The walls are ever changing, morphing into the highest mountains or the lowest tides, but cracked with time and wear, and marked with ridged trails where my fingers run. One day it’s a sunny sky, the next a storm, but mostly it’s dark — and I wish I could give you more description than simply dark, but it is just that, curling in and swallowing itself whole.

You see, my mind is something of a labyrinth, a massive ruin — or maybe creature? Creature may be the better word for it. It creaks, moans, and often distorts when I think I’ve found the correct path. A living, breathing thing that I never understand — and truthfully, it’s impossible to understand something that is always changing, expanding, thinking. It’s even harder to describe this very creature when, even at this moment, builds itself with so many new thoughts and feelings.

But some paths remain the same and I visit them often. Like my childhood memories, blue butterflies that live within a garden of teddy bears. The knowledge I have gained, books lodged in marble stone, able to be pulled when needed. The dead ends where people I once knew stood, grey and misty areas that never see the sun. Not anymore.

But the scariest part is, even though this is my labyrinth, there are other things that reside here. Things I don’t know. Scary things. And when it’s dark — yes, just dark — I can hear their bated breaths in my ear. The scraping of claws against stone, the frenzied steps of their feet, and the lapping of their tongue against parched lips. Those things, oh, they are truly terrifying.

And sometimes they catch me, pin me down, suffocate me with their breaths of rancid lies and torment.

But they never kill me. I never give them that satisfaction. They’re merely creepers — or so I’ve named them — living in darkness. Unwanted guests in my own home.

I know this labyrinth, despite its many twists and turns, cares about me. It allows me to lose them and shines a light in a direction I can only describe as forward.

I wish I could paint to you what I see, the many winding paths, the many doors that lead into its core, and all the roses that bloomed after the storms, but even I do not truly know what I’m looking at — and I don’t think I ever will.

A frail boy, with trembling thighs and black hair clinging to his brow, climbed up the crooked roots of the vast tree. He was a touch shy of eighteen, tall and broad, but lanky like the stems he gripped onto for balance. His black cat, Luka, who was much less sweaty and did not quite have nearly as much hair, accompanied him on the trek.

The roots of the tree cradled the city below, several of them hollowed out into trainways, traveling from one layer of the clay city to the next. He had managed to catch one to the highest level he could – the royal level. The level that loved to rain money down on the poor to watch them scramble, even tossing in a few green leaves for good measure.

But going to the level above that was not something people usually did willingly. It was dangerous, so to speak, physically and mentally.

The boy never understood why – aside from the sheer height, of course.

Moonlight dripped through the curves and cracks of the roots, light raining on the worn path.

It was a great climb, but one he had made several times, although never with the same intentions. Tucked under his arm, and wrapped tightly in an old, tattered cloth was a jar. It buzzed and tinkered, glowing orange as it heated and cooled.

Luka was having a much easier time on the trail, trotting a few steps ahead of him. He sat down, his yellow eyes reflecting all in his view.

“You look as if you’re about to fall.” He commented.

The boy huffed, but smiled. “You would like it if I fell, wouldn’t you?”

“On the contrary, I would not.” His tail wormed against the bark. “Who else would give me those fish you swoop out of the trench? My paws dare not reach that deep unless I want myself to become the snack.”

“Oh, I don’t think that would happen. You wouldn’t taste particularly good, plus you’re pretty scrawny. Although,” he paused, stroking his chin, “considering you’re hairless, it might be more tempting.”

Luka’s skin rippled, shoulders going stiff. He flicked his tail up and trotted forward. “How many ways do you intend to offend me in one sentence?” The boy opened his mouth, but was cut silent. “Regardless, let us keep moving. Must not keep the others waiting too long for your return.”

“Why are you in a hurry? You have a date or something?”

“With those fish you promised me, yes.”

The boy chuckled as they continued, although the canopy of the tree never came any closer. Red and yellow leaves teetered around them, the wind sweeping them away before they could land. It was getting colder, the jacket over his shoulders not sheltering the heat of his body nearly enough, but the warmth from the jar hugged his side, making it bearable.

Emerging from the small, rusted roof of the city, the boy wrestled to the top of the root, looking up at the wing spread branches. Peeking through them were stars that littered the sky, grouped together in arcs of dust and rainbows.

Luka perched himself beside the boy, swishing his tail anxiously, but keeping an eye on him.

The trek, despite his sweaty arms and sore legs, was always worth it for the view that he would have never received while being stuck down below. “It’s so pretty.” The boy whispered.

“It is.” Luka grinned.

Pulling the jar closer, the boy’s heart fluttered against his chest.

It wasn’t long before a heavier weight pressed itself against him, one that hooked his smile and anchored it. Being up this high, with the sky and city nothing but twinkling lights was always so exhilarating.

But not today.

Today, they looked like tears.

“I don’t want to let them go.” He whispered.

Luka tilted his head. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Everyone came up here at one point or another, and in Luka’s long time of being alive – much longer than most cats – he had seen what happened every time.

The jar clanked uncontrollably under the boy’s arm. He almost lost grip, fumbling as he held it in front of him. The cloth, soiled with the sadness and cries from the night prior, loosened.

