Burnt Blood

DREAMS
 

‘Who is George Reynolds?’

Rattled by the insatiable craving that came with it. Deep beneath his skin, something stirred. Slow and relentless, George felt it pulse—a predator pacing within its cage. It wasn’t human. And it wasn’t him. At least, that’s what he told himself. But there were moments, fleeting and cruel, when the line blurred. When he wasn’t sure which was worse: the monster waiting to escape or the man desperately trying to hold it back. Fearing the lure from the darkness.

George rubbed his hands, the tremor in his fingers refusing to still. The sensation of something crawling beneath his skin sent chills racing up his spine. Whatever it was, it was biding its time, waiting for the cracks to widen. Waiting for him to lose control. Something he knew deep down he couldn’t afford to happen. Not in his line of work.

Officer Reynolds, George or Georgie to those who knew him best, and he could trust. Although, those could be counted on one hand. Mostly because he didn’t let people in easily, out of fear of them getting hurt next. George wore his badge like a fragile shield against the storm. It wasn’t hope it represented, not anymore. Most days, it felt a burden, the weight of his failures and buried secrets behind him. Becoming a detective was an act of defiance, proof that he could claw his way out of the shadows that clung to him. Proof that he could escape the ghost of who he used to be.

But ghosts, secrets and all the stuff in between never stayed buried. George knew this better than most. His memories—fractured, jagged shards of something broken—had been haunting him for years. He had built his life around the emptiness they left behind, filling the gaps with purpose, discipline, and denial. The warrant card in his pocket wasn’t just a symbol of George trying to do some good; it was armour against his own fragility. Yet, even as he clung to it, the darkness inside him stirred. Always watching. Always waiting.

There was a quote he remembered from his academy days: “You can’t know where you’re going until you know where you’ve been.” It was a comfort to most, but to George, it was a curse. He didn’t know where he’d been. His past was a mosaic of blacked-out windows and distant screams. And every time he tried to piece it together; it slipped through his fingers like smoke.

And then there were the eyes.

Those blood-red, searing eyes burned into his mind, haunting the edges of his dreams and the black spaces behind his closed lids. They weren’t just visions—they were watching him. Every breath he took, every restless moment in the dark, they were there, waiting for him to falter. They felt familiar, terrifyingly so, as though they knew him better than he knew himself.

But the worst was the smell. Not real—not entirely—but inescapable. The sickly-sweet tang of scorched flesh and the sharp, metallic bite of blood burned black. It clung to him, suffocating and vile, a phantom stench that never truly faded. Even now, in the stillness of his room, it lingered, curling in the back of his throat like smoke from a fire that refused to die.

He’d spent years building himself into the man the world needed him to be. But the man he truly was—the one he feared—was clawing his way to the surface. And as George felt the knot in his stomach twist, he knew the truth.

When it finally came for him, there would be no turning back.