Chapter Text
When he finally meets Helen, when he discovers what Talamasca is and what it means, what it entails. When he enters the world of the supernatural, Guy feels...
He feels giddy, he feels like he's just been brought to the gates of nirvana, he feels like he's on cloud nine with how elated he is.
He feels almost like a new person and a whole new array of possibilities appearing before his eyes, which is so close to being his.
Hell, he's been granted a whole new world, a whole new chance, how can he not feel absolutely dizzy and smug about it?
It doesn't even encompass the fact that apparently, Helen already knows what his powers are and what he can do or the extent of his reach on others' minds, because as soon as he tries to peek into her mind, she only raises one thin eyebrow and tilts her head to the side in the most disappointed and admonishing expresion of a mother he's even been sujected to. His actual foster mother only frowns and fiddles with the hem of her shirt, while his original mother would simply smile and shake her head fondly.
That is not what Helen does. Instead, she pinches her lips and her wide eyes narrow in deceptive slits while she seems to calculate every one of his moves as tinnitus pierces his ears like a sentencing bell echoing through the streets and sinuses of his head.
"This won't work on me," she says matter-of-factly, though perhaps Guy can imagine hearing a smidge of fondness at his bold attempt, "I've been trained to keep people's noses out of my head long before you were born."
Guy doesn't so much as scratch the bridge of his nose while he smiles at her sheepishly, though if he does say sorry, it's only said offhandedly, feeling too happy and filled with endorphin and excitement to truly understand the impact of her words, or of his actions.
He still cannot believe that he gets to have this, that finally, finally, somehow, all those young adult fantasy novels he's read turn out to be true. He had agonised about it when he was just a teenager. He had always been an avid reader, and of course, fantasy novels had always caught his eye. It was no surprise when driven by the sole wish to relate to something, anything, truly. In fact, when he had been a child, he had chanced upon a small book about a teenager who could read minds and was swept away by some fantastical creatures. He had then been transported to a new world and sent on the trails of prophecy, dictating that he save the world from a dangerous villain about to take over the world in his thirst for more powers.
He had begged his mother to buy that story and read it to him before bed.
And then he had become obsessed with those kinds of stories. All of them had the same plot devices, the same ending and the same events: a teenager discovering he had powers and then begrudgingly landing in a magical world, which he later realised was his birthplace, but from which he had been snatched away and brought to Earth, where he would be given to childless parents who’d raise him like one of their own, until his time had come to go back to his original world. Then he would form a party and march down in front of the army he’d raised to fight against a villain.
It had sounded so easy and so epic, so grandiose and everything he’d hoped to become, to be and to belong! He, escaping from a world that doesn't acknowledge him, or simply one in which he can only fit so much and leave something else behind (what hurt the most sometimes was that that world always accepted him, just not everything he was, only the acceptable part… It felt like a bruise that’d never fade. Not enough to hurt, but a pulsing reminder each time he moved one too often).
That feeling had worsened during his teenagehood to a highly shameful degree and always brought a flush of embarrassment to his cheeks at the reminder. Those years had been the worst for him. Both in terms of awareness concerning his place in the world, but also in how he’d tried to cope with said realisations.
He had longed for an elf or a prophet, or a mage or whatever magical being people came up with in their stories, to sweep him away. He had dreamed of being given a sword and of castles deep underground or dragons roaming the sky.
On one memorable occasion, he had tried it once on a few bullies at school. He'd tried to slip inside their thoughts and modify them, but all he got in the end was a splitting headache that had lasted for days and bruises on his wrists from being tugged and pulled by a laughing kid, still stinging with the heart-crushing disappointment of his limited powers. It had also been humbling to the point he hadn’t dared go out of his house for a few days, red-rimmed eyed and a snotty nose, knowing with deep sadness and resentment against himself that even in his difference, he still wasn't enough to make people change for the better.
He had stopped reading those books after that and never tried again, wounded pride and feeling absolutely useless.
He'd harshly realised that he simply had never been the hero he had thought and hoped to be, and instead, was just... Guy. Again.
Just a Guy.
