06-07-2022, 01:24 AM
(This post was last modified: 06-09-2022, 01:41 AM by Malachi Brennan.)
[CW: drug abuse, allusions to violence, blood, injuries]
He looked like a murderer.
He looked like he’d been murdered.
He felt like both.
Malachi took one good look at the outside of the shady excuse for a doctor’s office he’d slept in, and took off. Faster than he’d ever bothered. Through more alleyways and side-streets than he’d ever dared. He couldn’t afford to be seen, not like this, not drenched in blood and covered in more bruises and bites than skin.
He memorized quickly the path he took, the names of every street that led back to him, and crossed them off the map of where he would ever go again. It was still morning when he reached the presbytery, and he slipped in the way he always did: stealthily, practiced, invisible. If there was anything he knew how to do, it was disappear and not be found.
The dark red ensemble from the previous night’s masquerade was exchanged for a familiar black and white. His collar felt stiff against his neck, scratching at the marks he couldn’t hide. He cleaned himself of blood, and sweat, and everything else that had dirtied him on his way home, but the marks were still there.
It hadn’t been long by the time he walked outside. He could clean up quick, and there was nothing to be done about the rest. The bruise on his jaw. The cut on his brow. The incisions spread across his swollen knuckles.
The dilated pupils, endlessly black.
“Father!” an older woman’s voice called as soon as he stepped out. Malachi didn’t turn around, but she approached with haste, grabbing at his elbow.
“Father, we were worried sick! Your–”
Malachi jerked his arm out of her grasp, face stained with a pained grimace. A gasp sounded from her, the poor, caring lady that organized their music. “Father! Wh- what happened to you? Are you alright? Father, come inside, let me take a look at you.”
“My what?”
“Your face, Father – oh, how could this happen? Who did this to you?”
“You said,” he bit out, still not looking at her, “your. My what?”
She stared at him, wide-eyed and concerned, before it clicked.
“Y-… your niece, Father, she… she came by looking for you. I-I think she just stepped out to find you – Father, please, come inside,” she reached for his arm again, but Malachi was quicker, moving out of her reach.
Ignoring her shouts of protest, he did not turn around and go back inside. He cut a path through the grass and hopped back down onto the street to look for his niece.
He looked like a murderer.
He looked like he’d been murdered.
He felt like both.
Malachi took one good look at the outside of the shady excuse for a doctor’s office he’d slept in, and took off. Faster than he’d ever bothered. Through more alleyways and side-streets than he’d ever dared. He couldn’t afford to be seen, not like this, not drenched in blood and covered in more bruises and bites than skin.
He memorized quickly the path he took, the names of every street that led back to him, and crossed them off the map of where he would ever go again. It was still morning when he reached the presbytery, and he slipped in the way he always did: stealthily, practiced, invisible. If there was anything he knew how to do, it was disappear and not be found.
The dark red ensemble from the previous night’s masquerade was exchanged for a familiar black and white. His collar felt stiff against his neck, scratching at the marks he couldn’t hide. He cleaned himself of blood, and sweat, and everything else that had dirtied him on his way home, but the marks were still there.
It hadn’t been long by the time he walked outside. He could clean up quick, and there was nothing to be done about the rest. The bruise on his jaw. The cut on his brow. The incisions spread across his swollen knuckles.
The dilated pupils, endlessly black.
“Father!” an older woman’s voice called as soon as he stepped out. Malachi didn’t turn around, but she approached with haste, grabbing at his elbow.
“Father, we were worried sick! Your–”
Malachi jerked his arm out of her grasp, face stained with a pained grimace. A gasp sounded from her, the poor, caring lady that organized their music. “Father! Wh- what happened to you? Are you alright? Father, come inside, let me take a look at you.”
“My what?”
“Your face, Father – oh, how could this happen? Who did this to you?”
“You said,” he bit out, still not looking at her, “your. My what?”
She stared at him, wide-eyed and concerned, before it clicked.
“Y-… your niece, Father, she… she came by looking for you. I-I think she just stepped out to find you – Father, please, come inside,” she reached for his arm again, but Malachi was quicker, moving out of her reach.
Ignoring her shouts of protest, he did not turn around and go back inside. He cut a path through the grass and hopped back down onto the street to look for his niece.