Letting the covering fall, the night glistened.

Inside were flames, flickering fireflies that bounced against the glass.

The flames, like many others, showed themselves when he was much younger. He did not know what they meant, only that they were beautiful and pleased him more than his toys or even his mother’s smile. He would chase them, hold them, embrace them, They were his comfort even on the rainiest days. No one said anything then. It was when he grew older that it was viewed as a nuisance.

Holding onto them was not something that made a successful adult. It was dangerous. He had seen what happened when those flames became too big – maybe too brave. Those people who held onto them and let them grow, destroying their society and the ideals held with them. Those people never lasted long. They were always mocked, ridiculed, until they were taken away. To where, he didn’t know, but they were never seen again.

So, he collected these small flames of his own, put them in a jar, and walked up here to where he would let them all go, his family and other random onlookers urging him on with smiles and reassuring words.

“This is so important.”

“You will make us all proud.”

“Think of your future.”

But it wasn’t as easy as he thought.

His fingers curled around the top of the jar, shaking, and teeth clattering. His cat watched expectantly.

“What are you thinking?” Luka asked.

“…I don’t know.”

He would release them so they could join the stars, among thousands of others that were left to wander.

He hesitated.

Once they were gone, would he ever want to come back up here? Would there be any desire or wonder? Would he be just like everyone else? Wandering the grooves and streets of the city with soulless eyes, devoid of light? Exhausted, tired, but being of use to their home, their people.

There was some happiness in that, right?

The cat’s eyes slowly closed. He could sense the boy’s pain. “It’s never easy for anyone.”

The boy chuckled, but it bled. “So, why do people do it?”

Luka thought for a moment. “I would assume fear.” He said. “Humans are fearful beings and there is no greater fear than the fear of oneself. How we appear to others, how others perceive us, even your own death. Mindlessly chasing dreams, challenging what is already the norm, especially when they may hold no reward is terrifying, especially in such a short life, don’t you think?”

The boy took a breath.

“Are people really that scared?”

“Hm, in my experience, but I am an old cat. You are the first person I have talked to in ages. Things may have changed since days long past.”

“Why? Are people scared of cats, too?”

“Perhaps. More so of talking ones.” Luka smiled, his fangs as bright white as the milk he drank. It quickly fell when the boy didn’t return the same expression. “Do what you believe is best. I will be by your side, always. Even if we no longer have anything to say.”

He wished that eased the tension in his shoulders.

The boy’s head swirled. He couldn’t think about this, he had to get rid of them before something worse happened. Like the girl who made shadows from her fire, telling stories of wicked people. The boy who tried to escape to the outside, to see more than this ugly brown world. The parents who hid their children because their fires burned too bright. He had to. He couldn’t imagine putting that much burden on his family, his friends, the others around him.

He had to.

He had to make them all proud.

Without a second thought, he twisted the lid off, and the fireflies rushed out. Snaking around him, they pecked his body with warm spots that glew and faded into his skin. It was painful, a poison dripping through every layer of his body, eroding it to its core, and turning him inside out. Tears leaked from his eyes, blood staining the ground, and his flesh rippling into a new form. A form that he did not recognize.

He wanted to scream, but even his breath was taken from him. Everything he knew was being singed to a crisp, insides smoking with a smell that he was sure would never leave his nose.

All the flames kissed him one last time before being sucked into the sky, through the colorful leaves, through the clouds, until finally among the stars.

And just as the fire grew farther and farther away, so, too, did the light of his eyes.

And when they were no longer visible, his hands dropped to his side, the jar clattering to the ground and rolling among the many others under the tree roots.

As quickly as the pain came, it vanished, everything shifting back into place, but missing one incredibly important something.

The boy didn’t know what that was.

It wasn’t until now that he knew why people never went up here to gaze upon the tree, Mori.

He was scared, just like the rest.

There was nothing more to do here. He had to return to the others.

Turning towards Luka, his eyes laid heavy. He didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say to a cat.

Luka meowed and mournfully trotted alongside him as they descended into the clay city.

It was too soon to say 'I told you so', but that didn't stop Hayden from saying it. He said and did many, certainly, bizarre things – those things landing him right into the cold hands of an insane asylum. He didn't seem to mind it though, the room bright and splattered with post it notes in colors that made him happy. Yellow like puss, brown like frayed skin, and red like crying eyes! It could almost pass for a normal room for a normal boy. Almost.

Hayden wasn't normal, not by society standards, although have him tell it he’ll say otherwise.

When he said someone would die, they always did.

Some called him a prophet, others called him a murderer, and a small few passed it as coincidence. Somehow, it was still a shock that one of the nurses who attended to him was found dead in the hallway, wide eyed, mouth foaming, and skin sunken. People suspected that Hayden had done it himself, but the door was locked from the outside and there was no DNA on her body, let alone any physical marks at all.

So, it all came back to Hayden’s favorite line.

"I told you so.” He said, eating his breakfast. The news didn't affect him. He carried on as if he heard this everyday. Another day, another death. It wasn’t unusual. Why did people panic so much?

