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     Monsters.

     It was that word that shook the heart of some leathery, evil thing that had lived in Thomas all his life. Perhaps that things name was Henry, or maybe that was only the most suitable thing to call it, but whatever it was it reacted strongly, with sympathy, to that word. Monsters. It was, after all, what Thomas had decided he was. And decided he had to be, given the nature of his impulses. 

     It was that acknowledgement that had him sitting still and attentive as she moved closer to clean the paste from his his forehead and cheek. He had seen her at her most vicious ( or so he presumed to think ) but there was something about the neglectful, nearly hurt way she spoke of herself that struck that familiar chord in him. He wasn't afraid any longer. 

     " ------ are all monsters so gentle with their prey?" 

       “You shouldn’t want anything that has to do with me, fair warning.”  Why did this have to feel harder than it should have been? You could tell the mortal man that you’re not human, that you have powers beyond his control. You could tell him the truth that most put off as lies or stories. Treat the truth as if it’s the lie, and you’ll start to believe the lie is true. Confusing. Perplexing. Annoying.

       “You don’t have to understand it. Humans are raised to think that things like myself are monsters and shouldn’t exist.” Done with fiddling with her fingers she approaches him once more and takes the cloth from his hand. Very gently she removes the paste from the marks on his face—now also healed. “My name is Locret. And I’m a very real monster, or so people would have you believe.” Myself included.

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     "I trust I wasn't missed too terribly --- ?"

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     As of late, Thomas had been preoccupied. 

     Innocently enough, for once, but distracted all the same. The life that he had been leading, undisturbed and quiet, for the better part of two decades, and quietly but intrusively begun to change. Minor deviations from the norm had begun to pile up, warping his carefully manicured world into something different; a unique monster that wasn't entirely unwelcome. He had made friends, and brought them into his home, he had shared himself, intimate parts of who he was ( and who he was pretending to be ) and who he wanted to be without the regret he had thought would come of it. 

     He was changing, essentially, everything he had clung to for so long.      It was as invigorating as it was terrifying.       So, yes, preoccupied was what he had become.

     The knock on the door broken the unconscious spell of quiet he had been losing himself in, and after a few dragging seconds of fixedly staring at the door, Thomas finally stood and made his way over. 

     Who he found delighted him. 

     "Kristopher. What a surprise." Thomas reached forward to shake the young man's hand, while his other touched on his elbow; a warm, welcoming touch. "Please come in, come in. I'll get your coat." 

     There were, very simply, some parts of Thomas' life that he didn't need to fake. Some things weren't an ode to the first man he killed, some were still a part of who had been for the first twenty-one years of his life. And as they were few and far between, Thomas was sure to grapple and squeeze them when they arrived. Kristopher was a prime example of that. The two shared more interests than Thomas could believe, and if he put his mind to it, he wouldn't be surprised to find Kristopher was much like himself, all those years ago. They fit together in a such a peculiar way that seemed so strikingly normal that Thomas could do nothing but delight in his presence. 

Kristopher wondered if people who lived in penthouses stopped enjoying elevator rides. That churning in his gut, the one that made him nostalgic for elementary swing sets, was a sensation Kristopher loved. Though, he assumed it was tiresome, even imperceptible after enough times. He supposed that was what happened in a routine, nothing was special until a deviation arose. 

The elevator binged, a posh, non-intrusive alert that meant you’ve reached the top floor.

Yawning, and tugging the toque he wore from his head, Kristopher stepped out from the mirrored chamber of the elevator and into the hallway. With a hand in his hair, patting errant strands into place and flattening the back, Kristopher took the familiar trail to Professor Morris’ apartment. 

Not that he had been here more than 3 or 4 times, but it was enough to have some sense of familiarity with the place. The environment was nice; a rich feel without the pompous air. Very fitting for a person like Thomas Morris.

Upon arriving at the door, Kristopher knocked twice, toque in hand. The other hand opened the flap of his shoulder bag, pulling out a mess off papers that had been clumsily paper-clipped together. He stuffed his winter hat into the now unoccupied space the essay had taken up.

He could smell flowers already.

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     "I do, or rather, I will."

"Only if you insist," he relented. It likely wouldn’t take much pushing, as it wouldn’t be that much of a discomfort.

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     "I'm coming to find what I want doesn't play a part in any of this," he replied promptly, neglecting to care that he sounded far too petulant given his age. He thought he had the right of it. This was all a little too much, coming on a little too strong, and bringing along that dizzying surreal feeling he had thought he shook off.

     "This is a lot to understand...---- " It was then Thomas turned his eyes back to hers. "Did I get your name?"

