After Angelo finally calmed down, his parents gently helped him into the shower.
The floor from his bedroom to the bathroom was stained in red—footprints, smears, the occasional drip trailing behind like a memory that refused to fade.
Their clothes were still soaked. The towel James grabbed trembled in his hands as he laid it on the floor to keep Olivia from slipping.
Angelo's body trembled under the warm water, but he said nothing.
The cuts had vanished, the wounds gone—but the blood remained, a haunting reminder of something that shouldn't have been possible.
It swirled at his feet, around the drain, diluted and pink, but it felt endless.
The moment they brought him to the living room, he collapsed onto the couch, utterly spent.
Sleep took him before his head hit the cushion.
But the silence didn't last long.
James paced the hallway, his phone pressed tightly to his ear. Olivia sat at the edge of the couch, her fingers trembling as she wiped away the stains on Angelo's skin with a damp towel. And within the hour, they were on their way to the hospital.
The doctor examined Angelo carefully—checking his pulse, shining a light into his eyes, asking gentle questions he barely answered. Blood tests were taken, but the wounds… there were none to stitch or clean. The doctor looked baffled. There were whispers of "shock" and "trauma," but no real answers.
James demanded a scan. Olivia asked about specialists. But the doctors could only shake their heads.
"He should be dead with that much blood loss," one whispered to another. "But his body shows no injury. It's like… it never happened."
With heavy hearts and heavier thoughts, they took him home.
That night, the entire family sat quietly in the living room. The television played softly in the background, but no one was really watching. All they could do was think, worry, wonder. How do you protect your child from something you don't understand?
On the couch, Angelo lay curled up beneath a blanket. His breathing was slow, even. Dreamless, maybe. Or maybe not.
As the adults whispered plans and doubts in the dim kitchen light, the youngest member of the family—a little girl of just three—quietly padded over to the couch.
Emma.
She stopped a few steps away from her older brother, clutching her stuffed animal tightly. Her wide, innocent eyes stared at him—not with curiosity, but with something more fragile.
Fear.
She didn't cry. She didn't speak. But she didn't go closer, either. Something about him—something she couldn't explain—made her hesitate. She clutched the toy to her chest and slowly backed away, vanishing behind the corner without a word.
Alex saw it all. And it hit him harder than he expected.
Later, as he walked past the couch, he paused. Angelo looked so… peaceful. But Alex's eyes lingered on the dried blood still clinging to the corners of the couch cushions. The color. The smell. The memory of his little brother drenched in red, sobbing and screaming like something inside him was tearing apart.
He turned away with a frown.
He didn't say it aloud—but for the first time, he wondered:
Is he still my brother?
No matter what it takes, I will save him from this pain. He'd promised himself that earlier.
But now, another thought whispered in the back of his mind.
And if I can't save him… will I have to stop him?
The next morning came with heavy skies and tired hearts.
James was the one who suggested the church. "If no man can help him… maybe God can."
They got ready quickly. Angelo was quiet, distant, his eyes dull. Olivia held his hand the whole ride. Emma stayed close to her mother, avoiding her brother's gaze entirely.
When they arrived, the priest greeted them kindly—an older man with soft eyes and silver in his beard. His name was Father Aldric.
But when his eyes fell on Angelo, something shifted.
He paused mid-sentence. His smile faded.
"The Lord is testing you," he said solemnly, motioning them inside.
The boy, silent until now, lifted his head and fixed the priest with an empty stare. His voice came low and cold, like the whisper of death in winter wind.
"If that is the case… then look into my eyes."
The priest hesitated. But he looked.
And in that moment, something passed between them. No words. Just… knowing.
The priest staggered back as if he had seen something impossible. His lips parted. His skin went pale. His hands trembled at his sides.
"What… are you?"
He said it so softly the others almost missed it.
But then he straightened. Eyes wide. Voice trembling.
"Leave. Now. Take the boy, and do not return. I can offer you nothing."
James tried to argue. Olivia pleaded. But the priest only repeated himself, louder this time, voice cracking with panic.
"Go!"
And so they left.
Confused. Terrified. Alone.
The church door slammed behind them like a coffin lid.
And even the sunlight outside felt cold.