On that note, he'd loathed that name more than anything at this precise moment. Resented his mother (one of the very few things he hated about her, really) for that. Add insult to injury that the most memorable person bearing the name Guy had been a fucking dragon-slaying and sort of giant hunter hero in medieval legends. Had she known that from the start and thought him to be what, a knockoff version of that hero? Because if that was the case, it was more than insulting; it was also despairing to think he'd even failed at that heroic image his mother had envisioned and hoped for him to become.
And on more than one occasion, a small, malicious voice loved to whisper to his ears (what if, what if, what if that was the reason she left?), no matter how ridiculous it was, because she died and didn’t abandon him—
And thus, colour him surprised, happy, delighted and eager to answer Helen's call.
Granted, he had been more than wary at first, but who wouldn't be when you get presented a blank card stating 'we're always watching' like the modern version of Big Brother Is Watching You propaganda, just to be creepily led to a meeting behind a secluded building? Also, the fact that he’d been info-dumped rather brusquely on 'hey, the fantasy world is real!' kind of monologue for five minutes straight had been more than suspicious. You only get to hear that in movies and TV series… or those dumb young fantasy novels he'd read when he was a child. And look where it'd led him: nowhere.
But now, here he is again, with someone who's saying that they had known from the very start that he was a telepath, that he could read minds, and that he had potential.
Potential for what? He doesn't truly know, but just this word gives him so much hope and happiness, like a damn dog looking for treats after a good deed done. It’s almost pathetic how readily he lifts his chin and attentively listens to Hele'n’s words, but he doesn't truly care because he's... someone knows!
He had tried to talk about it to someone else, several times, actually. He had some friends with whom he'd confessed a few of his mistakes and lies he’d told as a child, with whom he laughed and pulled some pranks on others.
But how do you truly admit that you can read people's minds just by looking at them?
He'd wanted to admit everything to someone so badly that the words had been at the very tip of his tongue, just behind his closed lips and itching to be let out when he looked at people's smiles and warm eyes riveted towards him.
But then, each time, he would hesitate. And that small slip was always his downfall. Perhaps he truly is just a damn coward, and he'll stay all of his life hidden behind a suffocating veil, but each time he wonders… What would be their reactions? How would they take the news? How would they look at him afterwards? And what if it had a snowballing effect? And then even after, what could even happen? Knowledge is power; he knows that. He could always picture it: if he confessed to someone else, they could use it to their own advantage, ask him to do things, force him somehow to do things outside his own jurisdiction and principles.
Knowledge is a weapon, and so what would happen if that got out of Guy's own hands?
This was probably what prevented him from confessing anything in the bitter end. He'd seen enough movies to know the extent of human atrocities (he's also been inside some).
Labs, experiments, weapons,... He always shivers and hugs himself a bit more tightly each time those images flash into his mind.
Then why was he here, with Helen on the bench now, and casually talking about his powers? About what he could do? His potential? About what he could do? What he could make, what he could find?
Suddenly, the little sentence on the business card of the Talamasca resurfaces in his mind, and he feels it like a brand behind his eyes. We're always watching. Who are they watching? Had they been watching him? Were they seeing him too? Like he's always wanted? This small, dirty, little harrowing desire he's carried with him for all this time? Had they been like that all this time? Like those eyes that he feels at the back of the head all the time? Like an invisible weight that pressed him down until he was drowning because it was there and yet, he could not feel it or even know about it until he noticed it just now?
It feels cruel, but at the same time, he revels in it because it means that at long last, he knows about it. It's always better than never knowing, right?
All those questions continue to swirl inside him. They clash, and they continue to burn him down to ashes on the ground, and Helen still looks at him with those soft, deceptive eyes. Her features are sharp, and her words roll on her tongue like molten gold. They hurt like that man, Midas, who transformed himself into a statue made of gold after asking for the golden touch. A proper punishment for a man too greedy for his own good. But at the same time, Guy can’t help but think that in his case, the gold is presented to him rather than poured on him, and it is destructively and perfectly moulded to his shape, to his mind and to his desires.
And so he listens instead of refusing the gift of gold. He looks at it, looks at the sculpted golden statue in front of him with desperate greed in his eyes, and he listens.
He's still resentful, but it is only a façade that Helen gently exploits.