            She only wished she could say that she was used to the expressions on someone’s face when they discover what she is. When it’s that pinch that wakes you from the dream you wish could stay a dream. Like a stone statue she watched his face as the cloth removed only dried paste. No wound or laceration mark was left behind.

            “Now do you want it to still be a dream?”

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     Of the many things that had come to intrigue him about this woman, a particular favourite was the way she could talk. It was a fluid thing, when she did so, her eyes alight while lips pulls the words forth. All Thomas need do was point her in a direction and she would run with it, both educating him on her thoughts and humbling his own, often stunted thinking. It was engaging. 

     "So, let me see," Thomas said, sparing only a second to swipe his tongue over his bottom lip, catching any lingering wine there, "you dislike being human form because you're forced to feel the same things that we are plagued with? Now, that hardly seems fair, does it?"

                       Take the good with the bad.

     There was something about that the struck a chord with Thomas. It wasn't outright refusal of that fact, but it was definitely in his nature to disagree. He had it in his mind that the good that came in life was just a beautiful version of the bad --- all road led into a darkness that wasn't tangible but all-encompassing. There was no good that was clear and pure. Just different version of a chasm he had never been able to get away from. 

     But perhaps she was right.       Perhaps Thomas looked at that coined phrase too literally.      Perhaps he had no choice but to.       It gave him a certain comfort, after all. 

     " ------- if you don't think it's worth it... where would you go? What would happen to you?" 

     ”I’ll tell you a trick I learned, Thomas. The more human you are, the more you feel. The more you feel, the more you experience. The more you experience, the more you enjoy, and so yes of course your tricks have been tried over and over again on me and yet I will still enjoy them as long as the chemistry between us is there. Which, correct me if I’m wrong, but I think it’s there.”      She grabs the neck of the bottle with long fingers, pouring herself another glass and leaning back in her seat. “Being a copy of a human has it’s downsides though, and sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it. It doesn’t always feel very worth it.”

     ”——— That’s the problem, you see, the price I pay for the things I feel is that I cannot choose which ones that I feel. There is no filter, you feel the good and the bad along with all the rest. I bury them all, and I feel every death; it’s not pleasant but even in the chaos of the universe there are rules to be followed, take the good with the bad, that’s how it works. If you don’t like it, you become something else and deal with the consequences.”      Something flashes across her face, something raw and painful, but it fades as quickly as it comes; replaced by a flirtatious smile that never seemed too far away. “I do like to be convinced though, if you’re good enough.”      A challenge, clearly, she’s always looking for trouble. It’s up to him, ultimately, whether or not he rises to it; but either way she’s enjoying his company. 

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there's someone in your head waiting to fucking strangle you

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funeral blues - w h auden

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     A breath hissed from his throat like an insect -- it was the noise of his unease. Her answer was less than satisfactory, but he couldn't formulate an argument to contradict it. He could either live, or forget. Those were his options, and it seemed she didn't care either way. 

     " -------- 'kay."

     The cloth was still warm after he set his beer aside, and whatever the hell she had placed over his wound washed away easily. Underneath, he was still expecting the lacerated marks she had left but --- 

                                      "... what? How?" 

       She makes a very distinct face at him. Locret couldn’t explain much about her ability to see, but when she could see a person for who they really were it was very difficult to explain to them without them jumping to conclusions. It’s not telepathy. It’s a sense that just comes with what she is. She wanted to tell him that who is now wasn’t who he was back in the woods. How could you say that to someone you just met? Maybe he was right, maybe this is who he is.

           Or he’s just very talented at lying like she is. Miranda would have called it half-truths.

             “Then you’ll forever doubt yourself and drive yourself insane. Wipe it off. It should be healed now.”

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     Admittedly, it was a rather crude and obvious way to establish a touch -- but Thomas didn't mind. He wanted what he wanted and feeling the swell of her cheek had become paramout the moment he had laid eyes on her.

     Bully on her for eliciting such an emotion in him!

                           "Thomas. Your name?" 

      “—Is that right?”

      Lashes lower, only to lift slowly, eyes almost feline in nature narrowing faintly—Priscilla’s smile refuses to dissolve, a brow arching in faint amusement towards the men. It didn’t very much matter if she had an eyelash on her cheek or not—the very disposition is somewhat odd, but she’ll cock her head to the side, watching him with wide eyes. She smiles, then.

      “Lovely. And you are?”

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     Her smile is met with one of his own; creeping and singular, pleased, in his own peculiar way, to elicit such  reaction from her --- even if it is drenched with amusement as it is. 

                             " ---- I said you have something just there..." 

     His thumb would brush away an imagined eyelash on the apple of her cheek. "There." 

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