The Melting Mind of One Fictum Ernest

Epilogue

I finish recounting my story with all of the weirdness intact, minus the mental breakdowns. The police opposite me in the integration room don't like me from what I can gather, their cacophony of sighs cluing me in to a profound annoyance.

"so, you knew Dmitri?" one of the three spoke up, although they didn't seem happy about it.

"I worked with his ghost, were you not listening?" (why are you even answering?) (you sound insane) "they asked nicely, you should try it Herod" I chuckle, looking at an the overly bright bulb above me. The interview room door was pushed open, the hinges screeching as rust was peeled off by the motion, the man that talked through wore a suit, every piece the same paper bag shade of brown, their features sagging from age and the consequences of hedonistic lifestyle. The other police left without sharing a single word with the overweight man.

"good morning, Mr Ernest, I'm detective Vespillo" arrogance is like a fingerprint, everyone has their own unique way of going about it, and I can't help but find this smug tone familiar. "where are you from?" every subsequent word irritated me, I was no certain I had heard it before, and I was even more certain I just didn't like this guy.

"me? Oh, I'm from Lemuria" (and you're calling them smug?) I'm observant, that doesn't mean I'm not a hypocrite.

"that's odd, were you not buried in Tallinn?" the detective was not blinking,

"how- "

"we are aware you killed Alexi, Dmitri but most importantly Issigmth" it would appear that they hate me as well, even if they choose to hide it in a veil of smug professionalism.

"so, you're one of Dmitri's?" I sigh.

"he was a tool of ours" The detective grabs the side of the metal table, leaning forward to stand over me. (you think they would've just cut their losses) (the dull make great enemies) I rise from my folding metal throne and take a stride toward the door.

"Sit Down." His voice presumed authority he could not actually muster; I turn to respond none the less.

"stick your riddles up your cloaked ass Limbus" I offer them my middle finger to reiterate my stance, this upsets them or so I would assume from the fact they burst into a spiral of cloth, mainly wool, cotton and sparse burlap, the laundry typhoon then snapped into the form of a cloak that bent around the space in four dimensional spirals.

"you know my name, but nothing of the legend, nothing of the isles of Pangea nor-" he continued to rant for twenty odd minutes about the rise and fall of some great place or thing, maybe a king I zoned out.

I am finally bored enough to interrupt them.

"are you done?" I muster every ounce of apathy at my disposal, to which a crack travelled out from the centre of the integration room's one-way window, a web of semi translucent white lines which only grew as Limbus spoke.

"we created you, yet you feel superior. Bizarre and arrogant" as the pot proceeds to call the kettle black I snap back with a bit more venom than I had been aiming for.

"I created me. I clawed myself back from beyond the brink and dug myself through 6 feet of dirt, Death took me but could not keep me because of my action and my own goddamn will. Did no one tell you what a revenant is?" Limbus glided across the room to be just an inch away from me, his cowl glaring at my cocky expression with palpable indigence.

"scum." He sneered mostly to himself at the cost of my smile growing wider (can you handle this already?)

"fine" I place a hand into the cloak.

"what are you-" humour leaves limbus's voice as I rip out their soul, which in contrast to the human soul of Dmitri or whatever Issigmth was, appeared as nothing more than a matte pellet. "Possessions appeared to be a weak adhesive in my limited experience" the whirling fabric crumples to the floor with no fanfare "last words?"

"Blah-Blah-Blah" honesty was not listening, but he sounded loud and angry in the periphery of my attention.

I drop a shattered pellet into the recycling bin on my way out of the police station, not sure which bin it belongs in, but I know it belongs in one of them.

"any ideas lads?" I ask aloud while I wander through the street under the midday sun, no one really cared to look at a guy talking to himself. (we could try out hand at a bit of gambling, I've always enjoyed blackjack) of course Naja knows how to count cards, cheating and numbers are like his two favourite things (A fight would be meditative) no- (or preferably we could­-) ... Jesus Christ, I'm not repeating that.

"Naja you said the only normal thing so I guess we're hitting up a blackjack table" as I turn the next corner my thoughts of revelry are contrasted against the sudden sight of rat corpses littering the street, all skinned and upon further inspection placed with some sort of pattern, forming a rough circle at the centre of which there was a patch of scorched asphalt (hrk- that's disgusting) curiosity nags at me and it must have come through in my expression (wait a minute-) "c'mon you can't say you aren't a little interested" (I assure you any intrigue is greatly outweighed by disgust) (and cowardice. Do take a closer look Fictum) "well, nothing better to do."