Half Alive
Rated: M
Summary: When Connelly wakes up in an abandoned hospital, he has no lucid memories of his past. All he remembers is his own name and random, mind-splitting scenes of violence. All he has are his clothes, a baseball bat…and claws…
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When he woke up, it was cold. So cold. He was lying on a metal gurney, or rather, a metal table on wheels, when he came to. It seemed to be mid-morning from the way the faint light was streaming through the small, dirty window, but Connelly didn't want to see. He instinctively turned away from the light, even though it didn't hurt his eyes. His leg and arm muscles ached, his torso felt sore. Connelly snarled in annoyance. The noise was angry and inhuman, and he froze in shock. Why did he just do that? How could he even make that sound? Groaning, he gently eased his foot off of the table and on to the floor. Yet he quickly retracted it, because the floor was not smooth and cold, as he has expected- it was sticky and warm, and it made the hair rise up on the back of his neck. He wanted to peer over the edge, yet he couldn't- the fear of the Unknown was too great, and he felt his muscles lock in place. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to know. His fingers gripped the edge of the table, and the metal groaned, causing small dents to be formed. He felt his nails snag on the underside, yet he didn't know how- they couldn't possibly be that long.
It was then that the smell hit him, somehow just registering on his still-awakening senses. It was pungent and metallic, sickeningly sweet. Finally daring to steal a quick glance over the edge, Connelly saw why- the floor was smeared with blood, creating whirlwind patterns and lines of a demented artist. Although a couple of days old, it still emitted a heavy stench; there must be gore and marrow mixed in there too, Connelly thought. The thought both repulsed and attracted him, and he was heavily confused and disgusted with himself for feeling the latter.
Yet he knew that he couldn't stay on the table forever; already his stomach was crying for food. He considered moving the table to cleaner ground by pushing against the wall, until he realized that the person –or thing- that caused the massacre in front of him might still be lurking around, and the squeaking gurney would cause attention. No, he would have to do things silently, which regrettably meant creeping across the bloodied floor.
Filled with revulsion, he lowered both aching feet onto the ground. The feeling beneath his feet was squishy and sticky and wrong, but he forced himself to continue. Each step became torture, for as the smell incased him he fell both a need to throw up, and strangely enough, to lick it up, to find more from which it came, and rip, and tear…but no. He shuddered at the thought, and suddenly, did throw up, leaning against the wall for support, his vomit oddly dark and thick. He stared at it for a long moment. It was half digested, the same color as the blood on the floor.
()
Wandering the corridors of the hospital, it took a while to realize that the soft click click click came from his own toenails hitting the stone floor. Or perhaps 'claws' was the correct word, for they seemed oddly curved and sharp. His fingernails, he quickly learned, were the same- although there was no way he could have known that at first.
As he had been eager to get away from his own vomit, his pace had quickened, and he felt himself slip. His hand shot out, faster than it should have, to hold on to the wall, and as he steadied himself he saw that his nails were suddenly embedded into the plaster. Forcing them out, he saw that his nails were longer, sharper and curved- resembling a cat's claws. And like such claws, they shortened before his eyes, disappearing into his flesh- they were retractable.
Not that the feature had really helped- he still had claws, albeit shorter-reaching ones. Still, it could be used as a hidden weapon if needed. And the top part, where the claw curved into a wicked scythe, couldn't be too hard to file down. None of these thoughts bothered Connelly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to have claws on his fingers and toes. He found that thinking about them was oddly soothing, an anchor that he could hold onto. It was something that he knew about himself, and he didn't know much.
He was about to learn more.
He had decided a while ago that his hunger could wait. The foremost important thing to do right now was to find clothing and get the hell out of the hospital before whatever had caused the carnage around him came back for more. It was a gruesome sight- almost everything was overturned, windows were broken, and the halls were smattered with blood. He had seen a glimpse of a severed hand peeking out from behind a nurse's station, but turned away; he didn't feel like finding out what had happened to the rest. The entire building was silent, as if watching him, waiting for his next move. There were no people here, although if he were alone, he was not so sure- he had the oddest feeling that he was being watched, and when he passed certain dark, abandoned rooms, he couldn't help but feel that things were noticing.
He thought he heard a woman crying softly, surprised at himself when he quickly turned tail and ran; something in his gut told him to stay away from the crying things. It was only after he turned the corner that he slowed and stood up- he had been running on all fours without realizing it. His claws were once again extended, hinting that he was under extreme stress.
