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.