[Fyodor D. X Reader] Birds in the House of the Living

01: Insouciance, lack of, thereof

One year.

It has been exactly one year, down to the dates and the hour of the day you were freed from death. Not much happened after.

What did you feel, exactly? Was it a relief; witnessing the blood of the masses just to free a single human? Or were you relieved because somehow, someone out there deems you as a person so important that a hundred of lives sacrificed to save yours was a good trade? As if.

Maybe you were disappointed, were you? No, that can't be. You weren't suicidal - but you didn't mind dying.

That man. He was the one who saved you. What is he after? Why did he save you? Those questions buzzed through your ears like unkillable mosquitos. Once you start questioning, more and more of those questions appear uninvited, and you can't evict them out of your head.

Your human connection deprived brain can't help but to occasionally find itself thinking of that man when the silence gets too loud. What is that feeling? What do people call it.. Love? No, that's not it. Infatuation is the right word. How amusing for someone who hadn't dared to call him by his name.

Each day was no different than the rest.

Your daily activities consisted of leading the life of a street performer, of course, other than hiding yourself from the government.. 'The Puppeteer', that's what the locals called you. You were unfailing in your so-called business.

Usually, the elderly in the park would be amazed by your performance, they'd praise you for your personality and how much you differ from the people of your generation. Oftentimes they give you money not just for your performance, but just for being.. You. It often gives them a sense of hope that not all young people are affiliated with gangs and criminal activities. Let them think that way; behind the warmth you radiate to them, you were a death row escapee with several kill counts.

You would be paid to perform in childrens' birthday parties, and children would come by and visit you. You had earned the trust of the people by just acting out a role as a humble street performer. There was even a child similar to you, always with their doll friend. Yumeno Kyusaku was their name if your memory did not betray you. They were ecstatic to see your puppet friend, and gave you a hefty just because they favored you.

Despite people constantly being all over you, it's a bit.. Lonely. You can't help but to feel like you were a mere human shaped alien trying to blend in with others. None of these people had ever found themselves in a situation where they're forced to plunge themselves down to the abysmally dark aspects of human life.

Like an apex predator in the wild, it's as if once you've killed one of your own, you can never be considered as a being of one of them anymore.

You were addicted to murder. You didn't want to acknowledge it; your sins. You bury them deep until you can't even dig them out of its soil anymore, leaving no room for self reflection.

It is to say that this occupation of yours was surprisingly stable, you weren't struggling with money at all. You have enough money for food, and paying rent comes easy for you. Most of your income was from the locals, and at night time Puppet would pickpocket and steal from drunkards.

..And there he is.

With his rough movements akin to the infamous Pinocchio, a stash of cash was hiding itself inside his mechanically agaped mouth, leaving your hands to withdraw the money from it.

He was like a roommate, someone to keep you company. Having his soul attached to a wooden carved puppet meant that he wasn't a mouth for you to feed. He did not eat, he did not drink, he did not breathe, but conscience he did, and he has none, that's why he steals and kills for you.