Helen's eyes drill into him like they want to unearth some secrets from inside him. And boy, does he have some. He's a Pandora’s box; he doesn't remember them, he doesn’t have much at the present, but the moment he decides to use his powers, he’d put any reputation agency to shame. He’s sure of that. He’s useful like that. How many killers and psychopaths has he brushed his mind with? How many thoughts of murder, violence and atrocities has he seen but never told… yet? All those secrets are still hidden behind the lid that is his mind’s box. He only needs to find them back.
Talamasca is yet another organisation that used knowledge for power. He truly doesn't understand the scope of their powers, but he's aware that they're dangerous. To whom? To those who disobey? To those who stand against the Talamasca's control? Against the wellness of the world? Against something else?
Some part of him knows better than getting involved in all of this.
He knows that if he walks into it, he'll never be able to get out unscathed.
And so he shakes his head and shrugs, confident in his statement when he says he isn't interested, though he is flattered by the interest they have shown him, to seek him out and ask for his help.
He walks out of the discussion feeling triumphant, but Helen’s eyes are still like a golden knife under his throat. Even after he’s walked out of the park and back to his apartment, he feels the sharpness and coldness seeping inside him and pulling at the seams of his resolution.
.
But then, he meets Barton, and... and... and...
Everything crashes onto him like a car seeking to not only kick him off the road but then stops, reels back and reduces him to an insignificant bloody splatter. Because suddenly, he understands that everything he's ever dreamed is actually fucking real. It's real... It’s real!
…and he is but a small bug in front of the immensity of all those new possibilities. It is also so goddamn scary, what the fuck, why is he standing on the edge of a ledge like that, while Helen is still frozen mid sip, the waitress is wide-eyed, and her vocal cords are in the middle of vibrating a cheery exclamation, all of that frozen in time? What the fuck?!
When he's back in his dingy apartment once again, his heart is still beating so loudly it feels like it's about to expand, and it’s almost all too much for his chest to contain. He wouldn't even be able to stand back up because his ribcage suddenly is too heavy and pinning him down to his bed while he stares dumbly at the ceiling, toes curled in excitement as he replays everything in his mind, and he realises that everything he's ever thought was... fake? Real? Both?
His whole conception of the world, his worries, his fears, his... everything he's ever believed and made how he is now has been completely hidden before his eyes.
There are vampires. Like, alright, he hadn't expected that one. He'd thought there'd be mages, demons, like in Harry Potter or some DnD creatures. But why not, let's go for Dracula, with their immortality, blood-sucking diets and above all, their reading mind skills.
He knows tears are streaming down his face and into his hair, but he doesn't even have the force to sob. He just lets his tears run down, and he breathes through his congested nose, but above all, he remains catatonic.
There had been someone inside his head. There had been something talking back to him, asking him questions in honeyed words, or compelled him to step off that ledge, and somehow, he doesn't even feel complete. He doesn't feel happy. He'd thought, after so long wondering if he was the only person on Earth to be given this curse, he'd be ecstatic and happy and, and, and then what? They'd be besties, or just talk about it on a shared sofa, hands in hands, while Guy drowns the other in questions, and he gets reassurances back?
Nothing of this happens. Of course.
Instead, he just gets an admonishing tone when he's tried to (peek) reach out to the other, an interested glint in Barton's unnatural eyes (has he ever said that before?), which had been overshadowed by the glint of the ring that glowed on his finger. And then, a threat and a push to kill himself. Yeah, yeah, as a part of an experiment, to show how much his mind is resistant to even a vampire's order, which apparently meant a lot. And of course, Barton wouldn't have let Guy truly die, of course; he is Helen's boy now after all. But even then, it had felt like the worst betrayal ever. There had been no understanding, not even some sort of compassion, not even a smidge of interest or of pity towards him. Just... polite consideration.
And who’s this beautiful boy? Is he a gift, as well? he has asked offhandedly, Oh, our lady friend seems to think that you’re quite special.
But in the end, he’s only truly said: You’re a fool. A useful idiot with a parlour trick you can’t even control.
Perhaps it was because he was just a human, and Barton was a vampire. Does immortality always give such pompous and conniving, self-centred assholes? Some sort of superiority complex?
