"You never talk, my darling..." he said, putting his 4th cigarette on a dirty ashtray that perfectly described his surroundings; A cancerous mess, papers were scattered in the dark room like he was placing prayers to protect himself. And god forbid his colleagues ever mentioned the smell of hard liquor and cheap cigs. His thin limbs crackled, as he lifted he's body from the leather office chair and approached a small box hidden on his mantle piece. There was always a theatrical notion to his movements, as his fingers grazed the wood like it was worth more than his own life... "But you let me see everything.... more clearly..." His southern accent, scratched at his vocal cords. He opened the box with precision, to reveal his muse, his darling, the chemicals that made him see his wife in the shadows; A box of vials filled with fear toxin. He took a one in his boney hands, analysing it... Before downing it in one go; the fowl tasting liquid made him choke as it ran down his throat like acid, though, he enjoyed the pain, like he enjoyed the company that it would bring. He stumbled down onto the desk, the empty glass vial, discarded, much like his childhood. He looked up, his vision pulsating with memories, old fears and traumas; nothing he hadn't adapted too before. After a few minutes... He saw her, his so called wife, a large shadow with blank, dead eyes. He watched her, though he wasn't sure if it was a her... All he knew is that her presence felt like his dead wife, Ellie Crane... The comfort she brought to him, the feeling of being two broken shards and still fitting together; he dearly missed that.
But just as he reached out to touch the cold dark pressure that consumed the room, she vanished... and in a fit of rage, he slammed his fist onto his desk. He's brain, just like it always did, was adapting, like it needed to survive; making the fear toxins he had consumed, not last as long as he wanted.
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