Of course, this made others wary to go near him, fearing they may be next, that somehow he was hexing them – a literal devils incarnate they liked to whisper under their breaths.

Others only interacted when instructed. Julian was a little different. He was intrigued. A newly graduated psychologist, barely on the field for more than six months, he was surprised when this job was proposed to him – probably because no one else would take it.

Hayden didn’t seem bad at all. His outfit was a little unusual, mismatching socks, a tilted hat, and sleeves that draped too long for his scrawny body. Julian didn't much care for his attire though, that wasn’t the issue at hand. He wanted to know how Hayden knew people would die.

He watched him eat the waffles on his plate, staring as one of his sleeves dipped into the pool of syrup.

“Your shirt is in your food.” Julian said.

Hayden looked. He shrugged.

"People never believe me when I tell them," he said, ignoring the statement, "They say I'm crazy, but am I really? I'm not the one who ends up dead on the floor."

Julian leaned forward in his seat. "What do you tell them when you say someone will die?"

Hayden bit into another forkful of food and swallowed. "It's the angels."

"Angels?" Julian repeated, "What do you mean angels?"

Hayden picked up the syrup bottle, pouring more of the thick liquid onto the batter. It was down right disgusting, but Julian wasn’t going to argue the eating habits of a supposedly insane man.

"They're angels, but not like typical angels. No porcelain skin and people singing behind them.” Hayden sighed. “They're a lot more grotesque and creepy. Most don't have eyes and some have a lot of hanging bits.” He paused, thinking about it. “I’m not entirely sure what’s even hanging, but it’s bubbling and oozing. They don't even look human half the time, just a jumbled mess of wrinkly and compressed organs."

Julian tilted his head. "And you see these things?"

"Yeah!" Hayden smiled. He said it like he was agreeing to get dessert after his meal, not like he saw monsters. "They're not malicious,” he clinked his fork a few times, "for the most part anyways. They follow people who they're about to take with them."

"Take them where?" Julian furrowed his brow. He had never heard anything so ludicrous.

Hayden smiled even bigger. "To hell."

Julian's jaw tightened as Hayden happily tapped his feet against the floor, savoring the final bits of his sugar with a side of waffles. Julian understood why so many had waved him off, but the next words made him freeze and heart stop.

Hayden glanced at him and then gazed towards the ceiling.

"...Which is where you're going to go soon. There's one behind you…”

Lately, I feel as if I'm drowning.

I'm drowning in an ocean of my sorrows and regrets, the waves concealing my pleas for help, swallowing me whole and without pause — without so much as the coutousy to give me a fighting chance.

So deep is this ocean that I can't see the sky or light from the sun, as everything I hold dear fades and I sink deeper, my screams bubbling to the surface. I can only hope someone hears them, hears them explode one by one, each louder than the last, but even if they could no one will find me. No one ever looks below the surface, all they see is how beautiful the water meets the horizon. All they see is what is in front of them.

Flailing my arms, I fight to swim and sometimes I can just barely touch the light with my fingertips, feel the warmth I once was bathed in against my skin, but something grabs me. It pulls me out of reach and I'm left breathless, suffocating in this black abyss, my screams nothing more than airless whines. It enters my lungs, my head, chokes me with its hands till my heart might explode.

It numbs me till I can't feel, can't move.

I'm sinking.

Sometimes I can release it, able to breathe for a moment, able to feel again, but all I feel is pain. An intense pain that paints the world around me in red as I sink further into a cloud of my own blood. The red against the empty black somehow relieves me, reminding me that even though im suffocating, I'm still very much alive. I'm breathing. My heart is beating. But it's aching. It's aching so bad and sometimes I feel the pain comes from my chest instead of my arms. Like a knife has been shanked into my heart, but it's not from me. It's from someone who very much looks like me, a darker version of me.

Is that was I look like?

A hollow husk of a person stares at me with blank eyes and pretty lips, whispering words into my ear as they strangle, but also caress me.

“You're worthless.” They say.

“No one loves you.” They repeat, “If they did you wouldn't be drowning. You wouldn't be suffering.”

I fight it. I fight those words, saying they aren't true, and yet the reflection of myself hugs me, embraces me, soothes me until I resist fighting. Until I drift further into the darkness and away from the light.

“They won't save you, but I will. I will.” They say, “Trust me. You're alone. You want this.”

At these words I fall. I fall, hands covering my eyes, shielding me from the light, dragging me deeper, their hands the only comfort I know. Their presence is the only thing I know to be real, the only thing I can see or hear as my existence continues in this tunnel of false interactions and plastered feelings. I see nothing. I feel nothing. I am nothing. This life I live is nothing. And yet, behind these shielded eyes as I become colder until I feel the oceans cold floor against my back, I think of you. I think of the warmth you bring me even at the bottom of this ocean surrounded by nothing except thoughts of loneliness and useless existence. I can hear your voice, I can feel your presence, I feel more than the cold embrace of death's grip as I stand so close to the edge ready to jump.

“You're worth it.” You say.

“I love you.” You repeat, “If I didn't, you would have drowned, but I'm here. You're here. You're not alone. Not anymore.”

