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text main 12 note 5
This beautiful item was a gift given to me today by a colleague who came by to bring me some wine. Though I said ‘gift,’ he in fact didn’t dare to lay hands on it at all, and could only throw it at me.
Oripathy is just like the devils - nobody knows where they came from. It laid ruin to the once-thriving Norport Borough. Everyone has become paranoid. Everyone fears they’ll be Infected the next time they wake up. An aura of death lingers thick in the air.
Who knows if this knife has been stained with those disease-causing things? After all, we both saw that guy using it to carve those black stones growing from his body, bit by bit.
We were all worried for that guy. Afraid that his screams would attract the devils. Afraid that the two of us would get implicated for no reason.
My colleague wanted to drag me away, but I was so scared I couldn’t move a muscle. And I knew why. That man was McClaren, so kind and wise. Why would he do something so terrifyingly stupid?
McClaren did in fact end up summoning the devils that day. A small squad of them walked by, mocking and jeering at the poor bastard on the ground.
I saw with my own eyes, that poor bastard frozen in place at their feet, his crying turning to laughter, his voice becoming fainter and fainter. Those bloody devils just stood there and continued to watch, unwilling to even put him out of his misery.
Looking back at it, I’m pretty sure McClaren was loudly muttering something before he died; a pity nobody but the squad of devils knows what he said.
Even after becoming an Infected, isn’t being able to cling to your life, no matter how briefly, a form of fortune in itself? Would digging all those black crystals out make him clean and free from disease? Why couldn’t he figure it out?
When my senses returned to me, my colleague had already disgustedly passed McClaren’s knife over to me. Only then did I see that the devils were gone, and McClaren had breathed his last.
To be honest, holding this butterfly knife in my hand gives me no pleasure. It always reminds me of that poor man who went mad.
The only good news is the Glasgow logo on the handle of the knife. Who knows? I might be able to pawn it off right away, or trade it to those bastards for something nicer.
I don’t want to end up with that damned Originium disease and die like McClaren did.
