Nails raked over rotten, crisped and discolored skin, slowly peeling it off without a twitch. He didn’t bleed. It was all dried up and black. Or it wasn’t at all. It didn’t hurt either. He couldn’t care less for pain. He was home. He was alone. He never hid his true figure when he was alone. It reminded him of the past. The past after the past. Not the past that was life. The past that was after life. Was that confusing? Not to him. He’d been stuck there for such a long time, life seemed to be something that was just a dream. A dream that he’d forgot. There were only vivid moments of real emotions and their memories left. He didn’t remember the faces. He wasn’t even sure whether the face he’d hid himself behind was the real past life him. He didn’t care.
He usually ended up in the old house alone. He didn’t know how. Even if he was cities away, he would feel an urge, something more of an urge, something that came with… well, being dead. He felt the need to be where he died. He never did much there. He played around with unwanted visitors. Spooked them a little. Hurt them a little. Or more. Depended on his mood.
This one particular visitor, however, was something else. Something was off about them. They didn’t feel the same as anyone else. As if they were empty and full at the same time. As if they were light and dark. Although he was curious, Dominic did what he always did when something set foot in his house. He disappeared. He watched the Thing go up the stairs and he watched him go to His room. He hated that room. He never went into that room. He stood outside the door, watching the other. There was no expression on his face from the emotions he’d long decided never to feel again. When the Thing turned and looked exactly at him, however, Dom felt something strange. It was like the Thing was staring through him, yet at him at the same time. Like he was looking right at his soul. He felt naked. And maybe intimidated? His old self was peeking through. He didn’t know.
Swallowing, he shook it off quickly. Nothing bad could happen to him. He was already DEAD.
❛ You need to leave. ❜
“Frankly, I can do whatever I want, same as you.” He spoke very very quickly, no emphasis or upturned vowels as any normal speech pattern would have. Then again, Olly wasn’t normal. “So you know, death is not the worst thing that can happen to you.” He takes a step further into the room, walking a path around where the bed would have been and around the dresser, staring at the empty space as though he was admiring furniture that in reality had long since burnt up and been tossed out. His comment had been so off hand and misplaced, so tossed aside it was like Olly hadn’t even said it.
“You have her eyes, you know. At least what I assume they would have looked like before you let them melt out of her skull,” he smiled and let the last syllable drag out long and cold, turning his head back to the rotten ghost boy and cracking his neck in the process. “She screamed for you, you know, rushed in to get you. I wonder if she ever put together it was your fault. What name did she yell for, hm?” He stepped around the invisible bed again and made his way closer, seeming to lead with his gaze first and his feet a yard behind him. “Oh come now, little brat, you must remember a simple name?”
