Anastasia

De: W. G. Sweet

Narrado por: Virtual Voice

The gritty concrete pressed against my cheek, cold and unforgiving. A dull, throbbing ache pulsed behind my eyes, radiating outwards to claim every muscle, every fiber of my being. My body felt heavy, leaden, as if anchored to the ground by unseen chains. The air hung thick and cloying, a miasma of decay and something else… something feral, something primal. I coughed, the taste of blood metallic on my tongue, a coppery tang that clung to the back of my throat.

My eyes flickered open, focusing slowly on the blurry shapes around me. The first thing I registered was the stench – the overwhelming stench of rot and garbage, a symphony of decay that assaulted my nostrils. I was in an alleyway, a narrow, suffocating chasm between crumbling brick buildings. The walls were scarred with graffiti, a testament to the forgotten lives that had once passed through this desolate space. Empty bottles, tattered newspapers, and discarded fast-food containers littered the ground, a testament to the careless indifference of humanity. Rats scurried in the shadows, their beady eyes gleaming like tiny, malevolent stars.

Panic clawed at my throat, a desperate gasp for air that caught in my chest. Where was I? How did I get here? The last thing I remembered… a blinding flash of light, the searing pain of something tearing through me, a scream… then nothing.

Fragments of memory, jagged and incomplete, flickered across my mind. A shadowed figure looming over me, the brutal force of a struggle, the icy press of something cold and hard against my skin. The metallic scent of blood, sharp and acrid, mingled with the sickeningly sweet aroma of something else… something sickeningly familiar, yet utterly alien. It was the scent of fear, of terror, of death. The image of a gun, black and menacing, glinted momentarily, before vanishing back into the abyss of my fractured memory. A desperate struggle, a desperate attempt to fight back... and then, oblivion.

I tried to sit up, a wave of nausea washing over me. My head spun, the darkness at the edge of my vision threatening to engulf me. I felt weak, utterly depleted, as if my very life force had been drained, leaving behind only a fragile husk. My legs trembled beneath me, unable to support my weight, and I collapsed back onto the cold, unforgiving ground. The pain intensified, a sharp, stabbing agony that sent shivers down my spine.

My mind struggled to grasp the horror, to make sense of the chaos that had ripped through my life. Had I been abducted? Was this some kind of twisted nightmare? The thought that someone wanted me dead sent a fresh wave of dread through me. But then, a darker, more insidious fear took hold. The bullet wound… it wasn't just a wound. It was a transformation.

My skin felt different, strangely cold and clammy, even as sweat beaded on my forehead. My senses seemed to be heightened, overly sharp, almost unbearably so. The faintest rustle of leaves, the distant chirping of crickets, the rhythmic drip, drip, drip of water from a leaking pipe – sounds that I would have normally ignored were amplified, magnified, turning the quiet of the alleyway into a cacophony of unnerving sounds.

And then there was the smell. The stench of decay was still present, but now, it was accompanied by a new, unfamiliar scent. It was the scent of blood, yes, but a different kind of blood – raw, metallic, and intensely… alluring. It wasn’t just the scent of my own blood, either. It was something richer, something deeper, something almost… intoxicating.

That's when the hunger struck...