Homunculus

I remember waking up and seeing scarlet: I was not sure what it was — a wall, the sea, or the sky — and I did not know the concepts of those either, at the time. I remember a figure, the only non-static entity in my sight, walking back and forth, excited about an “experiment successful”.
As the days flew by,  I learned to crawl. I crawled, through piles of trash, to what I thought was an intriguingly weird door amid the rusty red; it was a mirror. My body was a four-limbed root, akin to a child’s.
The person living in this blood-stained apartment panicked every time I screamed. It was enough to send him into silent frenzy: he was too afraid to add to the already present noise. Too afraid to show me to anyone, he would rather live in ignorance than confirm his potential loss of grasp on reality. If he gambled and talked to someone, he would have won and I would cease to exist. That did not happen.
He paced around the room for most of his waking time. He tried talking to me; I did not respond, not because I could not, but because I was curious as to what will soon happen.
On the night before death, I started whispering while hiding under the hemline of the curtain of the night, once the day was nearly over. “I need blood”. The man half-turned, but did not look at me; he knew it was me who said it. I repeated my request. Despair held him tight; his pacing thoughts did not allow for tears to come through. I would have felt pity for him, if the blood was not running out.
A whispered “your blood is worthless” on the next evening did it; it was enough for him to gulp down a large dose of particular medicine he kept in his bedroom like the coward he was.
There’s little entertainment to be had in a room with someone dying.