Mutated

His breaths were heavy and rattled as they fell from his lungs, like a predator entranced by the scent of meat. Somewhere, behind the darkness of the chamber, the patient lurked. I waited by the bars. Whatever was left of his human mind told him that I could not be reached, but the affliction that had taken him was not so reasonable. An almost irresistible yearning to lunge at me from the shadows and slice my flesh and spill my blood had overtaken the poor creature within. Soon, only the depravity would remain. Faintly, I could hear lurching steps. Each footfall was accompanied by a stifled whimper of pain.

I waited many minutes before our subject made himself visible. Staggering into the light was a repulsive sight. The Blood Blight had progressed towards its final stages. Spurs of jagged bone jutted from his body, piercing out through the skin. They sprouted like tenacious weeds, only growing where they were most unwanted. A protrusion from his right bicep meant he could not curl his arm without lacerating his forearm, a spike below his chin prohibited him from looking downwards, and a little mountain range of razors on his ribcage meant that his left arm could not rest by his side. Scars and gashes showed these lessons were taught in blood.

A mild rusty scent emenated from the cell. Crimson stains clung to the floor, their shapes smeared and faint thanks to a desperate tongue. Misshapen bitemarks covered his flesh. The thirst made the infected reckless and rash. It was well-documented that they would sometimes rip their own veins open to suckle on the sanguine nectar within. An undoubtedly futile endeavour since their lust would never be sated; a testament to the malady's cruelty. Most would have entirely succumbed to their abhorrent hunger by now, but this patient was resilient. Although he pleaded for indulgence without shame, he had still retained a few shreds of his humanity.

His shape was gaunt and emaciated. The ailment turned his mind away from nourishing food and left him with only a vile appetite, but satiating this desire offered little sustenance. As I met his gaze, I suspected he was aware of this dilemma. Something intelligent still struggled behind his eyes. A tiny sailor, swept overboard and tossed about in a feral sea beneath a savage storm. Soon the waves would swallow him and he would drown. For now, however, he survived.

We had a lifeboat. An antidote for his condition that would remedy all of his symptoms, beside the mental turmoil of drinking blood by the gallon. His bone spurs would decay, his scars would heal, and the thirst would subside. That little sailor would float away to sunnier shores. Unfortunately, the lifeboat would never arrive.

Our mission is not to cure every sorry soul that lands on our doorstep. Our mission is to research the Blight Husks - the undead puppets that are left behind when the illness takes another life. Regrettably, we cannot source them naturally since they are so unwilling to surrender. As such, the only way to possess one is to create it. Fear and hunger quivered in the patient's mangled face, the only two feelings that his agonised mind could still conjure. The two pillars on which all life stands. Soon, only one will remain. I opened the cupboard in which the subject's meals were stored and produced a small box. Ravenous anticipation flooded into his body and he began to tremble with sordid excitement. Inside the container, the rat squeaked nervously. Its death would be brutal and merciless but at least it would be quick. I flipped open the latch and slid the box to the subject.

There was no sound beside the crunching of bones and the tearing of flesh. Thankfully, the little rodent was dead before it had time to squeal. A whirlwind of twisted claws and sharpened teeth shredded the creature in moments, and soon only one sound remained - the gulping of sweet sanguine wine.

Each day, the patient had become increasingly vicious, but I believe today that his progress finally ceased. He could go no further.