My feet drummed a restlessly against the pavement, propelling me towards Williamsburg's apartment in a district hushed against the city's clamour. Eight o'clock barely grazed the evening, yet car horns, impatient owners, ripped through the stillness from a distance.
Lazaros remained a radio unplugged, his usual chatter replaced by a weary silence that spoke volumes. But answers I craved. Answers like why my body, once a hungry beast, now walked cloaked in its former skin. Not that I mourned the bloodthirsty creature, but the sudden change left an acrid aftertaste. Fear.
Light spilt from Williamsburg's windows, beckoning like a lighthouse in the gathering dusk. My trainee uniform clung to me, a physical echo of the day's exhaustion etched across my face. A tentative rap against the door, a relic of their doorbell's perpetual absence.
Mrs. Williamsburg opened the door, her eyes, pools of unwavering calm, taking me in. A greeting died on my tongue, strangled by my conversational ineptitude. She didn't speak, a taciturnity I'd grown accustomed to, and led me past the living room, my gaze snagging on a previously unnoticed miniature shelf.
"Grace is with your brother," she said, the words drifting effortlessly into the air. My head swung towards her, a silent acknowledgement. Fingers intertwined, I wasn't nervous, just hesitant, unsure how to weave my questions into a tapestry of coherent speech.
"Ask," she murmured, her voice a quiet echo of my thoughts.
A sigh escaped my lips, as fragile as a butterfly's wing. "What's happening to me?" The question gnawed at my insides, a relentless ache for understanding. I was changing, yet unchanging.
Her gaze, an unwavering sunbeam, pinned me in place. Her empty hand reached for the mug nestled beside the shelf, warm steam curling around her fingers as she took a sip. Then, the words followed, each one deliberate.
"You're entering phase two," she said, the words dropping like pebbles into a still pond. "An annoying phase, I might add." A pause, pregnant with unspoken knowledge. "I can't decipher it fully, but there's more."
"More?"
"You're caught in a three-way tug-of-war," she continued, her voice low, "but the ropes won't hold forever. You'll have to choose a side, and trust me, none are particularly inviting."
Her words, cryptic tapestries, swirled around me, their meaning hazy yet unsettling.
"The sides…" I began, but her voice sliced through my question.
"One piece of advice, Roman," she said, her words sharp as glass. "Don't embrace the other side. Being a monster is preferable to whatever that is."
**
The low cry that snagged my attention was quickly dismissed, an echo swallowed by the city's din. My apartment loomed ahead, beckoning me with the promise of respite. My steps quickened as I navigated the maze of parked cars, finally crossing the bustling road and reaching my haven. Keys fumbled in my pocket, the door swung open, and I peeled off my shoes, discarding the socks saturated with the day's sweat.
My footsteps led me towards my room, as I expected Thomas to be in his room. However, a lurking figure, retailed in the gloom's embrace, startled me. It wasn't Lazaros, though I should have anticipated her presence.
"Your room is lovely," Grace's voice, a melody laced with secrets, floated in the darkness. The room, draped in shadows, was her canvas. She emerged from the gloom, bathed in the sliver of light slicing through the window, her face partially illuminated.
Grace.
"I thought you'd left," I said, my eyes locked on hers, unable to fathom her reason for being here, in my locked room.
A shrug, timorous and slight, turned her away, her gaze drawn to the window. "I did," she admitted, her voice a whisper. "But I overheard your conversation with my mother, and..." her head swung around, her eyes, pools of unsullied honesty, meeting mine. "I came back."
Intrigued, I watched as she shifted away from the window, settling on the couch. A silent invitation I almost accepted, except my feet betrayed me, carrying me to the bed instead.
"What did you hear?" I finally asked, the silence thickening like fog.
Her head dropped, then rose, a flicker of uncertainty dancing in her eyes before being banished. "You're entering phase two."
Ah, the annoying phase. A concept shrouded in my head.
"What's phase two?" I pressed, a knot of anxiety tightening in my chest.
"An awakening, the virus coursing through your veins is called Abyssal Stain," she murmured, her gaze flitting nervously to the floor. Hesitation marred her features, as if she wrestled with an invisible decision. "Phase one is supposed to bring death, yet you show no signs of succumbing." Her eyes, pools of innocence, held mine unflinchingly. Mrs. Williamsburg and Grace were worlds apart, and I wouldn't have had it any other way.
The urge to query her knowledge pulsed within me, but I curbed it, eager to absorb her next revelation.
"You should have withered like a corpse, parched and dried for days," she elaborated, her voice laced with grim foreboding. "Every cell would decay, your humanity extinguished. But for you, that remains unfulfilled."
"Why?" The question tumbled out, raw and desperate.
Her brow furrowed, torn between apprehension and resolve. "I- I don't know," she admitted honestly. "But I have seen things, and I know you have too." Her gaze, sharp as a hawk's, pierced my face. "Boney bodies," she whispered, the word seeming to stick in her throat.
As much as I longed to feign surprise, it wouldn't land. I hadn't breathed a word about the skeletal event to Mrs. Williamsburg, so Grace couldn't have gleaned that detail from our conversation.
Sensing my thoughts, she preempted my unspoken question. "I can... glimpse things," she clarified, her voice barely above a tremor. "When I touch people, their thoughts and fears unfurl before me."
But she hadn't touched me.
"My blood courses through your veins," she explained, her fingers tracing an invisible line upon my skin. "That's how you see and hear them. And I still bear your mark, a faint echo on my neck. A tethered connection."
Her explanation, however, sparked a new line of inquiry. "What are you?"
My abrupt question didn't ruffle her composure. A ghost of a smile flitted across her lips before she spoke, her voice steady and clear.
"I'm human, born into a lineage of beings who defy easy categorization. The only twist is a genuine diagnosis of dissociative personality disorder," she revealed, the unexpected confession catching me off guard.
"You have multiple personalities?" I echoed, incredulity lacing my tone.
"They're more than personalities," she corrected softly, almost inaudibly. "Separate entities, individuals not of flesh and blood, but something infinitely more."
I remained silent, captivated by her unfolding story. Each word she uttered chipped away at the wall of secrecy, revealing the intricacies of her extraordinary burden. Her gaze flickered, betraying a flicker of internal conflict. She knew she was treading on dangerous ground, yet, at that moment, it seemed she needed to shed the weight of silence.
"Your parents must be immensely powerful beings," I remarked casually, sensing her reluctance to elaborate further. Her eyes, which had fallen inwards, darted towards the window, seeking solace in the vast expanse beyond.
"Only my father," she answered, her voice a mere whisper. "My mother was human."
I offered a silent nod, understanding washing over me despite her averted gaze.
"Is your father still with you?" I queried gently.
"Both are gone," she replied, her voice barely audible.
Silence descended, heavy and pregnant with unspoken words. Then, in a hushed tone, she added, "My mother isn't my mother. She's one of my entities, disguised as my mother to blend in."
My breath hitched, the world tilting on its axis. This reality, already teetering on the edge of the fantastical, had just performed a triple axel into the realm of the bizarre. It was getting weirder and harder.