𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬

𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘 𝐎𝐍𝐄.

𝑨𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒕 𝑮𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒍𝒚 𝑭𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒓𝒔
____________
⠀⠀
⠀⠀

His eyes were ever watching, their cold embrace impossible to escape.

Years had passed, and yet here you stood, once again, in the main hall of the Victoriano manor. It was exactly as you remembered it, although it looked smaller now that you had grown a couple feet, but that smell of old wallpaper, the pervasive silence that lay steadily across the wood and stone of that place, the feeling of being watched... it was unmistakable. It was all the same.

Strangely, nothing had attacked you since your arrival, as if the nightmarish creatures haunting you had vanished in this place. It felt like a haven, a refuge where you could rest and find solace. Since you arrived, you had the best sleep since this all began. Still, an everlasting, white hot uneasiness lingered within you. It was hard to forgive and forget the things that the other occupant of this house had done, it was hard to just let go, the death of an old friend that you knew was caused by his hand, even if not intentional, even if coerced by someone else.

It was also quite hard to ignore his presence, overwhelming, permeating in every corner of the house, almost like the manor was an extension of himself, and the walls watched, and his voice came from behind them. Instead of monsters and traps and visions, the thing that haunted you now was him. Ruben.

Ruben.

"Get up" He whispered as you laid down on a bed. The bed that he had used throughout all of his life. He watched you turn towards him, cold eyes betraying a flicker of fondness for his form, for him, and he held a glimmer of hope. "Let me show you something."

It was peculiar how his voice, even in simple requests, sounded like a demand, a command. He knew you would follow, relying on your compliance and your trust in him, a trust that no sane person would hold. And follow him, you did.

Through the dark cold hallways, with the humid, tangy smell of old carpets and the distant sound of Clair de Lune, you walked while watching his ghoulish, bandaged figure move with a wraith like grace in front of you.

Though the walk was short, it felt like an eternity. The doors to the master bedroom stood closed before you, and Ruben covered your eyes as you both entered. That sweet, nauseating smell of decay assaulted your senses as soon as the doors opened, and you tried not to lose your composure and empty your guts right there.

"██████." he spoke your name, sending shivers down your spine. His voice had always been terrifying. "Do you think I have gone mad?"

His tone was eerily calm, as if the answer wouldn't faze him, regardless of what it was.

"No."

Simple. Short. He chuckled.

"What about now?" He whispered in your ear, as he removed the hands from your face.

The stench of a decaying human corpse is said to be vastly different from that of an animal—a sickly sweetness, metallic and nauseating. The blood, the guts, the weight of a last breath being taken, all congregating as the body slowly melts into something unrecognizable.

And it was true, wasted away before you, distinct from the sight of a poor, discarded deer on the roadside. They looked at you with that vacant stare, milky irises in bloodshot eyes, a horrified expression, dried rivulets of tears on their graying skin, sharp features a bit familiar. "Who..."

"My parents." Ruben confirmed your suspicions. His hands slowly slid down from your face to your shoulders, keeping you firm and close to him, steady as a reassurance,  and a threat that you wouldn't be able to run if you even thought of it. "They thought I had gone mad, they treated me like a mental case, so I ended them. Do you think they are right, ██████?"

You hesitated, aware that answering in the affirmative might seal your fate, mirroring that of his parents. Fear washed over you, leaving you pale and trembling. Ruben reveled in your fearful expression, the glassiness in your eyes, the tremor of your freezing hands. He thought that perhaps he wouldn't have to kill you if you said the wrong thing, maybe he wouldn't even be capable of doing so. That he could resort to even worse measures, keeping you to himself completely.

"No." You said, securely, and you could feel the tension fade out from his touch.

He stepped forward, transformed into a man unlike the one you had grown accustomed to seeing. His lanky figure shed its bandages, replaced by a tattered, bloodstained white coat that revealed his charred skin underneath, letting your gaze wander much to his delight. His hawk-like eyes softened, yet still watched you like prey.

"You're a smart one," He began with a chuckle "You see, our paths have been marred by suffering, by the atrocities committed by others. Atrocities committed by ourselves, in the name of knowledge and in the name of a better world..."

"In the name of grief" You whispered,  breaking his rant. Despite the fact that he did not appreciate being interrupted, he could appreciate that you knew what you were talking about. That he did not have to hide himself, to hide the depths of his feelings, of his despair in front of you, because ultimately you too had felt the same feelings that alienated him from the rest of humanity. "I didn't want to lose Uncle Wes. I couldn't do anything when he lay cold and lifeless before me. I couldn't bring back my aunt, or anyone... perhaps I could have brought Eleanor back..." You narrowed your eyes at him, not accusingly, but inquisitively, searching for signs of the same twisted logic that plagued your own mind. "Laura. Did you do it to bring her back?"

A pang pierced his heart.

"Yes," he nodded. "To see her one last time."

You nodded once, fixing an unblinking gaze upon him. Reaching out, you took his hand in yours, careful not to harm his burned skin. It mirrored the tenderness you had shown him when changing his bandages at Beacon, a gesture that had made him feel vulnerable in your presence.

"Perhaps... perhaps you're right. And perhaps you and I could find solace in each other," you whispered, your voice trembling and on the verge of choking. Your eyes remained locked with his as he leaned in, his free hand caressing your cheek, the cold, leather-like texture of his skin feeling heavenly in that moment. "A sliver of understanding amidst the madness."

With that, he closed the distance, pressing his lips against yours in a chaste kiss that made your heart skip a beat.

The silent observers, the lifeless bodies of his parents, were right; Ruben had indeed gone mad. And so had you.