And I believe you. I believe you as I tear away the hands that hold me back, looking up at the surface, it's light long gone, but your hand I see reaching through, reaching for me, enduring the darkness and bearing the burdens of this cold with me, to save me. I can't see the surface, I can't see the light, I can't get rid the darkness of my mind — the abyss of this ocean, but I can see you and feel the warmth you bring, enough to give me the strength I need to keep swimming, to keep going, to keep trying to see the light — and maybe, just maybe, I see it. A small sparkle in the far distance where your hand reaches for me. The hand I reach for. The hand I take. The hand that pulls me forward. The hand I love.

Together. Together, we can get through this.

#graphic_violence

Among all the flushed faces, unkempt hair, and dry smells, there was one person who had caught Silas’ attention.

He spotted her earlier that night, tall, lean, and dancing under the harsh flashing lights. Her movements were graceful, like water lapping against sand, so easily able to get lost in the sway of her body, but Silas was more keen on studying how her muscles worked, noticeable and tensing at all the right angles. Silas wasn’t usually a fan of more toned features, soft and squishy skin easier to mold between his fingers, but this one was a hard exception.

She stood at the bar of the nightclub, shades of pink and blue flickering across highlighted tan skin. Silas couldn’t stop thinking about how beautiful she was, almost as beautiful as the shot of gin she threw back with ease, her full lips brushing against the rim of the glass smooth and delicately.

Silas wondered what they’d feel like against his. Would they mesh together just as neatly? Probably not, he preferred it a little messy anyways.

The person came with a group of friends, but soon left after being demoted to third wheel, presumably taking out their feelings of loneliness or even jealousy in the form of alcohol. A good and a bad sign, but a sign that they were single. Even better.

Silas hoped this would work to his favor, but he could never get too cocky, rejection was always an option, but who could turn down someone as handsome as himself? Thick hair, pouty lips, and sharp eyes, he was a rather captivating fish in this pool of guppies—or maybe he was a hook, irresistible temptations with a deadly surprise.

Perhaps he should tone down on the self-talk in the mirrors before leaving the house. His lame jokes were getting to his ego now in the form of metaphors.

But, this was his chance, the single opening he had all night. Silas was confident, but his confidence only went so far. He was rather shy when among people he didn’t know, especially while flirting—and especially with his favorite trick that either got him a smile or a kiss. It never failed, his success rate one hundred percent, so the odds were looking good!—ah crap, the overconfidence, right. Tone that down.

Clearing his throat, he weaved his way through the crowd, pushing his way to stand beside the stunning girl leaning on the counter. He stared at the empty shot glass and then the person, admiring the shape of their jaw line and length of their lashes.

“Do you need another?” He asked, pointing towards the cup.

They barely turned to him, eyes dark and a little irritated. Maybe this wasn’t Silas’ chance. Maybe he picked the wrong one, a fish trying to wrangle a shark. He was relieved when she spoke.

“I could. Maybe two.” She said, pushing the glass off to the side.

“Hard night?”

They chuckled. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Silas couldn’t help himself as he gazed at the assorted jewelry hanging around the girl’s neck, accenting her prominent collarbones. She also wore many bracelets, her wrists dainty and petite.

Those would need to come off.

He had a few drinks, his mind swaying in not so decent directions, and mind attentive only on the person in front of him. Who could blame him though?

As the bartender made their rounds, they came to a halt in front of them. Asking for their order, Silas jumped in before the other could speak.

“Two of what she had. On me.” He said.

The bartender nodded, quickly pouring the shots and placing them down before leaving. The girl stared for a moment, but finally turned towards Silas, his heart skipping a beat. She was even more beautiful up close, round cheeks, button nose, and finely trimmed eyebrows; she was hitting all of Silas’ weak points. He was glad he came out tonight, even if this conversation ended in a way that neither wanted to.

The girl twirled her drink in hand, watching the clear liquid slosh around. “You’re a little better looking than the other people here. I’m surprised. I suppose I can entertain you. What’s your name?” she asked.

Oh, he was highly entertained. The show was right in front of him.

Silas gleamed at the compliment, his ego inflating even more. “It’s Silas and I could say the same about you. By far the prettiest person here.”

“Oh? That’s a first.” She laughed and Silas wondered what she meant, but the comment faded, “My name is Naomi, by the way.”

Naomi. The name rolled off his tongue exquisitely, just like he hoped she would, tasting like something only obtainable in a dream.

“Naomi? I like it.” Silas relaxed onto the counter top, “Why don’t we make your night a little better, Naomi?”

She raised a brow. “How is that?”

“With a game!” Silas said enthusiastically, making the other laugh again and almost spill their drink. She smiled bright and big, adorable dimples pinching her cheeks. He got a smile.

Check.

It never failed.

“A game? What kind of game?” Naomi asked.

“Oh it’s fun, you’ll love it. Trust me! Everyone does.” Silas grinned, wide and bright. “It’s a riddle! You have to guess what the answer is and if you don’t, then I get a kiss, but if you do then...you can have as many drinks on me as you want.”

Naomi licked her lips, a shiver traveling down Silas’ spine. How dare she tease him like this, and with a deviled smile to boot! How much cuter and more delectable could she get?

