Bound By Blood : Forged By Heaven, Claimed By Hell

Gemma

Present 

I woke up with that feeling again. Like my skin isn't mine. Like there’s something vibrating under my ribs, something I can’t really name, and I can’t make it stop no matter how much I try. The morning light was pale and soft through thin curtains. I sat listening to the wrongness inside me coil tighter.

It’s always there. I’ve felt it for as long as I could remember, the sense that I shouldn’t exist the way I do. Not wrong in the obvious sense Nobody crosses the street to avoid me or avoids me, but still, there’s a hollow thrum in my chest like my heart is beating out of sync with the rest of the world.

Coffee. That’s what keeps me moving.I dragged myself to the kitchen; I teach history, and grading never stops

. My apartment was modest—small, slightly cluttered, with books everywhere. Old candles, half-burned, collecting dust. I’m not special. I’m normal. Or at least, I try to be. I take a sip of coffee, staring out the window.

Gemma Walters 27 years old, five foot nine, black hair. Pale in complexion, almost too pale sometimes. My eyes were a mystery; sometimes they looked black, sometimes brown, and I gave up trying to figure it out. I teach at a small college in Portland.

The students are polite, some even eager to participate, but I keep my distance. I couldn't explain it, but there’s a line I can’t cross, a bubble I can’t pop. Something inside me felt like it was fraying at the edges. I felt it in class every day, the wrongness lurking, whispering, clawing at the back of my mind.

I walk to the classroom, my bag slung over my shoulder, and try to shake it off. With every step the hum under my skin gets sharper, and I hate it. I hate the way it makes me jittery, unfocused, and aware of every shadow and every noise. I felt like I was running from something I couldn’t see. Something that has always been chasing me.

As class starts. I lecture on revolutions and betrayals, on kings overthrown and empires burned to the ground. I make the past feel alive, and the students take notes, nod, and ask questions. I let them, but I keep my own mind guarded. It wasn’t fear, not exactly, because I didn't have anything to be afraid of; it was more like… anticipation. Like my body remembered something my mind can’t reach.

I walk home alone, like always. The streets were familiar. Routine. Safe. And still, the feeling never went away. Like there was something inside me that was off, and I didn't know what it was. I’ve spent my whole life pretending that feeling wasn’t there. Ignoring it and carrying on with life. But some days, like today, it would press against me, making me feel heavy and sharp, like a warning I couldn't read.

By the time I reached my apartment, the sun was low and the shadows were long. I locked the door behind me and leaned against it.

I wake before dawn; that ache in my chest is still there. My apartment was quiet, still, and empty except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant city sounds leaking through the window.

Something about this morning feels sharper, different, and more insistent. Shadows clinging to corners, stretching too long across the floor. I just shake my head; it’s nothing, my mind making me paranoid.

Routine—it never changes. That was my life. Every day, school, classes, papers, the market, the shop, and then home. It was a never-ending cycle on repeat, and some days it felt like it was too much.

Azya and Daya were the only two in my world apart from school. I met Azya accidentally at the market. She was 26, with black hair and deep black eyes, and sometimes I felt that she saw more than she said.

Daya was different, with long blonde hair and brown eyes, and she had this quiet way of just being that filled you with a sense of calm. They were my people, my person; somehow we grew close, and they were the only family I had.

We were sitting at our regular cafe having lunch. Their laughter was easy, natural, and grounding. I always felt a fraction of normalcy when I was with them, and for the first time in days, I fully relaxed.

“Marie went to meet him, and she got catfished,” Daya said. 

“Well, we did tell her it was too good to be true,” Azya replied.

For a while, I forgot it all the uneasiness, the tension in me and just went with it. Walking home, the city felt different. Slightly tilted if it were possible, the shadows still clinging to corners, angles that shouldn’t exist. A car door slammed behind me, making my pulse jump. 

Something was watching me; I just know it. How? I can’t tell, but the feeling was there. Not a person, not anything that you could see, but something at the edge of perception, familiar in a way that scared me. I shake my head and hurry the last few blocks.

I sat alone in my apartment. I sank into the couch and traced my fingers over the edge of the coffee table, counting the scratches and the chips in the wood. I tried telling myself I was tired, it was nothing. But my body refused to listen. Shadows twisted in the corner; shapes would vanish if I looked directly at them. The world outside was carrying on as it should, indifferent to my existence and my problems.

Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine the world righted; it was ordinary, normal. But it never stays. The hum under my skin was getting louder; it was like a living thing coiled tight, insistent. I felt like a wire stretched too taut, ready to snap.

And I think, as I always do: something about me doesn’t fit. Something about this world doesn’t belong to me. Or maybe it’s me who doesn’t belong.

My entire week was routine; it was what I did and what I knew. It never changes, but something did. I couldn't name it but knew something was different.

Sunday brought warmth and sunlight. I met Azya and Dya for brunch at a small café crowded with chatter and the smell of pastries. We talk about everything and nothing: exhibits, movies, friends’ misadventures. I laugh freely, almost forgetting the coil under my ribs. Almost. As we leave, the sun glinting off the windows, I feel a pull at the edge of my perception—something instinctive, unplaceable. 

That night, I dreamt again. The fire, the corridors, the voices that I don’t recognize. I ran; my heart was hammering. A figure was always there, watching, and it was impossible to reach them. I woke up with my chest tight and the sheets clinging to my skin, and I lay in the dark counting the hum under my ribs, tracing the coil of tension through my limbs. I tell myself it’s just a dream. Just my imagination. But still… I couldn't ignore it anymore.