"Gloating, are you?" The accusation dropped from his mouth, not as it should have—a weapon sharpened and thrown—but like a shard of glass coughed up from a wounded place. A pathetic thing, brittle as old bone, yet full of exposed nerve endings begging for a touch.
He wanted it to bleed more.
"Oh, I would never. One cannot forget the monster under their bed." An intimate hush threaded through his voice, wretchedly tender. A brush of his hand, settling on his forearm. His thumb caught the jut of his wrist bone, smoothed over its curve as though to calm the beast. Or coax it out.
Insolent fingers. He would grind them to splinters. Soon. Next heartbeat, maybe. Or the one after that.
The song went silent. He stared at that hand, tan against pale parchment, ink-stained fingers and worn knuckles. In his mind's eye, he saw himself skewering the appendage on his dagger, the same one gifted to him by that very hand. Piercing between the second and third metacarpal bones, scraping against the hard surface of the table. Gortash's outraged howl. Yellowed paper drinking up the blood, scribbled lines drowning in red.
"Come," the anomaly of a man murmurs, unfazed by the insanity lurking below your surface, and tugs on your arm, sliding his grip down to loosely entwine his fingers with yours. "My car's over here." He gives a mild pull, not enough to force your body into motion but a weight sufficient to prompt the movement of your feet. How natural his guidance, his leadership, feels to you. Why does this keep happening? Is it so obvious that you're lost, that you lack direction and purpose, or does every other soul respond to his authority so instinctively?
Without awaiting your reply, he pops the latch and swings open the door, letting the cool night air in. Disappears from the car's interior, his voice trailing behind him, telling you to come along. Your feet obey, not caring if your mind's still undecided. One after the other, the simple, thoughtless movement of following after the Pied Piper, who plays a tune that bewitches the dumb animal that you are.
He reminds you of her. How she toyed with her inferiors, like a bored cat pawing at a mouse and letting it think itself free before delivering the coup de grâce. How she lured the flies into her web and drew out their torment, extracting every last ounce of pleasure from the struggle. Brought the fun to a premature conclusion only when the annoyance factor outweighed the enjoyment derived from their wriggling.
You itch to eliminate the nuisances and make him happy.
Amidst his aimless swiping, a quiet frustration began to simmer within him. His thumb tapped restlessly against the screen, a metronome to his growing discontent, the initial amusement souring into a familiar bitterness. Was he doomed to be an island unto himself, cast adrift in a sea of mediocrity, destined to find no harbour in the arms of another?