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Chapter I. The Threshold of the Epilogue.
Page I.
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༒༻☬𝖀𝖓𝖇𝖗𝖎𝖉𝖑𝖊𝖉: (/ʌnˈbraɪdəld/) something that is unrestrained, without restrictions or control.
༒༻☬𝕯𝖊𝖘𝖊𝖓𝖋𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖆𝖉𝖔: Algo que no está sujeto a restricciones o control, que se encuentra en un estado de libertad o falta de limitaciones
I THINK MAKING UP a believable excuse to your parents when they walk into your room while you’re mastur̶b̶a̶ting and not raising any suspicions is even easier than starting this book.
Where do I begin? Will anyone really read this? Did I leave any typos anywhere? Should I start with my awakening and wait for some celebrity from your world to come down the stairs of my mansion?
I’m not sure what makes me more anxious: having to write this book or remembering that Monday when everything started to crumble slowly.
If it’s not obvious, I’ve always been quite marginalized, and that’s because in my category, only people with some sort of behavioral issue or those deemed defective fit in. And it’s not that I have a superiority complex, though sometimes I do, but it’s the mistakes of my past that have caused me to no longer relate to people like a normal being.
That day, I felt that my usual irritability was at its peak, and maybe it was because I had been skipping my medication for the past two weeks without anyone knowing (Yeah, yeah, we’ll talk about that later; now focus on the story). I was sitting in the spot that would eventually become my territory during my entire stay in that kind of cage, alongside a group of hormonal teenagers. They were stupid, insolent, ignorant, impulsive, loud, irritating, and unbearable beings. (Curiously, I also belong to this group, though I admit that my negative adjectives also apply to me); (God, how good I am, “negative adjective,” take that, didn’t expect that vocabulary, did you?). At a certain hour, a series of self-proclaimed "prudent" and "exemplary" teachers joined us just to raise my stress levels. I clumsily tried to relieve my growing anxiety by picking at the skin around my bony, pale hands, rhythmically tapping my foot on the ground in a restless and constant manner. I looked around, feeling suffocated by the multiple conversations resonating in the air, all of them raised in volume and completely irrelevant to me. I counted each second, hoping to temporarily free myself from social pressure and escape that place.
I clearly remember the ridiculous conversations unfolding around me.
“Oh, Jess, you look absolutely beautiful.”
Ladies, please stop lying to yourselves.
“…I met Aaron Grimaldi in person; you should have seen him, he was…”
Yeah, also Messi.
“…We should visit your house on the next outing.”
Spoiler: they’re never going to do that.
“…This year, the training is more intense for those who aspire to be Inquisitors. I’ve heard that the Mormón’s sister has outstanding performance…”
It’s pronounced Amón, A-M-Ó-N, you idiot.
At this point, after hearing the word "Inquisitor," you might be thinking, "Finally, something I can understand, thank God."
However, I’m sorry to inform you that you are very mistaken, and before you think you have it all figured out just because you know the names Dominus, Legatus, Inquisitors, Centurioness, Aristoi, because you watched a series or read other books, you still need to understand some essential differences between each one. So, no, you can’t skip this part.
Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.
This is like those unskippable 5-second ads on YouTube.
No, being a Lycan doesn’t turn you into an animal, it doesn’t give you superpowers overnight, it doesn’t extend your life by a thousand years, nor does it infuse you with the soul of a wolf. Those who have the ability to transform into animals are not necessarily attractive or socially accepted.
If I seem like an idiot, it’s probably because you’ve never interacted with one of these beings. They are actually just animals without reasoning or self-awareness, immersed in their most basic and primitive instincts.
Oh, this is my favorite myth: no, we don’t have automatic regeneration, nor supernatural strength capable of crushing concrete, nor supersonic speed to run marathons. And, obviously, we are not video game characters who acquire skills as they defeat enemies.
So, do you want to know what’s good about it?
The answer is simple: absolutely nothing. So be grateful you’re not part of this.
When the bell rang, marking the end of my torture of listening to my classmates' absurd conversations in class, I finally freed my mind from the task of critiquing my peers, who seemed to suffer from some sort of collective dementia by completely ignoring me. On another occasion, I would have just let it all happen without a second thought, but that day, something had simply changed in me.
