Spoiler! :
He was waiting for her in the study, the place of his birth. He stood in front of her desk with his back to the doorway, running a gnarled finger back and forth across the five-toned scale of the miniature wind chimes. His left fingers twitched nervously about the side of his head, twisting and tugging on the dark hair above his ear. The sleeves of his ratty jacket rustled with each motion. He always wore that shredded piece of leather – it had become something of a signature.
She was not surprised to see him, but the sight of him nevertheless made her tremble. She stood in the doorway, glued to the threshold like a child terrified to enter a dark room for fear of the monsters hiding within. She was certain he was aware of her presence; he always was. He was waiting for her, though, to speak.
“Get out of my head, Daemon,” she called with manufactured strength. He silenced the chimes with the back of his hand but did not turn to face her. His shoulders shook with inaudible laughter. She shifted uneasily in the doorway, her supply of the artificial confidence having run out.
“Come to try again, Charlotte?”
No response. What could she say? He was right. He was always right. She could almost feel his thin, knowing smile at her silence.
“Have a seat.” He stretched forward his right hand, his left still picking at his head, and indicated her desk chair. With a stilted gait, she walked across the room and took her seat, facing him. His face was gaunter than she remembered, his cheeks wide craters in the livid flesh. His eyes had lost their lonely, melancholy expression long ago, replaced by cloudy-blue marbles. He met her gaze and she immediately lowered her head, shaking.
“Please, Daemon,” she whispered, “let me be.”
He laughed. It was a brittle, hollow sound as if you could snap it in half like a dead twig. He sensed her discomfort, which pulled out further laughter.
“Quit making me laugh, dear. It gives me a headache,” he said, reaching for the glass of water on the desk.
She stared at the fidgeting left hand as he raised the glass to his cracked lips and drained it gulp by gulp.
“What do you want?” she blurted. His lips hinted at a smile, but twisted suddenly in disgust.
“Your desk is a mess,” he commented, placing the empty glass back on her desk.
It was true, of course. A typewriter occupied the majority of the desktop, surrounded by worthless office toys and cups holding bouquets of pens and dirty dishes from last week’s meals. God only knows what could have been hiding under the mass of crumpled papers.
“Fine,” she spat in a sudden wave of rage, rocketing out of her chair. “You want me to clean my desk? I’ll clean the stupid desk!” She swept her arms wildly across the desk, pushing a waterfall of balled paper over the edge. She hit the glass, knocking it over and spilling water across the wooden surface. She threw herself backing into the chair and buried her face in her wet arms.
He had been observing her calmly and now let out another transparent laugh, despite the pain in his head.
“Why are you doing this to me, Daemon? I know you. This isn’t like you.”
He grinned and plopped himself down in the dusty grey chair by his side. He swung his legs up and planted his heel on the desk, ankles crossed. He overturned a cup of pens, causing them to spill out in the shape of a fan.
“You only know what you wanted me to be. I would like to invite you to get to know me now; I’m much more interesting than I ever was under your pen.”
She clamped down on her lower lip to keep it from trembling, breaking the skin and drawing blood.
And through it all, his left hand still twisted, still pulled, still scratched the dark hair.
“Please…stop!” she begged.
He glared at her, not a trace of amusement left to play on his lips. With tauntingly slow movements, he lowered his feet and stood, plucked a couple of strands of brown hair from his scalp, and sprinkled them onto the typewriter, a mocking gesture.
Avoiding his gaze, she concentrated on the cup, upright and untouched.
“You’re here to kill me, aren’t you?” she muttered.
He smiled at her and loomed over the desk. She flinched as his shadow swallowed her.
“I’m not the one with the gun in my desk, Charlotte.”
She forced herself to meet his gaze. The corners of his pallid lips were curled slightly, and for a moment, the dead, milky blue eyes flashed. She understood the command and robotically obeyed.
She removed the gun from the drawer.
“Why, Daemon?” she cried under her breath. He needed no further clarification.
“I spent my life playing the part of the puppet. Now, Charlotte, I’m ready for us to switch roles.” He paused for a moment before adding, “Let’s be sure to make this your last try, shall we?”
She turned the gun over in her hands under his impatient eye.
“Go on,” he murmured.
She didn’t move.
“Just do it,” he hissed, irritation raising his voice.
“I don’t want to.”
“You don’t want to?” He was yelling now. “Did you ever think that maybe I didn’t want to either? You never gave me that option!”
He turned angrily to the side and lowered his hand for the first time, giving her the full impact of the small blossom of dark hair in a field of platinum blonde.
She burst into tears and looked away from the hole, from the foggy blue eyes that used to be such a beautiful shade of brown, from the pale cheeks that used to be so rosy.
“Do it!” he shouted over her head.
She screamed in horror and agony as she positioned the gun to her temple. She gave him one last look through her tears, imploring him for mercy.
But he laughed.
She squeezed her eyes shut, spilling tears down her face. She alternated between sputtered apologies and pleads.
“Do it now!”
The crack of the gunshot was beautiful, he thought.
She slumped forward onto the desk. He breathed in the smell of the crimson liquid that spattered her expensive rug and chair. He dipped his fingers in the accumulating pool of blood under her head and painted his smiling lips with it.
His image began to flicker as he soaked his hands in the thick, warm substance. The room was filled with the sound manic laughter until he vanished completely.
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