“Sounds promising!” Naomi raised her drink towards Silas, “I’ll give it a try. One kiss isn’t that much of a loss. Especially to someone like you.”

She winked, toasting Silas’ glass and both chugging their drinks. The burn felt good on his throat, but he wondered how good the burn would be when Naomi kissed him? He could only anticipate the fire that would blister inside him as he tasted those sweet, supple lips. They were probably soft, tender, almost like warmed marshmallows that melted against one’s tongue. It made him hot just thinking about it.

Slamming their cups on the counter, they both leaned towards each other, close enough that Silas could smell the perfume Naomi was wearing. A woodland spice kind of scent, earthy and organic, it wasn’t something he often picked up on women, but it suited her, her brown eyes deep and warm like fresh soil.

Silas felt a growl in his throat, but quickly swallowed it.

“Ok, here’s the riddle.” Silas said, happily ignoring the carnal instincts arising within him, “I live in the shadow of humans, rarely seen at day, and mostly at night. If you do see me, it will only be once. Hidden behind fake skinned masks and red eyes, what am I?”

Naomi pursed her lips, clicking her fingers against the counter. She was silent for a long moment, the vague song lyrics swirling in and out of focus, but Silas kept a smile on his face, watching as the workings of Naomi’s mind twitched across her face. She mumbled to herself several times, how cute, but each time she would shake her head and tell herself no, no that wasn’t the answer.

“Wow, this...is actually difficult.” Naomi said, furrowing her brow, “I’m usually good with these, but I have no idea what this one is.”

“Do you give up?” Silas teased.

Naomi huffed, making one final attempt to come up with a response, but she fell short, sighing. “I suppose I do. What’s the answer?”

They never got it. Another check.

Silas grew more excited.

He gently placed his hand over Naomi’s, leaning in close enough so his hot breath teased the surface of her skin. “Oh no sweetheart, you owe me a kiss first, but not here. Let’s step outside, I need a smoke anyways.”

Naomi gawked into Silas’ stare, frozen, but not with terror, she was actually quite relaxed judging from the feel of her fingers. She looked like she had wanted to take Silas’ lips right there, a flash of desire in her eyes as she visibly held her breath. Snapping out of her trance, she agreed to accompany him outside and into the chilly weather.

Walking out the door, Silas pulled his hood up, hating the cold, but hating the muggy atmosphere of the club even more.

It was a bit windy, leaves flying into the air and the smell of autumn strong, winter at the nip of its heels. Naomi crossed her arms, trembling from the icy wind, but Silas quickly put an arm around her, hugging her close. She didn’t seem to mind Silas being so friendly; in fact she leaned into him, snuggling against the crook of his neck. The alcohol must have been getting to her, her strides not entirely straight.

“You alright there?” Silas asked.

“I’m fine…” Naomi said.

Silas didn’t know how much she had to drink before talking to him, but judging from her behavior, she was somewhere above the tipsy line.

“You’re shivering, babe. Don’t worry, we’ll heat up soon. I just can’t smoke by the door.”

Silas locked eyes with the guard of the club, a small grin tugging on his lips as he eyed Naomi tailing along with him. He knew the guard well and he was probably congratulating him, but didn’t voice it—didn’t want to scare off his new date after all! He would definitely ask about the details later and Silas was willing to give him every juicy drop that he could, even though sharing wasn’t something he was particularly known for.

They rounded a corner, silent, no one in sight.

Finally. They were alone.

Finally, Silas could let loose.

He had restrained himself all night, the club driving him mad and his brain near breaking point. He quickly withdrew Naomi from his arms, pressing her against the wall, and Naomi didn’t resist, actually she gasped, the alcohol hitting her and her face tinting a beautiful pink.

The smell of her perfume drifted in the wind and directly to Silas’ nose.

His stomach rumbled fiercely.

Naomi laughed.

“Are you hungry?” She asked.

Silas felt his mouth water, staring at the shadows of her skin, the way the muscles of her neck moved as she swallowed and the heaving of her chest, all such beautiful...and delicious looking features.

“You have no idea, sweetheart.” He whispered, tilting Naomi’s head up, lips dreadfully close. “You wanna know the answer to the riddle?”

Naomi nodded, lost in Silas’ eyes.

Silas’ heart sped. He couldn’t wait.

“You see, there are many things in your world that you don’t know about. The riddle is simple, really. It’s something hidden in plain sight.” Silas kept talking as multiple shadows loomed behind him, wiggling like snakes against the wall. He felt Naomi tense under him, eyes wide as she stared at the waggling scaled tentacles protruding from Silas’ back, but it was too late.

There was nothing she could do now.

“Hidden in the shadow of humans are what your kind like to call ‘ghouls’. Humanoid creatures that prey on the flesh of mortals—“ Silas’ pupils faded to red, “and I’m one of them…”

Naomi’s mouth opened wide into a scream, but Silas silenced her, giving her the kiss he had won, and breathing in the scream like air. It was such a fragrant taste, a little bitter thanks to the alcohol, but Silas liked it real and raw, not buttered in lotion or other flowery lathers like some other ghouls he knew. He enjoyed the taste of fear and the sweat that tinted their skin as he told them what he really was, bringing to life the worst kind of nightmare for an unsuspecting human.

