Opia.

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monachopsis. n. the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place, as maladapted to your surroundings as a seal on a beach—lumbering, clumsy, easily distracted, huddled in the company of other misfits, unable to recognize the ambient roar of your intended habitat, in which you’d be fluidly, brilliantly, effortlessly at home.

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Three days went by, with Kimmon locked up in his hell-house.

The term 'hell-house' being used quite literally to describe his home.

The weirdness had been more evident than ever. The shiver inducing noises of doors closing and opening, and of padding in his wodden floor, and of his coffe-machine starting up randomly at times during the day, were becoming usual to him. He was used to the strangeness now, he was living with it. Kim had been alone up until a few weeks ago, that was when something had crawled inside the house, making room for itself, and claiming it as his home.

Kim had said, days ago, that the presence he could feel was not evil. He had said it had been useful to him, it had kept him company, it had served as a way to lock the sollitude away. And Kimmon had liked it there, even if it sounded odd, Kim had been getting accoustomed to something making him feel less alone in the world. Because it had always been him so far; himself and his thoughts and his guitar.

Yet lately, the presence had turned darker. And now Kimmon wasn't feeling as if he had a roommate anymore. On the contrary. Kim was feeling as if someone had stolen his home and had made it theirs, and was now trying to push Kimmon away from it. The house was theirs now, Kim could sense.

The presence wanted him gone.

And now every day that passed, Kim was becoming more scared, and he could barely sleep at all. Because at night, the thing became even darker. And Kim could hear doors opening, and cabinets shutting loudly, and the padding was almost deafening, almost going in sync with his erratic heartbeat. It seemed as if it wanted Kim to hear, it wanted Kim to listen to what it wanted to tell him.

And Kimmon didn't understand. What was the thing trying to tell him?

Kim wouldn't get it this way either, he couldn't think about it when he could hear things; when he could see lights turning on in the rooms across the hall; when he could feel fingertips gracing his shoulders at night, when the darkness was prevailing.

Kim couldn't think; he just wanted to flee.

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Kim hadn't been going to work, either,  his deppresive mood not letting him leave. He didn't want to encounter Bas, he didn't want the angel to see him like this; destroyed.

Bas was confusing him, he was not being clear nor fair with Kim. He had been the one to ignore him, not the other way around. How did he dare turn the whole blame to him? He had no right. He may be the love of Kim's life, but that didn't entail him to lie, and point fingers, and lay everything onto him, like a dump truck. Because it was making Kim feel squashed.

Kim loved him with his whole heart. Everytime the angel was near, Kim could feel a little sprinkle of magic tainting his usually black heart back into color. It felt as if he was giving it life again. Kim hadn't felt like this for a very long time, he hadn't been this happy ever since his parents' death.