He hadn't even managed to peek inside Barton's mind, though he was a little less frustrated than with Helen. Helen acted like a completely human being, and they had never posed a problem to him, so weak and malleable he could dive into their psyche like looking through a fish pond (had he said that before??), but all Helen had done was smile at him at his attempts. That had been a deep wound to his pride.
However, Barton was a vampire, probably ancient, a several-hundred-or-something-year-old creature. It was no surprise that he hadn’t been able to see much of him, as frustrating as it had felt. And then…
You think you came here to see a Vampire? You’re here for my approval.
That had hit a bit too close to home once again. He doesn't even understand why he had had his heart beating so loudly, screaming so harshly against the confines of his mind, in anticipation for, for something...? But only disinterested silence came back at him from the mind that he's been locked out of.
But unlike Helen, it felt much more deliberate, much colder and much more clinical and more guarded than Helen's barriers. The only glance he's even gotten was another disguised warning under a threat, which had only made him even more conscious about his precarious situation: They’re lying to you.
He knows this is only the first impression, but first impressions always matter. Hell, it had been what Helen chose to say to convince him to come with her and join the Talamasca to help them somehow. While it stroked his ego, it had felt like a shower that didn't spray water, but small, tiny blades made to paralyse and suffocate him.
So now here he is on his bed and wondering, pondering and sad about his fate.
Who is lying to whom? Was Helen lying to him? What was she lying about? Was Barton lying to him to goad him, to play with him like a useless toy he isn’t even interested in in the first place, but still doing his duty under Helen’s request?
The carrot is dangling right in front of his face. It's a shiny new one, and he's been fed with cabbage all along. There are plenty at his feet, but all he can do is eye the golden carrot with increasing possessiveness as time progresses, his blind eyes dumbly looking at anything else but that shiny new object.
There is a whole magical world in front of him, and always open for him to enter.
There's Helen, who tells him that he is important in the grand scheme of things, or something. There's also this craving for inclusion, and Talamasca probably has it, bony hands stretching out from the darkness, palms up and offering absolution. If they allow Guy to enter their ranks as a spy (a spy! What the hell?!), that means there are more people like him, doing the same job with different abilities, for the same reason, for the greater good, no matter what that ‘good’ is.
It's everything he's asked for.
It only demands of him one small step, to leave one world and step into another.
.
The final nail to the coffin (ah!) probably is when he sees that godforsaken book on top of a bookshelf, shiny new and freshly printed, exhibited in front of a library.
If before, he wouldn't even have given the book a thought, now, with everything still swirling around his mind and making his steps almost uneven in a way that distorted his vision of the whole world, he enters the library without even thinking. Before he knows it, he beelines back to his apartment and smacks the book on his table. He stares at the title almost like it's a disgusting creature to be dissected. He sits on the chair and, with both fascination and apprehension, he opens Daniel Molloy’s Interview with the Vampire.
And the next thing he realises he’s doing, he’s buying a plane ticket with the money Helen gave him (there had been plenty left after his lease was finally paid) and goes to Molloy's nearest book conference.
It's his second time meeting a vampire in under what, a week? And the change is absolutely radical, so sharp and different it's mindblogging and he almost doesn't feel like himself when Molloy tells him to meet him at the back of the building.
Then he comes out of the darkness when he’s asked to, and this time, their discussion goes a little bit more smoothly.
Again, he's threatened, this time to be drained dry, though Molloy's eyes don't seem crazed or angry at him, probably just guarded and irritated. Though based on every recent drama and scandal he's seen of the man involved on TV or even on social media, he wouldn't be surprised if it's not just the way Molloy is.
They're using you, kid, Molloy only shakes his head.
This time, the word feels even worse than all the other times (had someone used the word kid before to him?), and he’s beginning to viciously hate that nickname.
And then, the final crashing comes in the form of his mother.
Because of course, of course everything revolves around her.
It hurts so much that he wonders if everything is worth anything.
He had always wondered what would be worth his presence, his powers and his existence on Earth. He has always wondered; this question is deeply ingrained in his psyche as he grows up.