That particular day, my emotions were at the surface; all it took was a little incentive, and everything would turn into chaos.
I looked at the traces of blood under my battered nails and how the crimson color spread across my thin fingers.
Damn, I hadn’t even seen it coming.
My route changed abruptly. Instead of heading straight to my only group of friends, I hurried into the bathrooms. Upon crossing the threshold, I realized it wasn’t empty at first glance. I didn’t want to stand at the entrance, scanning the guys who were standing there peeing in front of me. So I headed straight for the sinks, not hesitating to turn on the faucet and plunge my hands into the cold water. The pain was immediate, burning in my wounds as I scrubbed, trying to remove any trace of my act. The last thing I needed was to face my friends' questions about what I had done; the last thing I wanted was for them to realize that I was no longer on my medication.
I tried to focus solely on my hands, feeling a deep discomfort due to the strange company next to me, who was also washing his hands without paying the slightest attention to the fresh blood oozing from my fingers.
—I think someone is suffering the side effects of the medication...— the guy next to me joked, appearing to be another one of those guys you could easily label as attractive.
Everything about him seemed "generic," from his messy hair that looked perfect to his band t-shirt that he probably only bought following some ridiculous trend that was now the most relevant thing in his life full of trivialities.
He had an oddly friendly appearance.
And no, I can’t stand people like that.
At that moment, I wasn’t interested in communicating coherently with any human being who showed the slightest interest in me. I was just a grump living in a sea of indifference, pretending that everyone else didn’t exist and vice versa. And I didn’t want to underestimate that guy’s intellectual capacity, but he seemed incapable of understanding my complete lack of enthusiasm to start a conversation in response to his question, opting instead to fill the silence once more to continue the conversation.
—...You know, Mormon, in a few months, the admissions for this year's Predators will begin... Maybe you should consider practicing and trying to enroll; although with your history, they’ll probably only let you join this year as a janitor after the training sessions—." I stared him directly in the eyes through the mirror, which was a bit dirty and slightly fogged up. He had touched on a sensitive subject that only provoked an uncontrollable anger within me.
No, before you feel sorry for me... I deserve it. I’m not a victim; I’m an executioner.
"—It’s better to be a drug addict who cleans shit than a murderer, right?"
Anger.
I had felt that emotion before, and it had never ended well. That guy was so insignificant, so irrelevant that I didn't care at all about giving him what he deserved.
Without hesitation, I followed my more aggressive instincts that cried out for him to pay for his comments. A quick punch to his jaw was all it took, launching my right fist like a projectile toward his cheek. I watched as his face turned due to the impact, taking his stability with it. His eyes filled with confusion, rage, and fear in an instant.
But he was no match for me; his futile attempts to fight back were in vain, as this was not just a simple brawl. At that moment, I felt once again what it was like to be a hunter, to be a damn Predator, and to be on the verge of devouring my prey—a sensation I only experienced when I stopped taking my medication, which was why I had stopped.
You can call me cynical.
You can call me that, but my impulses to ruin him completely continued to flow through my veins, still desiring to rip every single word from his mouth. The fight had drawn the attention of those present, who only wanted to use the bathroom. They were about to intervene, to do something, but they knew what their fate would be if they got in my way. I heard one of the guys running for the door, surely going to fetch a teacher.
I could hear nothing else; all my senses were focused on making the guy regret it, to lament every second of his comment and of crossing paths with me that day.
What I did next didn’t require much logic in the storytelling. I grabbed his long hair tightly, feeling the softness of his black strands against my rough, unrefined touch. I looked at his face for a fraction of a second—pained and fearful, already affected by my erratic blows—which only made me feel more powerful over my prey. And I finished, slamming his face against the sink with all my strength, making it collide with the corner.
Once and again.
And again.
And fucking again.
Before I felt someone grab me by the nape, pulling me violently back. I fought to reclaim my prey, to feel his hair between my fingers while my nails turned crimson and the metallic scent seeped into my nostrils.
—And it’s better that you learn to shut your damn mouth.
In my pale, bony hands, blood was running again. However, this time, it was no longer just mine.
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