Page 87 of Buried in Blood
Someone young.
Someone Damien chose.
Because helikesthe new ones. Says it keeps the fear fresh.
I blink back the sting behind my eyes and kneel in front of the small trunk beneath my bed. Inside: Gloves. A gold-trimmed mask. A linen cloth for wiping blood from the blade—though we don’t use blades anymore. That was before the fire.
Now we burn them alive.
I clutch the mask in my palm for a second too long. It’s hard. Cold. Shaped like a saint, but empty behind the eyes.
Like me.
The masks are his newest addition to our uniforms. He wants to make sure we know we are all equals. No one means anything.
I stand.
The cloak shifts as I move, whispering across the floor like something dead dragging behind me.
Brooke’s room is quiet across the hall. She’s probably already dressed. Already waiting.
She doesn’t cry anymore. That’s almost worse.
I reach for the chalk on my desk and write one word on the underside of the dresser.
Run.
No one will ever see it. But it makes me feel… less empty. Less like I’m part of this.
I tie the mask to my hip.
I don’t put it on yet.
That part comes last—right before we surround the altar.
Right before the screaming starts.
My boots echo through the corridor.
It’s time.
Not for redemption.
Not for forgiveness.
But for fire.
And I hate myself for walking toward it.
* * *
The fire begins.
The night air tastes of smoke and iron.
He is playing music tonight. “Blood and Tears” by Danzig echoes.
We stand in a circle around the altar, cloaked in black, faceless beneath our masks. The hoods cast shadows like dripping oil. The grass is wet from last night’s storm, but the flames still burn high, towering, hissing—alive.