And then suddenly, it makes sense that the question simply doesn't have any answer. He's heard about that too. How whenever you attempt to know more, to understand more, you only get more questions. The world is an amalgamation of chaos, and not everything makes sense: the more you wonder, the more everything unravels by simply existing. Sounds about right. Sounds perfectly accurate.
He's always wondered. He's a human, but also inhuman. He has a good life, but he wants more. He has desires that he fears to show. He exists and wonders if he's worth existing.
And just now, everything had been once again turned upside down. Because, OF COURSE!!!, his mother is alive. Of course, she's left him and what? Has built a new life somewhere? Has been happy without Guy? Does she even think about him somedays? He thinks about her often. Not as much as when he was a child, but it has always been this small throb, this small thought at the back of his head each time he wonders something, and he thinks: how would his mother react?
And she's always been alive. She's never wished to reach out to him. Hasn't come back to come get him. Hell, he's almost reaching thirty, has a whole array of diplomas, was about to get a job at a renowned law firm, and has left a small, insignificant but real imprint on the world.
So how come his mother hasn't tried to contact him as soon as he left his caretaker's house and tried to live by himself?
Oh, it hurts so much he wants to laugh at his stupidity and his naivety.
He goes back to his apartment feeling miserable, rendered even worse from Molloy's pitying glare as he stumbled out of the dirty backstreet where they’d traded words. As if what they had been talking about could even been called a proper discussion rather than a hatchet in between Guy’s eyes. It had been brief, succint and filled with barbs and mockery against the Talamasca. Guy can't help but be bitter about it and resent Molloy for that, a child trying to defend his new fancy. Though he knows Molloy’s ire hadn't been against Guy, but against the organisation that had already begun to reshape Guy as soon as they’d put their grubby fingers on him, not even a few days ago. Still, it had somehow felt deeply personal.
Then he begins to search for answers. He looks around and sees the picture of his mother, hidden so clumsily that he wants to hysterically snicker again.
He looks at her brown hair, her evasive and stressed eyes and the bigass tattoo that ornates her arm like a neon sign that screams of danger and horror.
.
Those doubts are irrelevant, he had thought. He is still starved in his yearning for recognition and wishes for more. He takes Helen's hand and they dance, he's twirled like a fiddle, the click of her heels like an invisible countdown towards blissful ignorance and he doesn't even wait for the final note before he lunge into it like a kid plunging his hand into a candy box without knowing the ominous, horrible painted face of a monster lurking just above his eager face.
Yet the seeds had already been planted. Perhaps when he was just a child and striving to recognise himself in the face of his mother, or in the manners of humans. The seeds have never grown, but they are tenacious, and if they do not grow into trees of self-awareness and critical thinking, then they shift into shadows of uncertainty and scepticism, of crackled dreams and too many nights staring at the ceiling and drowning in her or him.
Those shadows begin to lengthen, again and again, behind Helen's back.
Her silver hair and luminous, cold smile are nothing against the darkness behind her back, where Guy is standing, and he knows that something is not right. He basks in it and wonders, wonders, and ignores it until it's too late.
He's the king of ignorance, of stupid innocence and of eagerness to please. But it still ends up all the same and the shadows begin their ascension, beginning from his feet to his knees, his chest and then his face, until he feels insignificant behind Helen's body, so grand and imposing it puts fear into him.
It accompanies him, looms over him and threatens to dig its teeth into the back of his neck.
And so, after crying in front of his mother’s photo for an embarrassingly long time, he falls into bed, staring unblinkingly at the room around him.
He doesn't even try to shake off his clothes, drenched in his sweat. Doesn't even care if his sneakers spread mud and gravel everywhere. Isn't aware of his coat and the fact he hasn't taken his meds in a whole three days because things have been ectic (he had been so stressed about his job interview, nailed it and ran onto an adrenaline rush, then got cornered by Helen, dangled around by a fucking vampire, and then he had run after Molloy, searched for his mother, found his mother, cried about her and hated her some more amongst his love for her, all of that without sleeping much).
Truly, he should have taken them. The prescription had stated it was imperative he stuffed three down his gullet at least once in two days, but he forgot. He got… distracted. The chair is turning at his desk and he sees the world narrowing on him.
