Morning crept in without permission.
The fire had died sometime before dawn, leaving behind ash that clung to the air and the faint, sour smell of burned fat. Cold returned immediately, biting at skin still damp with sweat, blood, and river water.
Melina woke tense, heart racing, her body braced for contact that never came.
She checked herself instinctively—hands, clothes, breath. Clean. Contained. Untouched.
Around them, the humans stirred.
The change was immediate.
Movement was slower. Faces were drawn tight. Several stood hunched forward, hands pressed to their lower bodies, confusion written plainly across their expressions.
"They're in pain," Melina whispered.
"Yes," Boris said. "And they don't know where it's coming from."
One of the men stepped away from the group, legs spread slightly, eyes narrowed in concentration. He pressed his fingers along the base of his penis, then along the shaft, testing carefully. His face tightened.
Pain.
He squatted and attempted to urinate. The stream was weak, uneven. He watched it closely, then touched the opening of the urethra at the tip.
A sharp breath left him.
Blood stained his fingers.
Melina felt her stomach twist. "They think the problem is there."
"They localize pain," Boris said. "They don't understand systems."
Nearby, another man defecated openly, straining longer than usual. When he finished, he wiped himself clumsily with grass, then with his bare hand, smearing fecal matter across his thigh without noticing. He stood, completed the act, and returned to the group.
No reaction.
Waste was not shame yet. It was just release.
A woman crouched near the riverbank, vomiting repeatedly. Between spasms, urine ran freely from her body, uncontrolled. She stared down at it with confusion rather than embarrassment.
When she finished, she did not rejoin the others.
She moved away on her own.
Distance began to form.
Melina's voice trembled. "They're starting to separate sickness."
"Yes," Boris said. "By smell. By sight. By inconvenience."
Another woman sat apart, knees drawn close. Blood ran steadily from her vulva, dark against her skin. She stared at it as if watching something escape that should not.
She touched the blood.
Then her vagina.
Then pulled her hand away sharply.
Pain again.
Fear followed.
She tried to press her thighs together, as if containment alone could stop the flow. When it didn't, she stood abruptly and moved farther from the group.
This time, the others noticed.
They did not approach.
They watched.
Melina swallowed hard. "They think she's failing."
"They think something inside her is breaking," Boris said.
One of the men who had eaten human meat the night before now doubled over, clutching his lower abdomen. He pressed between his hips, then at his testicles, unable to locate the pain precisely.
He looked down at his body with frustration.
Picked up a sharp stone.
Melina turned away instinctively. "Please don't—"
The man hesitated only a moment.
Pain, to them, was not a warning.
It was information.
The stone touched skin briefly. Not deep. Not deliberate. Just enough.
Blood followed.
The man gasped, staggered, then dropped the stone.
Shock washed over him. The pain changed—dulled, scattered.
He remained standing.
The others leaned in.
He did not collapse.
He did not scream.
A conclusion formed.
Not spoken.
Observed.
Another man stepped forward, touching his own penis cautiously, then withdrawing his hand, uncertain. He looked from the blood on the first man to the stone on the ground.
He did not pick it up.
Not everyone copied.
That mattered.
The woman who was bleeding from her vulva continued to bleed. She did not weaken. She did not fall.
This contradicted the new rule.
Confusion spread.
Some blood meant danger.Some blood meant nothing.Some pain killed.Some pain passed.
There was no framework to separate them.
By midmorning, two of the men who had injured themselves could no longer walk. Blood loss and infection set in quickly. They lay where they fell, breathing shallowly, eyes unfocused.
No one stayed with them.
The group moved on.
Bodies—male and female—were becoming variables.
Melina felt her hands shaking. "They're turning their own anatomy into the enemy."
"They don't know what anatomy is," Boris said quietly.
As the sun climbed, waste began to collect in specific places—downwind, away from food. Not because of disgust, but because proximity made eating unpleasant.
One man wrinkled his nose and gestured sharply when another relieved himself too close to the group.
A sound of annoyance.
A step back.
Shame began as inconvenience.
The woman who continued to bleed remained isolated. No one touched her. No one drove her away. They simply adjusted their distance.
Blood from the vulva became something to avoid.
Not evil.
Not sacred.
Just disruptive.
Melina's voice cracked. "This is how it starts, isn't it?"
"Yes," Boris said. "Clean and unclean."
"They're not judging."
"No. They're categorizing."
The group disappeared into the trees, fewer than before. Quieter. Bodies altered by misunderstanding and survival alike.
Behind them, the forest absorbed what was left—blood, feces, urine, flesh.
No burial.
No marking.
No memory yet.
Melina stared at the empty clearing, nausea and grief tightening her chest. "They're learning the wrong lessons."
Boris shook his head slowly.
"They're learning the only ones available."
Morning moved on.
And the human body—penis, vagina, blood, waste—became the first thing humanity tried to control without understanding.