THE MISTAKE
The Architect sat in his chair, watching solemnly as the never-setting sun hovered over the City of Bowls. He did not know when he had last eaten, or slept, or left the room. These days, he could only think of one thing. He might have made a mistake.
The first weeks after the Deed were good. In the streets, people would celebrate, and sing, and dance like careless spirits from the old tales. For once they forgot all their quarrels and were truly together, bonded by partaking of the holy gift of blood and life. In the joy of those days, they did not look like they would ever need any justice, be it from gods or from their own equals.
The problems began when the bloodstream started to run out. All of a sudden, there wasn't enough blood for everyone. And they wanted more, badly.
All attempts to ration the blood failed quickly because people did not trust those in charge, and rightfully so. Some were smart to fill up and stash a couple bottles. Others wanted to buy them, but no one would sell. Money, power, women — nothing mattered anymore except for the blood. Many were robbed. A few were killed. The city was slowly slipping down into madness.
The Architect observed from the balcony, like a king keeping a bitter watch over his dying kingdom. Down there, they fought over the drying red trickles. They licked the salt off the ground like animals, hoping it had soaked up a few drops. But there was more. Dark, bizarre rumors filled the city. Rumors even he could not hide from in his secluded tower.
They had always said they wanted justice, and he worked hard to give them a chance at that. But in the end, all they craved for was this accursed blood. Perhaps they were not ready for this gift. Perhaps it was never meant for them in the first place.
Perhaps he made a mis...
"Dinner's waiting, love."
The Architect leaped up in his chair. It was only his wife. His beautiful, loving wife. She had been standing beside him for who knows how long, while he was deep in his thoughts. Since when has she developed this ability to creep up on him so silently?
"I'm not... I'm not hungry, darling," he replied, quickly regaining his stature after the momentary embarrassment. "Anyway, how have you been? Where's Jenny?" Jenny was the Architect's daughter, a wonderful creature of age ten.
Somehow, his wife seemed puzzled at this simple question. She thought for a while, knitting her brow like a child. "Dinner's waiting, love," she finally repeated with a happy nod.
The Architect's heart froze as he recognized the wet glint in her eyes. "Have you been drinking it?" he asked quietly. She did not reply. In a second, he rose up and approached her. "The blood. Have you been drinking it?" he demanded, shaking her by the shoulder. As he shook, her head cocked helplessly to the side like a doll's. She closed her eyes and smiled dreamily. Somehow, her teeth seemed bigger than he remembered. And certainly much pinker.
The Architect gasped with anger and despair. He'd told her not to, he'd told her so many times not to!.. He had seen too much of what that blood does to people's minds. And now his wife, his careless, idiot wife, was one of them. For the first time since their wedding, the Architect almost felt like he would hit her. And then he noticed her hands. She saw him stare at them and waved them awkwardly in front of his face with a quiet chuckle. They were oily red with blood. Human blood.
"The dinner..." she whispered before bursting into nervous, trembling laughter.
The Architect pushed her away and rushed downstairs. The kitchen was a mess of red. And at the center of this mess, on the table, lied Jenny. She looked exactly as he knew her, ever so pretty in her favorite yellow dress. The only thing missing was her head. Under her neck was a tub full of dark, thick blood.
He paced the room desperately, looking for anything that could help, refusing to admit it was too late. Then, suddenly, it became very hard to breathe. He felt a sharp sting in the chest, and his legs failed. He sat on the table heavily, almost falling, and made a strange whistling sound that turned into a quiet, high-pitched howl. He clutched his daughter's tiny cold fingers. And then he wailed.
"You don't like it?" he heard his wife's voice over the sound of his own sobbing. She stood in the door, smiling diffidently. "It's not as good as what you gave us. Still good though."
The look the Architect gave her was not human. He jumped up and grabbed the nearest thing, which happened to be a butcher's knife. And, with a terrible scream, he slammed it onto his wife's head. The knife hit between her neck and shoulder, slashing her open with a loud chunk, and stuck in her chest.
Somehow, she managed to stay on her feet. She looked in astonishment at the handle sticking from her body, then at the Architect. "Why, love?" she asked in somebody else's voice. "Why, love? Why, love? Why love?" she kept repeating on a single note, like a broken clockwork toy, as she moved slowly towards him, grabbed his neck with her both hands and started squeezing.
The Architect did not resist. He realized he had made another mistake. He forgot that only beheading could kill one who'd tasted a god's immortal blood.