Chapter Text
Curiosity.
Maybe his obsession had started with this intoxicating feeling when he had first seen rain fall from the sky, or when he saw his own reflection staring back at him in the mirror, or when he had even stood up for the first time. The feeling of not knowing something was so devouring, and the satisfaction of getting his answer was something that made him feel normal, even for a second. It was the extent he would go to in order to satisfy his eternal crave for knowledge that scared people.
He could vaguely remember being in pre-school, watching other students run and play, whilst he watched the birds. The way they flew around, flitting from branch to branch was so whimsical, so gentle - he had almost wanted to catch one, to see what its wings looked like. He didn’t understand why they could fly and he couldn’t, and desired to be just as free as them one day.
Cypress remembered the first time his parents had entered his school in months, their eyes distant and tired as they saw their son with his hands covered in blood, as his eyes seemed so empty, staring at them like he had seen them earlier. In reality, that was the first time he had seen them in a few days, at least. He heard the teachers around him mention long words like ‘mutilation’ and ‘innocent’, each occasionally casting a sideways glance at him, a weirdly worried look in their eyes. He watched how the red liquid smeared across his hands, before unclenching his fist, watching as a teacher turned pale as the flesh of the animal he had torn apart lay crumpled in his fingers.
That was the first time he hadn’t understood - why was it wrong to satiate his hunger? He had seen this small creature, like a mammal, and had picked it up, watching it flail and squirm in his cold, young hands. The flesh of his skin had pressed against the creature, before he started to feel, noticing these hard things inside it. He ignored the cries of the other students, out of care for the creature, hearing them yell at him to put it down, and lightly pressed his thumbs in, digging his nails down as the creature screeched in fear, feeling it writhe as his fingers applied more and more pressure, until eventually he tore it open in his hands, noting the white structure inside of it, and those flesh things - organs, he later learned.
He watched as his parents dropped him home that day, telling him that he couldn’t tear creatures apart anymore, before his father had worriedly glanced at the time, muttering something to his mother as they both grabbed their coats and left him standing there, unaware of when they would be back. He’d gotten used to that uncertainty, starting to learn to do everything himself, his brain creating coping mechanisms as he would fend for himself like an abandoned fledgling - such as that little voice that kept him company, helped him feel less alone when his parents would leave him for days, then weeks.
He realised later on, the other kids had started to distance themselves from him, since whenever he interacted with them, he somehow compelled them to do something he wanted them to - whether it was give him something they owned, or steal something for him - and he didn’t understand why. Were other people not just pawns for him to use? Were they meant to resist him? They were so boring compared to himself, they lacked the skills he had and instead had this strange care for each other. He never got why they would ask each other if they’re okay, or if they wanted to talk, they could talk to the teacher. He could tell they were worried about him, yet he didn’t understand why - was his curiosity too much for them?
The voice was constant, after a while, keeping him company. Often, when he was alone, he’d respond out loud like they were talking, and hours could go by before he realised there wasn’t another person with him. He had occasionally listened to it, almost causing great harm to fellow students, and kept skipping counsellor appointments. He could remember the one they finally made him go to, where the counsellor expressed their concern for his development, and he finally learned what empathy was.
He took comfort in the cats that would occasionally sit on his front lawn, finding them easier to talk to than other people. He would feed them and watch them from the front window, watching how more and more would appear outside his door every day, and would push down the thoughts of finding out what their insides looked like. He was starting to resist the more violent urges, hoping it might shift his thoughts - make them more like he heard other people’s thoughts be like. But now he just felt numb, like he had clipped his wings.
He had spent so much time alone in his room, it seemed like the only place he could belong. He could always remember the paintings, half-finished in the corner, the patchwork blanket he had made himself, the worn pillow that smelled faintly of cats, the broken guitar in the corner he was in the process of fixing. He remembered putting on music through his headphones, nodding his head slightly as he would sketch the poses of his cats, noting the way they moved and were built like. He had found his outlet for violence - art. Yet he felt so caged, stuck in that room most days, like a trapped bird.
Slowly, he would skip school more and more, and saw even less of his parents, but with the lack of consequences and the thrill of being out until daylight was too intoxicating. He met people he shouldn’t, yet he found them more bearable than the people from his school. They became like a sort of family, and he found himself spending most of his time with them, getting up to things which ranged from mischievous to borderline illegal - he had scratches on his hands from breaking into abandoned buildings, a tattoo engraved onto his right arm, and often found himself completing drops for his friends, holding packages with contents he’d rather not know about.
He could remember clearly the first trip they had coaxed him into. They had called him over to the table in their hideout, cheering him on to do a line with them. He had told himself it would be fine, as he bent over the table. The sensation was uncomfortable at first, but soon a strange, euphoric sensation overtook him, as his vision swam and his limbs became almost itchy. He barely remembered making it home that night, and as he vowed to never do that again as he came down, his senses going haywire - he found the note. The note informing him he was on his own.
He didn’t see his parents after that.
Sensing the urgency, he had taken on a job - customer service - but his hunger for curiosity, now turning into a hunger for adrenaline, was raging. He would steal from stores, setting off alarms and hiding from police, and do graffiti art with his friends. He would occasionally drink with them, and they would always call him a buzzkill for avoiding the drugs they would always bring. One time, one of them slipped something into his drink, and he only noticed when his vision was blurring together and spinning. He had laid down on a bench in their hideout to clear his head, before turning his head slightly.
He saw the eyes for the first time that day.
Eyes along the walls, watching him from every angle, like a hunter circling its prey.
Any time he drank with his friends after that, he’d be cautious and take care not to let them drug him again, but after that he didn’t see the eyes again. He’d occasionally feel like he was being watched, but every time he turned, no one was there.
Slowly, the comforting aura of his friends, once so close, had started to shift, and they would call him things if he didn’t participate in a robbery or one of their ‘fun’ nights. He started to distance himself, always keeping calm, and spent more and more time in the comfort of his room blasting music and drawing. He taught himself guitar, and would play for his cats, who became his audience as he would sing them songs, his soft voice audible in the quiet of his room.
He slowly started to write his own songs, reflecting how he felt about himself in them - something less than human, something that didn’t deserve to be classed as a human. He was a creature, born without empathy, and he hated himself for it. He hated how much he wasn’t bothered, and he hated the silence of his room. He hated himself. His mind was too loud, his thoughts too quiet, and music wasn’t helping like before.
He went out with his gang one last time, his friends beckoning him over happily. He took drinks and played their games, but couldn’t shake off a strange sensation. The night was dark, he recalled, as some men had approached them, asking about their connections, Cypress had recognised the gleam of a barrel a few seconds too late - the first shot was fired, and the group scattered, some screaming, some scrambling for weapons. He hid behind a crate, trying to sprint to save himself, heart pounding in his ears, until one of his friends called out. He turned around on instinct, expecting to see them running towards him -
But he watched as they were shot, and as they collapsed to the ground, the last thing he saw was the barrel being raised towards him. His eyes widened at the last moment until pain stabbed through him.
Blinding. Unbearable. Blood spilled out of his chest as he collapsed, feeling like he couldn’t breathe. He blinked, and the pain slowly subsided as his vision went black. He wondered what life would be like after this, what death felt like, and in his final moment, wondered what he’d be able to test to the limits next.