The boy studied them, flexing his fingers experimentally. This was the second time this had happened, and they probably wouldn't retract until he was fully relaxed. He crouched down and flexed his toes, wondering if they did the same thing. It would be cool if he were able to climb walls that way.
Suddenly curious, he looked around until he spotted some sort of cloth-like material- there, in the room directly across from him, he spotted an almost completely whole hospital curtain. With his senses on high alert, he entered the dark room. Avoiding a bed whose sheets couldn't possibly be stained with only one full body's worth of blood, he extended his right arm and brought it down into the curtain, slicing through it as though it were made of wet rice paper. He stared at his hand in amazement.
"Holy shit," he breathed.
A soft growling suddenly came from behind him, causing his nerves to stand up in red alert. He slowly turned around to face whatever had made the noise. What he saw forced him to let out a screech, so inhuman and loud that the thing that was about to attack him pause in alarm before quickly fleeing. Connelly felt his knees turn to jelly and he slowly sank to the floor, clutching what was left of the curtain for support. That was one of the things that had been watching him, he was sure, and he almost let out a whimper at the thought of it. To call it human would have been an insult to humanity as a whole, for although it had a human form, he could tell that it wasn't. It was extremely pale, almost gray, where blood wasn't staining its skin. Its jaw had hung open stupidly, and what appeared to be half-chewed meat had fallen out in drivels onto the floor. He didn't know why they weren't attacking him, (for if his senses were correct, there were a lot), but it seemed that as long as he didn't get too close, they wouldn't bother him.
The smell of the half-chewed, indigested meat was somehow was driving him insane. Saliva hung off of it in spools, yellow and thick, as the red chunks lay in a pool in the same-colored filth. Yet the need to consume it was great, causing his stomach to clench and his jaw to tighten as his eyes remained fixed upon it. He swallowed, and slowly began crawling toward it on all fours, his claws causing small sounds compared to his heart, which was hammering wildly. Blood rushed to his head and all he saw was red, red like the blood around him, his mind blank save the command to consume. The room was cold and a shiver went down his spine through the thin hospital gown that covered him. His mouth opened wider than it should, his own drool spilling out of the corners, as he bent down and ripped into the once-human flesh.
What he tasted could only be described as ecstasy to him, like a bleeding woman eating a pound of milk chocolate. The juices ran down his throat, tangy and sweet; the meat was still warm, despite being in another's mouth. He tore at it, growling like starving dog, as his gown and face became painted in blood as his meal dripped from his mouth. Panting, he sat up, licking his lips.
His look of content quickly turned to panic, as his stomach recoiled and sought the exodus of such tainted flesh. He could feel his upper digestive organs pounding as he quickly stumbled into the room's adjoining bathroom, throwing up his just-eaten meal into the toilet. His tasted could certainly handle human flesh, but his stomach apparently could not. He felt a dull pain in his knees while on the cold floor from when he had quickly slammed them down, too intent in the bowl to worry about anything else at the time. Groaning softly, he gently eased himself back up.
Testing the knobs of the sink, he saw that the cold water still worked. Cupping his hands under the spout, he quickly splashed water on him face and wiped it away with his hands, glancing up at the mirror.
He did not look- at least, completely- human.
The first thing he noticed was his skin, which was pale- not gray, like the thing, but certainly pale, although he could see a hint of color under his skin. Blonde hair hung just above his eyes, sticking out on his head in messy, natural spikes. He noticed that the hair which hung closer to his face was darker, almost a metallic brown, and his immediate thought was that those locks had been permanently stained by blood. His eyes were a dark blue, almost purple, and the skin around them was puffy and pink, almost the reverse of the dark circles one would usually see. His face was thin, skin almost stretched across it, with clearly defined cheekbones. Yet it was his mouth that truly scared him.
Daring to raise his blood-stained lips, he saw that his teeth were unusually sharp. Not like needles or razors, but certainly sharp, and unnaturally pointy. There seemed to be nothing wrong with his tongue, but he was afraid to find out what would happen if he accidently bit it.
Clutching the sides of the porcelain sink, trembling, he looked deep into his own eyes, as if hoping they could somehow tell him everything. The look on his face was of fear; more human than animalistic, the most human emotion he'd felt since waking up. Until then it had had an undertone of either numbness or impassiveness, as if he were used to this, as if he already knew. Everything until now had been based on instinct; he knew no friends or family he should be worried about, he didn't even know where he was.
Who am I?
"What am I?" he whispered.
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AN: I hope you enjoyed the first chapter! More about Connelly will be hinted as the story progresses, and he just might run into some familiar characters…