Sleep only comes slowly, and he could have cried when Morpheus took him in his embrace and embroiled him in a nightmare on his own.
.
.
.
He had looked forward to the holidays just so that he could finally rest and perhaps get himself to relax. The constant pressure in his studies had taken a toll on his spirit. Exams upon exams on top of needing to write papers. It wasn't even that difficult, especially with his... predisposition to learning by heart texts and sentences upon sentences, but perhaps it was just the whole studying thing that had made him so groggyly stiff to the point he snapped at everyone on a daily basis.
That and again, a group of fifteen students, some of them more or less determined to get this year done. And also the shitty relationships he had in his class, and his inability to truly connect and socialise in a world where talking and going out are still in full swing.
All in all, it was exhausting, and the winter break was more than fully needed.
Thus, he had decided he would go to a bar and relax. He hadn't thought of inviting anyone. His thumb had hovered above one or two acquaintances and even had debated whether or not to ask out that girl from his joining class, who he knew looked at him occasionally with a shy shine in her eyes. He doesn't really try to peep in her thoughts; it would feel too invasive and completely kill the timid attraction between the two, but he could feel her thoughts enveloping him in a blanket of what-ifs anyway. He had felt deeply flattered by her eyes on him.
But he had thought against it in the end. He had put his phone away and didn't look at it again, stuffing his hands in his pockets and inhaling the biting cold air of the evening, breathing out a puff of white condensation out of his mouth. He doesn't even feel his nose anymore, despite having the top of his face snugged inside a scarf.
The feeling of the phone against his back pocket had almost burnt him as he walked the streets to an unfamiliar pub, but he never called her anyway. She had left him her number with a tentative smile, blush on her cheeks and hopes in her head, and he'd kindly smiled back at her.
He is not lying when he says he was flattered, happy and a bit interested. But the cons overbalanced the pros. The aftermath is always what scares him the most those days. He always dreaded the thought of 'after'. And what after the first date? What after sex? What after the first kiss? What after their second date? What after he realises, again, this isn't going to work? He isn't tired or defeated yet, he just... He's just taking a break, alright? He'd tried more than once in the past year, and you know, when the longest relationship on your record is three fucking weeks, it does something to your ego.
Thus, his phone stays in his pocket, and he looks around, trying to find a bar that would look alright.
He could have gone to the pub back in the city, but he had needed some sort of a fresh start. And so here he is, walking around the streets of the area he’s staying in for winter break, in a neighbouring town away from university and any familiar faces, at a small vacation house kindly financed once again by his mother (probably her version of a Christmas gift). The saloon had been decorated with Christmas decorations (courtesy of the faceless landlord), a Christmas tree joyfully blinking lights in the darkness of the evening. Guy had felt so sorry for himself, thumbing at his phone and debating calling someone (his mother?) or not, alone in an empty house, when he had had just enough of a burst of energy to grab his coat and wallet and just... book it out of there. He had run to the metro station, took the first one and waited till the end of the line.
So now here he is, in unfamiliar territory, looking around and searching for a place where alcohol could endlessly drown him in oblivion.
He finds a bar instead and doesn’t wait to go inside. There are a few people inside (not too many), some empty spots where he can discreetly sit, and he thinks that’ll be just enough.
The inside is as austere as the outside. Plastic tables, beaten-up red chairs and two sofas with deep indents from too many people sitting on them. There are two waiters. One is so tired she can't even pull up a smile to disguise her exhaustion, the other is a bit better at concealing his emotions, but his sentences are sharp and concise to the point it feels like Guy’s being rudely asked to please hurry up and leave so we can close early (he knows that’s exactly what they think even if they conceal their sigh at the sight of yet another customer to please this later in the night).
But then, he forgets them altogether because, at the very corner of the bar, there is a man.
Immediately, Guy has this sort of déjà-vu. Maybe it's the way the older man is slouched across the couch and doesn't seem to care about the foot he's put on the edge of the table. The waiters don't even seem to acknowledge him, even though he doesn't have any dishes in front of him. Instead, he's looking at the outside of the café, through the window, looking bored while his eyes pass by passersby.
He doesn't even realise he's reached out with his mind already, but it's too late.
