Atop a hill on the edge of a small town there sits a lonely house with a sour aura. There you will find a man with stitches running around his neck, a chip on his shoulder, and a gun at his hip. If you have dallied in the dark, played with demons, o...
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Eight Years Ago
Of the many vodka induced rants that Margaret's mother had plagued her with in childhood, there was one piece of advice she had given which stuck in Margaret's head: "Feeding a man, is like feeding a stray cat, do it once, and they'll expect it every day". A bit basic, but, amidst her paranoid ramblings against the government, and big business, it was certainly a pearl of wisdom. Ever touting herself to be an innovator, Margaret had expanded on it over the years: Don't make them expect it, make them want it. Hence, her ritual, which, in a way, had become her signature, that, if she ever spent the night with a man, to awaken well in his advance and cook breakfast only for herself, leaving behind nothing but the dirty dishes and the scent, the promise of a delicious meal, if they played their cards right. Of course, it was hardly foolproof, she'd received more than a share of angry voice messages the day after, but, she had often found the risk well worth the reward. Even though none had lasted, the men she had ended up with at least knew what they wanted.
"Paprika...paprika..." Margaret muttered absentmindedly while running her finger over the spice rack all while her breakfast sizzled in the pan.
It was nothing astounding on her part, she had made it a policy to never take too much, a simple omelet, onions, peppers, little bits of ham. She had finished with the bacon and was ready to fold the sheet of cooked eggs, if only she could find a pinch of paprika to throw on top of it, when she heard footsteps approaching. At first she berated herself for not waking up earlier, but, then again, she generally wasn't this exhausted, even after a full night. Her panic abated when she realized that the footsteps were coming from the wrong end of the hall and, to her utter surprise, a teenage boy appeared, wearing a rumpled t-shirt and black pajama bottoms, lanky, thin with a mat of silvery hair he was currently clawing his fingers through as he let out a yawn.
"What smells so..." his vision cleared and his eyes focused on Margaret, a look of understanding passing over his face as he simply nodded, "Oh," and pointed to the pan still cooking on the stove, "You might want to flip that."
"Who the Hell are you?" she demanded incredulously.
"I live here, who the Hell are you?!" he shot back then much softer, but no less urgently, "Seriously, flip that, it's starting to burn."
"Wha-OH!" Margaret looked back to her meal and saw the beginnings of smoke curling off of it before she hurriedly slid it onto a plate and cut off the burners.
Blushing now, embarrassed, she took a deep breath before turning back to her intruder.
"You live here huh?" she repeated, "Well that's funny, because he didn't mention a roommate."
"I'm his son," he replied in return, "And he wouldn't."
There was no reason to argue, he seemed to belong and he wasn't attacking her. At any rate, this was hardly the first time she'd been walked in on, besides that, the closer she looked, the more she began to notice similarities, the same ears, chin, and he certainly had Victor's golden eyes. Then her gaze fell across the stitches on his neck and she found her interest piqued.
