MANIAC - Hatred & Love (Book 1)

Chapter 2

He didn’t dare look away – transfixed by the flames before him, reflecting in his glassy eyes. He felt immobile, held captive by the bright light that was swallowing his home. ’Murderer’, he managed to think passively, directing the word as much to the fire as he did himself.  He had seen the fire starting but hadn’t stopped it or hollered for help. Instead he was fascinated at how beautiful it looked when it grew. Like life. Life was swallowing life, he thought ironically to himself. 'Then what is the difference between life and death?’ He was muzzled by the concept as he quietly observed the flames. He was aware that it was likely his parents were inside the building, which at that moment just made his anticipation that much bigger. He turned his attention to the eerie beauty of the flames again. He felt the warmth that radiated off of them as much as he felt the cold of their intentions. It would be cruel to put the fire out anyways. He didn’t feel it was his job to play God. The fire needed this to survive – to be able to grow and stay alive it needed to feed; it needed energy; it needed to consume what was nearest its birth. The boy had seen the fire been born. It had started out of nothing really. He had been swinging back and forth, counting each time the swing reached its top. It was dark outside. Suddenly it had appeared, lighting up the night like it wanted his attention. He’d seen it because the playground was just outside his house. As horror numbed him, the feeling of wonder had grabbed him before he could react, leaving him in awe. His parents were sleeping. They thought he was sleeping too but sly as he was, he had managed to sneak out. He loved nighttime. The boy was merely 9 years old but tended to hold many thoughts in his head, causing his parents to repeatedly tell him that he was thinking too much. Maybe they’d be proud of him if they knew how still he felt at the moment – how only one single name resonated in his brain, even though he had no idea what or who it was. He decided that he’d tell them later, oblivious to the fact he’d never seen them again – Oblivious to what death really meant. Or maybe he wasn’t, but was holding on to the idea of them. Even if they died it didn’t mean the idea of them would vanish. Maybe he understood death better than any other human would ever be capable of. The name in his head kept echoing stronger until he felt he was sharing it with the fire. ’Zagan wants you, Eurynome. Zagan. Zagan...’

 

Zagan. Zagan. Za- he awoke and sat up abruptly. Sweat was making the sheets cling to him and he suddenly felt desperate to get them off of him in case he’d never be able to escape. He climbed out of bed and made his way towards the balcony where the cool air hit him as soon as he opened the door. The stone-floor of the balcony was cold beneath his bare feet. It was comfortable though – Made him certain he was really awake. He propped his elbows onto the reeling, sucking the cigarette he lit.

This was starting to become a bad habit, he noted as the smoke exited with the heavy exhale through his nose. He was referring to his smoking but really, you could say the dream, even though it wasn't his choice, had become a habit too. Definitely a bad habit. It was the same nightmare every time, always waking him up in the middle of the night, causing him to crave drawing unhealthy smoke into his lungs.

”Bitch”, he said through gritted teeth, not directing it towards anyone. It was just to vent his frustration, as he ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes to visualize the haunting pictures before him. The nightmare was a memory from his past that he’d hopelessly tried to forget. It wasn’t the whole fire-thing that was bothering him really. It wasn’t the death of his parents. It was the name that haunted him, leaving him paralyzed with dread – or anticipation, and then waking up in the midst to find his body had been in a state of agitation and reacting of its own by twisting, sweating, disheveling his sheets. He was kind of ashamed of himself for that: A nightmare being able to shake him up – a name being able to cause shivers of excitement and fear. He wasn’t one to lose his composure. What he had felt before he had executed his mission – the impatience and the urge – had caused him to act in a way that wasn’t him. That too left him embarrassed. Not the rush from killing Sylvester – No, that had felt great – but the whole unease feeling before that. He should be able to keep his cool! He was always cold, indifferent and uncaring, acting only on a sense of what was expected, even if it never brought him the feelings he tried to feel. Hence the sex. It didn’t give him any emotional satisfaction, but at least he could bury himself in the feelings of his dick. Man, I sound like a girl, obsessing over feelings, he thought to himself in bitter humor and let the remains of his cigarette go. It slowly made its way down the balcony, towards the ground, glow spilling, until he couldn’t see it anymore. Tomorrow (or later today to be exact) he’d report to Boss. Boss who was brother to Sam. Sam who had brought him in shortly after his parents death. Aidan had fled from the burning house at the same moment he had heard sirens, only because something told him so. He had been living on the streets, picked pockets and tried to get by. Sam had found him sitting in one of his usual spots which he thought no one else knew about. He went inside again, leaving the door open to let some air in. He slouched on the couch and drifted through show after show with remote in hand. His expression was blank, emotionless, of course.