fit that description aside from Schrödinger’s cat.
Relinquishing her hand, Cyrus pulled himself into a seated position. Reality didn’t feel as overwhelming when he sat up to face it. The shift was not without complications however. Moving caused pain which drew a hiss from his lips.
Glancing down at his body, his expression hardened. The shirt he wore was stained beyond recovery, the dark red too familiar to be anything other than blood. What wasn’t familiar, and was beginning to freak him out, was the black goop hovering about his chest.
“I’m a vampire…?” It was both a statement and a question, though not entirely rhetoric. He’d strung the pieces together and was slowly beginning to accept the picture they drew up.
The black dissipated as he sought to touch it.
“Wh—what is this black...” His brow furrowed. Though he’d never been the smartest kid in his class, he was by no means an idiot. His mind lagged as a result of the change and the loss of blood, but he didn’t see how it could be anything else, not within reason, or what he understood to be real.
He lifted his shirt in search of answers, finding a gnarly exit wound that he’d only ever seen in a make-up chair. Not that Hollywood had caught onto smokey black… “—blood?”
Cyrus released a measured breath and glanced towards the blonde woman, dropping his shirt.
“How did I change? I mean this is a fatal wound. How did I become—” He let out an uncomfortable laugh to mask the shuddering breath he exhaled. Licking his lower lip, the shadow vampire took a deep breath and stilled his voice. “How can you be real? How can any of this be real?”
Seconds passed in silence as Cyrus glanced about the room. His wide eyes couldn’t focus on one thing: not on her, neither on the bed posts, nor on the overhead rafts. The things she had pointed out felt both distant and uncomfortably close. It was a sensory Baader-Meinhof phenomenon; what had been explained could not be escaped.
He exhaled with a semblance of a stutter, his eyes widening further as it dawned on him. Without a beating heart, there was nothing pumping oxygen through his body. It would explain why his anxious state wasn’t accompanied by the usual symptoms. It would explain why was so disoriented. The familiar thrum of his heart was absent.
Neither dead nor alive, she’d said.
There were very few things that fit that description aside from Schrödinger’s cat.
Relinquishing her hand, Cyrus pulled himself into a seated position. Reality didn’t feel as overwhelming when he sat up to face it. The shift was not without complications however. Moving caused pain which drew a hiss from his lips.
Glancing down at his body, his expression hardened. The shirt he wore was stained beyond recovery, the dark red too familiar to be anything other than blood. What wasn’t familiar, and was beginning to freak him out, was the black goop hovering about his chest.
“I’m a vampire…?” It was both a statement and a question, though not entirely rhetoric. He’d strung the pieces together and was slowly beginning to accept the picture they drew up.
The black dissipated as he sought to touch it.
“Wh—what is this black...” His brow furrowed. Though he’d never been the smartest kid in his class, he was by no means an idiot. His mind lagged as a result of the change and the loss of blood, but he didn’t see how it could be anything else, not within reason, or what he understood to be real.
He lifted his shirt in search of answers, finding a gnarly exit wound that he’d only ever seen in a make-up chair. Not that Hollywood had caught onto smokey black… “—blood?”
Cyrus released a measured breath and glanced towards the blonde woman, dropping his shirt.
“How did I change? I mean this is a fatal wound. How did I become—” He let out an uncomfortable laugh to mask the shuddering breath he exhaled. Licking his lower lip, the shadow vampire took a deep breath and stilled his voice. “How can you be real? How can any of this be real?”