Suddenly, there are eyes on him.
Guy doesn't hesitate and walks towards the other, mindful not to bump into any tables. There’d be no end to his ridicule if he bumps into someone or stumbles across the man’s table like a buffoon. He finally plops himself into the opposite seat when the older man lets out a long, long-suffering sigh and exaggerately looks around Guy as if looking for someone else.
"Goddamnit, I can't spend a fucking decade without you getting in my way, uh?" is what he gets greeted with.
Hands shoved into his pockets, slouching as well and crossing his ankles under the table, Guy isn't even perturbed by the other's rudeness.
"So we do know each other?"
The man raises an eyebrow, "Forgot again?"
"We met several times?"
"Yeah, for sure,” he snorts, “and I'm starting to think you've been stalking me all across the world, not improving your case here, man."
"I... I do remember your face. That's actually why uh, why I came here, to your table. Though I don't remember your name..."
The man looks at him for a moment, eyes narrowed.
"Name's Jasper. Happy?"
"Um. And I'm Guy."
"Yes, you are,” the other slowly says as if he’s talking to a child and he needs to enunciate each word properly to be understood. Guy only rolls his eyes but doesn’t take the bait; the joke’s already been said one too many times he’s become immune to it.
"Is that everything you wanted to say? Look, I don't know what you want, but I've got business to do, so if you don't mind…," he makes a shooing motion.
"I remember... Not much though,” he pauses, brows furrowed in fake concentration, “Did you try to kill me?"
Jasper snorts, "Tempting, boy."
Then, there's pity in the other's eyes, "Though unfortunately, you’ve caught me on the wrong day. As I said, I'm busy. Nice try though. You should try to be more creative next time, eh?"
"I don't understand."
"Nah, you don't understand a lot of things, poor little guy,” then his eyes narrow across the window. “Now scram before I make you. I am not in the mood for all of that.”
"But I want to talk more to you, I know you, I remember....."
"And what makes you think you deserve it?" Helen's sharp voice cuts through Jasper's lips, her sharp eyes and bob cut morphing along with her bloody smile as she stands up. "Get out, now. Once is fun, twice is intriguing, thrice is suspicious."
She stretches her hand and her nails claw at Guy's cheek. Yet, it feels like a tender, motherly presence, and Guy leans into it.
"You should never tempt the devil..." she whispers.
Suddenly, there's a hand, a claw, a monstrous limb, a thing pushing him out so violently he stumbles backwards and crashes against a table as if suddenly he's weighing several tons. There are pieces of concrete digging into his skin and the back of his head and warm liquid trickling down his nape.
The shadows stretch, stretch and stretch until they claw at his feet. He scrambles backwards on his hands and back and looks around for a familiar face, but all he sees are diluted colours dripping out of the waiters’ eyes and mouths. The bar is otherwise empty, and Guy does the only thing he knows to do: he flees. He stands up on shaky legs, and amongst Jasper's rough laugh and Helen's disappointed tutting, he slams against the bar's door, takes a step and-
He misses the floor entirely.
There is no floor at all.
He doesn't have time to look down.
Gravity grips at his stomach and mercilessly squeezes while he free-falls—
.
.
.
He wakes up, sweat dripping down his face and a massive headache pounding at his temples.
In his hands, white from the grip he exerts on his fingers (he needs to pry them open with his other trembling hand), he finally sees his last bottle of pills. The plastic isn’t broken but it’s dirty and grimy from the accumulated sweat that’s gathered on his palm.
Each of those pills is of a vivid red and they all accusingly look back at him.
He screams as he tosses them out of the open window. It's a miracle he doesn't even miss and it doesn’t thump back into his room after bouncing against the wall, because he doesn't know if he would have been able to get up and throw it away again. The idea of crawling and picking each pill on his hands and knees, grovelling on the floor and stretching his arm to try and get some out from under the dresser or his bed only brings him nausea.
Instead, he imagines the dry sound of the plastic container hitting the pavement below, rolling down the drain, or on the road and getting crushed by a car. Reduced to dust, mingling with the dirty water and down the drain.
He hopes it's what happens.
He hides his face between his knees and hopes it's the case.
Oh, he hopes...
.
.
.