Biting into the skin of Naomi’s lip, blood surged from the wound, dark and thick, Silas ripping off a small piece. Flesh dangled from his mouth, him greedily slurping it up and gulping it down. It warmed his insides, a fire burning through him just like he expected it to.

Oh. God yes. More.

He wanted to sink his teeth into the human, tearing their face apart beyond recognition, but he couldn’t, not yet. His game still wasn’t done.

He let Naomi go, the crying and sobbing human immediately covering her awkwardly hanging lip, but Silas only thought it made her more attractive, the blood dripping down her neck. His heart flared against his chest while his mind fought with hunger and arousal.

Oh these games of cat and mouse were always so much fun!

Silas laughed, his lips blanketed with red.

“The game has only just started!” He said, “We still have a little game of tag to play! I’m it, and you…you should probably run.”

He told the truth when he said you’ll only see it once. He also told the truth when he said he’d make Naomi’s night better with a game—well…maybe the game was fun to Silas anyways.

Like a repeat of yesterday, there he was, dazed eyes and a grey jumpsuit covered in grime and muck.

Droplet after droplet, blood dribbled off the clear umbrella hanging overhead, streams of red flowing like a river and sounding like tranquility. It showered around me, the soles of my feet standing in a puddle of rust-colored dreams and wishes. The smell was lovely though, like wet soil and fresh concrete, concealing the muggy, overwhelming, air of the city. Frankly, there was always something that made me uncomfortable, spaces too tight, congested traffic, enough noise to rip into every seam of my senses, and yet I couldn’t get enough. It was chaotic, the thrill of the unexpected never proving to disappoint.

To others, the blood looked like rain, but to me, it looked like finely sliced tears, the subtle weeping of thunder concealing the cries of the dearly departed. It was dreary and meek, but days like today I thrived the most, soaking the airborne misery into my skin.

Days like today the unexpected liked to expose itself.

Spinning the umbrella in my hand, giving the blood a good ole swirl around me, today is when I decided my next victim—that person was blissfully unaware, wiping the window clean inside the hotel room across from me. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he missed a spot, the red pelting heavily against the smooth surface.

I stood on the roof of an adjacent building, no one bothered by my presence—not that they could see me, the perks to being a so-called demon, but I preferred to be called an “observer”.

So unsuspecting was the male janitor, scrubbing across unknown blemishes, that it was almost doleful. I’d been observing him for some time, practically family at this point, seeing the small mishaps in his life build into grander ones. He caught my eye one day while being harassed by a check-in, small compliments turning into intrusive fondling. The rage in his eyes was fierce, like a tiger ready to bare its fangs, but he did little about it, merely accepting the hands that trailed his body. There was something hidden behind his expression that scared even me, a sharpened dagger held high waiting to dig into flesh.

I’ve been a fan ever since.

He had desire, passion, and dedication, the perfect mix of ingredients for a “runner”, a small playing piece for a fun little game.

Every day humans ran and every day I observed them in a vain attempt to understand. They ran from their problems, their family, even themselves to try and say that they weren’t. No one believes they’re running unless it’s physical, beads of sweat coursing down weary skin, but so many souls are gasping, exhausted, about to fall over without realizing the strain they’ve induced. Humans were simple, only looking forward, rarely back, and fearing nightmares without realizing that they were already living one. They’d never wake no matter how much they ran or screamed, only in death did they truly “wake up”.

Maybe this was why they died so young and carelessly.

The streets below were bustling with busy cars and hurried bodies as the grey sun waned behind thick clouds. Lights of the city bloomed like flowers on the horizon, growing more and more as the day left its reach. It was beautiful, just like a dream.

Human dreams and ideation were where they truly thrived, no restraints, no limits, but still buckled by a fear that kept them from flying, shackled to the ground and cementing their feet, running. They strained to accomplish something that may or may not be achievable, but their pace and grit determined the winners and very few ever won, suffocating before making it. Never was there a moment’s rest for them—except for children, perhaps. Pure, innocent beings; merely being prepped for the marathon they were about to run until their last breath, not a care in the world. Oh, what poor things.

Oh, what a poor thing the janitor before me was, doing the same old job, in the same redundant rooms, listening to the same redundant chatter. Clean this, clean that, he deserved better. Young, handsome, kind, and a wide boxy smile that made any heart melt like warmed chocolate, suave and hard to resist. How terrible it was for his family to leave him at such a young age, abandoning him, running from their duties as parents. He often blamed himself, never the other way around. He wished he were better, stronger, perhaps a little smarter, something to get him out of this dead-end job and the opportunity to chase his dreams.

I wanted to help.

With a warm smile and empathetic words, I often talked to him while he was in the deep recesses of sleep, weaving my way into his thoughts and prying his innermost desires. He confided in me, enough to wonder why I was only a dream and not real—but oh, I was very real, my pale reflection and black smoldering eyes visible in the trickling rain.

