Post by Raenius on Oct 23, 2020 10:56:32 GMT -5
The clunk of the empty whiskey glass echoes through the living room, adding a new noise to the all encompassing sound of the turntable spinning a vinyl that had finished more than fifteen minutes ago.
Unfortunately for our hero, the noises without have never been loud or busy enough to drown out what’s within.
Tracing the lid of the Jameson’s bottle, his fingertips are numb and rough; a side effect of an incident involving barbed wire and one Klaus vonKnorre ten years prior. They decide to leave the bottle and the Resident Evil stands up.
Once he reaches the bottom of the staircase his gaze darts upward to the figure that looks down at him. His double. A perfect effigy of his lunacy. A monument to his suffering and his failures as a human being.
‘Come ‘ed,’ it says, beckoning him with a sideways nod of its head. ‘We have to decide what to do.’
Our hero ascends the stairs, getting closer to the shadowed, shimmering image of himself. It wears what he wears, day to day, except the daemon version always wears a Kabuki mask, as Raenius once did when he competed.
Grasping the door handle, he hesitates and let's go with a frown.
‘Go on,’ says the doppelganger-being behind him, leaning over his shoulder. ‘You love letting anomalies into your house, hmm? You’ve always taken in strays. Oul soft spot. That’s what I should’ve been calling you all these years.’
WIth an uncharacteristic softness he opens the door, walking into his spare room quietly as to not wake the woman that lies sleeping in the bed. A solitary candle illuminates the room and the woman that Raenius scrutinises. The daemon chuckles.
‘It’d be a conversation and then some, should the wife come home now, eh? Us with some wee blonde thing in bed.’
And scrutinise he does.
He looks at the scars on her arms and hands. He looks at the bruises on her neck. The scratches.
Collapsing at his door, the lady had not left him much to go on. She had no purse or wallet, no phone - not even a name tag on clothing with which to discern her identity. Or, more importantly, why she needed help. Was she running from someone or something? Did she know him or just wash up on his shore as a lucky survivor of something or other?
With a wet-sounding chortle, nearly a gargle, the daemon moves closer to the girl, sniffing her head.
‘Nothing quite like the smell of despair, is there?’ it laughs and then licks her arm. ‘The flavour of desolation.’
Raenius scoffs.
‘Would you ever shut up? You’re evil, we get it.’
Sweating, the girl with no name grunts quietly, fidgeting as she sleeps.
‘She’s having a nightmare,’ Raenius whispers.
But he would never wake her up. The importance of dreams - even horrible ones - can’t be understated. We all need to confront fear to progress and where better to do so than in your own head where the only one getting hurt is yourself?
Then he sees it. As she tosses and turns, her hair falls off the back of her neck, revealing a scar that he knew all too well.
Even the daemon is taken aback.
Not simply a scar… she was branded. A symbol burned into her flesh, not unlike an act that was forced upon Raenius all those years ago…
A flash. What was that? An emotion long since locked away. A mixture of a dozen things and not a single one of them good. Unknowingly, he balls his fists so hard that his nails dig into the palm of his hands, sliding inside a little. Across the room, on the other side of the bed, the daemon gargles and chokes as a blackened viscous fluid spills out of his mouth and trickles from the eye and nose holes in the Kabuki mask. As it stands there, drowning, the beast laughs.
Raenius exits the room, leaving behind the sound of the wet death trill and sucking throttling of his counterpart. All the while, the thing cachinnating as though it knew a great secret that the rest of the world was ignorant to.
~~~
With a tentative push, the living room door sneaks open as though the house itself was frightened of disturbing its master. Raenius sits, whiskey in hand across from a vacant seat with a whiskey glass, poured and ready, on the small table next to it, for the company he was expecting.
‘So,’ our hero sighs, taking a gulp of the medicinal alcohol. ‘First I thought to myself; why’s there a bleeding, bruised blonde thing on my doorstep. Then I thought that it was either a good thing that I helped you or it was a gargantuan mistake.’
The lady sits when he points to the chair. She sips her drink when he points to the whiskey.
‘Now I’m thinking that you should tell me what the craic is.’
