Demian arrived at the Red Cross Hospital in a state of total shock. As he crossed the emergency room threshold, the surveillance system’s facial recognition software identified him instantly, triggering the network’s silent alarm. A specialized medical team was notified immediately and took swift control of the situation.
They rushed him into an operating room to stabilize his vital signs. Yet, the moment they attempted to administer a transfusion through his fading consciousness, he refused it outright.
The team stood exchange of stunned glances, at a complete loss. One of their own was on the verge of collapse, but without his explicit consent, their hands were tied. Violating his will went against the fundamental code and protocols of the network. It was not the first time they had treated a case of blood starvation, but they had never encountered anyone capable of enduring the ravenous thirst that precedes death, the most primal survival instinct of their kind, and the core origin of the myths surrounding them.
Demian was not the first of their nature to suffer an existential crisis and, weary of watching the centuries turn, decide to let himself die. But he truly seemed to be the first with the sheer strength of will to succeed.
"At my house... in the yard..." he rasped, his voice barely an audible whisper.
One of the doctors motioned for silence and leaned close to the patient’s lips. The sequence of astonished expressions that flickered across his face as he listened could have filled a treatise on wonder. Finally, Demian managed to utter a few words that echoed clearly enough for everyone in the room to hear, chilling them to the bone:
"The fruit of blood."
The fruit of blood, also known as blood fruit, was the Holy Grail of their kind: a legendary plant said to cure the full spectrum of afflictions that cursed them. It promised release from everything, from their extreme hypersensitivity to sunlight and the blood anomaly that forced them to feed on the living, to the metabolic distortion that slowed their aging into an unwanted immortality.
After centuries of fruitless searching across every corner of the globe, Demian had devoted himself to botany. Through grafting and transgenic experimentation, he had managed to synthesize the plant, relying solely on the scarce yet remarkably precise information recovered from the archives of the few clandestine libraries of their kind still in existence.
Knowing his time was short, he agreed to only a minimal injection, the equivalent of a single spoonful, not to save himself, but to buy the days required for the doctors to verify his breakthrough. He knew he could endure the torment of the thirst, that persistent, gnawing ache, resembling a severe, relentless gastritis, that never eased unless they ingested a few milliliters of human blood every twenty-four hours.
That tiny, steady supply was all a member of their species needed to live an ordinary life among humans. Relocating regularly to avoid raising suspicion over their ageless appearance required a complex web of logistics perfected over centuries. Throughout the centuries they blended seamlessly into hospitals, research centers, morgues, and funeral homes, weaving a subtle support network just beneath the surface of human society.
When two of the doctors returned from Demian’s property, they carried an object they recognized instantly: a pale cluster resembling white grapes with a texture akin to polished marble, identical to the illustrations in the ancient grimoires every one of them had studied at the dawn of their turning.
Alongside the fruit, they found the final notes of his experiment. After harvesting the seeds for future cultivation and analysis, the team prepared the compound following the botanist’s precise instructions. Demian’s body was so depleted from prolonged starvation that he hovered on the brink of organ failure; the micro-doses of blood barely sustained him, acting as little more than life support. The fruit of blood was his only hope.
After several days of treatment, to the astonishment of everyone present, the patient began to recover. Bit by bit, the insatiable thirst began to recede.
Two weeks later, Demian woke up and, for the first time in centuries, felt a peaceful stillness in his chest and belly. He stood up and walked to the window. Pushing it wide open, he bathed in the radiant midday sun without feeling the slightest sting or discomfort. Without a word to the staff, he dressed and walked out of the facility. The moment his feet touched the sidewalk, a broad smile spread across his lips: the cure had worked. He was fully human once more.
He strolled through the park across from the clinic, taking in the warmth of the late morning sun, before settling onto a bench along the avenue. He watched the steady rhythm of passing cars and pedestrians until he spotted several doctors emerging from the hospital, frantically scanning the crowd for him. He raised a hand in a distant greeting and then, almost immediately, waved it again in farewell.
A city transit bus was approaching at full speed. Demian stood up, stepped to the edge of the curb, and just as the vehicle was about to pass, he threw himself into the street. The driver slammed on the brakes, but the impact was inevitable.
When the doctors reached the scene of the accident, they found his motionless body lying on the pavement, bathed in the full glare of the midday sun, a tranquil smile lingering on his face. He was finally free.
©bonzopoe, 2026.
Note 1: All images in this post were generated using Midjourney.
Note 2: I originally wrote this text in Spanish a few years ago. I have made some changes to the story, and adapted it to the English language.
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