He had a fancy for one of the regulars at the hotel, a well-groomed businessman with sharp eyes and a lean body. Although he knew a businessman would never look his way, not at a lowly janitor hired to clean the piss off his toilet, it was only a dream that he entertained, longing and praying with rosy eyes that maybe, just maybe, his fantasy would come true. It never hurt to dream. It never hurt to run as long as you maintained pace, but when is enough, enough?

Every time the businessman checked in on one of his trips, the janitor would hope, was this the day? Was this the day he would be whisked away from everything he tried so hard to ignore and run from? It was all he could do, exhausted and trying to breathe, but he had little time to stop, not when life drove so many nails into his back.

I wondered if he knew what that businessman actually did behind closed doors if he’d still yearn for his affections? It was uncertain, but as the blood flooded the streets, oozing off every crevasse, a part of me was curious to know. With the aid of a ” demon”, what would happen between a lowly janitor and a conman?

Some called it malicious. I call it caring. I am a demon after all, antler-like horns sprouting from my skull, and a wicked laugh, humans and I held very different opinions on the term—and unlike what some assume, I actually look more human than they realize, easily blending into the crowd along the sides of Main Street.

Despite popular stereotypes, I don’t chase people like some crazed beast either, I actually prefer to have coffee with them first. There’s no point when you’ve existed well beyond human memory. It gets boring. It’s more fun to pull the strings and watch as humans sprint into their own demise disguised as liberation.

Manipulative? Oh, no. I am quite benevolent, red-tinted passion tainting my lips and skin. Only in nightmares does one truly stop running, stricken with fear, mind wiped blank, and paralyzed into a small piece of nonexistence.

I was the nightmare.

I was here to white out the bad memories; paralyze the gullible and hopeful, all with a smile on my face. I granted wishes, a human’s wildest dreams.

I gave them the power to fly.

Drip. Drip. Drip. The rain never ceased, the pitter-patter sound cathartic to my ears. Peeking between my fingers and scrawled on the hilt of my umbrella were black stained numbers that read, “Ninety-Seven”. So, this was my ninety-seventh one. How unexpected and honestly tear-jerking, another personal possession to give out on loan and wait for its expectant return. It felt like only yesterday I handed my first to a much different subject, a young blonde with hopes of reprisal. She got it, holding the umbrella high above as she watched the blood flow, but with that same gore smeared hand, she fell, and with my same brilliant smile, I took back what was mine.

What a fond memory that was.

Clustered behind me on the flat and widespread rooftop were numerous umbrellas, spaced like a graveyard with tips down and standing like sticks in the mud. Each hilt had a number, scribbled in black ink, but all crossed out, previous people who had made efforts to better themselves, running, running, running, after I extended a hand.

Umbrellas did more than shield from the rain. They guarded from the sun, a symbol of happiness and canopy of the heavens, but no one ever looked at the shadow they created or darkness they so easily let themselves be enveloped in—captured in their own necessity for protection from something that could never save them.

How long till number ninety-seven joined them? Hm. Suppose it was time to find out.

Yanking a spare from the ground, I spun it in my hand. This would be a fun one; I could feel it, the static and excitement coursing through my veins. It was almost time for him to be off work, scurrying out of the hotel before more could be asked of him, but let’s just say someone stole his ride to heaven, the handle resting finely in my palm. His routine was so habitual he never looked where he was going; it made my job far too easy, humans so cautious, but easily bemused.

Casually strolling down the iron staircase on the side and into the darkened alleyway, I waited for my opportunity, counting down the seconds in my head.

Three, two, one, here he comes.

Swirling around the corner, a hard bump knocked into me, making me gasp as if I didn’t expect it. The other paused, shaking his head as the rain dripped down, his eyes meeting my gaze.

What a handsome boy, so frail, so unsuspecting. I wanted to reach out and cradle his cheek, but that would be progressing this relationship far too fast. I needed him to come to me, not the other way around. I knew he would, they always did. When running, you need water, a moment’s pause, and I was happy to give it—but only for a moment.

He bowed low, apologetically, but I smiled, wide and friendly. He didn’t need to apologize, not to me. He would only be doing me a favor.

“No, please it was my fault. I should have looked where I was going.” I reassured, glancing him up and down, “You look soaked! Running around in the rain can get you into trouble. Can I offer you this?” I extended the umbrella in my grip towards him.

He stared at my hand, hair wet and plastered to his brow with a dumbfounded expression. He wanted to question my reasons, highly understandable, but there was none except genuine kindness as I shook it towards him again, radiating friendliness. “Don’t worry, take it. Consider it a gift. It’s extra, as you can see. I found it. I have no use for another.”

I knew his nature, he didn’t turn down gracious offers, being a warm and caring soul himself, perhaps naive, but that came with being so young. Skeptical, but trusting, he hesitantly took the umbrella from my hand, unfastening and holding it over himself.

“Thank you.” He muttered in a deep sultry voice, different from the cute baby face he had.

I smiled even wider. “Please, no need to thank me, honor is all mine running into someone as attractive as you. Here—“ reaching into the pocket of my suit, I handed him a card with small details and a phone number on it, “If you’re interested in maybe working for me, give that number a call.” I chuckled, eyeing his grey and wrinkled uniform, “I’m sure it’s better than the job you currently have. You’re too handsome for a place like that.”