Raenius swigs the last of his drink and begins to pour another.
‘My name…’ says the girl, barely louder than a whisper. ‘Is Angel...’
Unfortunately for our hero, the noises without have never been loud or busy enough to drown out what’s within.
Tracing the lid of the Jameson’s bottle, his fingertips are numb and rough; a side effect of an incident involving barbed wire and one Klaus vonKnorre ten years prior. They decide to leave the bottle and the Resident Evil stands up.
Once he reaches the bottom of the staircase his gaze darts upward to the figure that looks down at him. His double. A perfect effigy of his lunacy. A monument to his suffering and his failures as a human being.
‘Come ‘ed,’ it says, beckoning him with a sideways nod of its head. ‘We have to decide what to do.’
Our hero ascends the stairs, getting closer to the shadowed, shimmering image of himself. It wears what he wears, day to day, except the daemon version always wears a Kabuki mask, as Raenius once did when he competed.
Grasping the door handle, he hesitates and let's go with a frown.
‘Go on,’ says the doppelganger-being behind him, leaning over his shoulder. ‘You love letting anomalies into your house, hmm? You’ve always taken in strays. Oul soft spot. That’s what I should’ve been calling you all these years.’
WIth an uncharacteristic softness he opens the door, walking into his spare room quietly as to not wake the woman that lies sleeping in the bed. A solitary candle illuminates the room and the woman that Raenius scrutinises. The daemon chuckles.
‘It’d be a conversation and then some, should the wife come home now, eh? Us with some wee blonde thing in bed.’
And scrutinise he does.
He looks at the scars on her arms and hands. He looks at the bruises on her neck. The scratches.
Collapsing at his door, the lady had not left him much to go on. She had no purse or wallet, no phone - not even a name tag on clothing with which to discern her identity. Or, more importantly, why she needed help. Was she running from someone or something? Did she know him or just wash up on his shore as a lucky survivor of something or other?
With a wet-sounding chortle, nearly a gargle, the daemon moves closer to the girl, sniffing her head.
‘Nothing quite like the smell of despair, is there?’ it laughs and then licks her arm. ‘The flavour of desolation.’
Raenius scoffs.
‘Would you ever shut up? You’re evil, we get it.’
Sweating, the girl with no name grunts quietly, fidgeting as she sleeps.
‘She’s having a nightmare,’ Raenius whispers.
But he would never wake her up. The importance of dreams - even horrible ones - can’t be understated. We all need to confront fear to progress and where better to do so than in your own head where the only one getting hurt is yourself?
Then he sees it. As she tosses and turns, her hair falls off the back of her neck, revealing a scar that he knew all too well.
Even the daemon is taken aback.
Not simply a scar… she was branded. A symbol burned into her flesh, not unlike an act that was forced upon Raenius all those years ago…
A flash. What was that? An emotion long since locked away. A mixture of a dozen things and not a single one of them good. Unknowingly, he balls his fists so hard that his nails dig into the palm of his hands, sliding inside a little. Across the room, on the other side of the bed, the daemon gargles and chokes as a blackened viscous fluid spills out of his mouth and trickles from the eye and nose holes in the Kabuki mask. As it stands there, drowning, the beast laughs.
Raenius exits the room, leaving behind the sound of the wet death trill and sucking throttling of his counterpart. All the while, the thing cachinnating as though it knew a great secret that the rest of the world was ignorant to.
~~~
With a tentative push, the living room door sneaks open as though the house itself was frightened of disturbing its master. Raenius sits, whiskey in hand across from a vacant seat with a whiskey glass, poured and ready, on the small table next to it, for the company he was expecting.
‘So,’ our hero sighs, taking a gulp of the medicinal alcohol. ‘First I thought to myself; why’s there a bleeding, bruised blonde thing on my doorstep. Then I thought that it was either a good thing that I helped you or it was a gargantuan mistake.’
The lady sits when he points to the chair. She sips her drink when he points to the whiskey.
‘Now I’m thinking that you should tell me what the craic is.’
Raenius swigs the last of his drink and begins to pour another.
‘My name…’ says the girl, barely louder than a whisper. ‘Is Angel...’