The boy stared again, puzzled at my second gesture, but I remained firm, as I always did, holding the stapled grin on my face and my arm unwavering. The longer he stared, the more I could see the questions churning in his mind, but also the sudden recognition. Our chats from his dreams resurfaced, eyes growing wider, but he tried not to express it. I knew humans liked to believe in omens and premonitions, dreams being “uncontrolled” occurrences. To see me standing before him now must have been fate, a once imaginary identity becoming very physical.

This was destined. He would tell himself.

He couldn’t see, but as the blood rained down on him, slipping down his broad shoulders and full lips, he looked so beautiful in red, the color wonderfully accenting his honey-colored skin.

I wanted to see him bathed in it with a look of madness.

Brushing off the dazed moment, he bowed again, coming to whatever conclusion he may have had. Expressing his thanks with a famous smile, one that would have melted my heart if I had one, followed by another apology for being unable to talk longer, he took the card from my hand, stowing it away before walking around me running down the street towards his destination.

He had a nice stride, long steps, great posture, and visible stamina. I watched him until he disappeared around the block, the blood of the rain dripping down my face and into the crook of my delighted grin.

I laughed, amused for the first time in a while.

He would call and he would make a deal with the devil, unknowingly becoming my plaything.“Runners” always did.

“I hope to hear from you soon, Damon,” I whispered when the boy was long gone, “I want to see you run.”

When you're a queen, your word is law. When your word is law, people fear you. They cower, they hide, and they bend over backwards to assure your satisfaction. Without question they listen, attentive and responsive with keenness, but in that same pleasant breath they scorn your existence.

When you're a queen, you rule the world. Every man and woman nothing, but a pawn on your playing board as they bow, their backs near breaking point—and Amora liked it that way. She liked having every pathetic man on their knees begging for her hand, her lips, and her body. Some times she'd give in, allowing those desperate men to bed her into senselessness, but there was always something missing.

Her body felt empty and unsatisfied. Deep down, Amora knew she wasn't as callous as everyone assumed her to be. Her heart throbbed against her chest with a longing; a longing to be cradled in someone's arms and loved. Genuinely loved. She wished to feel the soft touches of their affectionate hands, to feel fluttering kisses against her neck, and to stare endlessly into their eyes, seeing the very depths of their being. She wanted the sensations of butterflies in her stomach and to feel the burning of her cheeks from embarrassment. She wanted to feel their soul flow through her as they made love. Everything that love should be she sought. She sought it so badly her kingdom’s emblem reformed into a heart—and she was the Queen of Hearts.

Amora was allowed a scarce moment of freedom and in that time she took to her private garden—she always visited her garden. Daintily she touched the petals of her bright and brisk roses, their petals large and soft under the tips of her fingers. Smiling, she pulled herself back and admired her time consuming work, although her smile fell flat. There was something unsettling and off about the small bush that she couldn't place. Something drastic. Was she not watering the roots adequately? Did she not shower the growing buds in enough adoration? What did her garden need?

It was lacking something, much like her heart. It yearned for something neither could obtain and Amora felt the wound in her chest all the more. The one thing she tendered with such affection was also suffering and dejected. Was Amora not exhibiting the love it truly deserved? Were her touches like the men she bedded? Lifeless, dull, and unfulfilling? She didn’t want to think of himself in such a dishonorable way. No, she knew the reason.

Slowly she turned on her heel, staring at the center of the greenery. It held an enormous clear crystal; one no one was allowed to go near and only her most trusted of guards were allowed to gaze upon. It was Amora's most cherished and prized possession—it was her heart itself. Prickly vines that flowered the most stunning roses encircled it and inside floated a man. He drifted in a boundless slumber with blazing red hair, his long lashes making his face amply tantalizing and exquisite.

Amora sauntered towards it, carefully placing her palm and cheek against the cold imprisonment. She craved to be held in his arms. To feel his kisses, the warmth of his body, and gaze upon the honeyed smile of his face. She yearned for his fingers to grace her bare skin as their bodies laced and melted together into the night. Amora wanted his love so badly; she desired it with an unexplainable aching, but her love…her love was not reciprocated.

She was a Queen. She could have any hog faced man she wanted. Why did this one in particular disobey her? Amora didn't want to do this, but the thought of him lying with anyone else made her jaw tighten and her heart pound with a mad rage. The imageries of him loving someone so undeserving made Amora livid—so she took him. She took what was rightfully hers, capturing him in a prison of ice for all eternity, for only Amora to gaze at.

No one else would have him. No one.

“No one compares to you, Egantine. Not even the roses I so adore…” Amora breathed against the ice, her hot breath fogging against it, “You are the most beautiful. The most beautiful rose….and mine forever. To love and cherish….”

The icy response made Amora unstable. She collapsed onto the ground, tears falling from her eyes as quiet sobs rumbled from her throat—and there she sat. There she sat in the middle of her rose garden, the bushes filled with the heads of men, their mouths sprouting bloodied red flowers. The faces of men who didn't, and would never, love her the way she knew Egantine would.