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“ I have…” The sink, as weary as the man’s voice, was running down without anyone’s request. The rotten flesh of the molding marble screeched, writhed and trembled upon being leaned into by rough hands, nestled by intricately neat rubbery gloves, with each skinned fingertip making a squeaking sound upon touch and slide with the surface. The rain tattered across the small cabin, squeezing inside by small cracks on the ceiling, running down the wasted concrete and pooling onto the filthy, stomach-churningly, ground. The mud, the cries, the storm and thunder, all made their part, sang with their all-might voice, in a harmonized symphony directly by Hell itself, in all its cursed glory and sickening comedy. All prayers found themselves hopeless to such a heinous sight, all laughter withered with the sorrow. All holy creations, divine laws, violated by the hands of a sinner, who weeped and laughed to himself. All ties to good intentions cut, all doors to desperation open. All hope shall be abandoned, for whom dares to enter this godforsaken mind, to understand this wicked chimera of a spirit. A crazed terrorizer, was he, whose scythe to destruction, whose singular weapon to suicide, murder and genocide, was…

“Both… the liquor of ressurection and fresh blood on my hands.” - “It” cried in response, with deceiving lips foaming with venom, whom was kissed and delicately courted into his mouth, carnally slid into his pointy, wine-stained tongue, ardently forced into the back of his throat, lustfully digested and repelled right back up. The words it dared to mimic, pretend to understand and utter were prideful, bathed in self-pity and covered in a veil of humanity, as thin as his own definition of the concept. - “For it stenches of alcohol, the undead that were dragged six feet above by my hands, and strongly of antiseptic.”

The hands sustaining the weight of a shaking body gripped the stone surface tighter. The thin, pale arms faltered their straight stance, the clothed, weak legs barely holding on. Another sharp sob, followed by a soulfelt cough, dirtying the dusty mirror with alcoholic-infused saliva. Surely, the human limitations, being stuck in a human vessel, was exhausting, borderline excruciating. For someone who deems - or should deem - himself superior to such shackles, it was a pity he still imprisoned himself in them. The humanity that inhabited it was already long decomposed, so living inside a body you no longer belonged in, or at least alone, was futile. But there was an attachment to it, to the flesh that surrounded his bones, the heart that kept beating and beating, to the brain that kept repeating apologies, to the vocal chords that lost their ability to speak for themselves, to comprehend what’s being said. It was truly, truly a disgusting sight, of a weakened, man-made mistake, that imitated the first sin of Prometheus, and stole a force that was not his to retrieve and give away. Did he think about the monstrosity of what was done? The risk of creating life? As his hand wrapped around a blood vessel, as he carded his nails through a cold bodily tissue that was not his, did he consider how terrifying the action was and what it could lead to? How petrifyingly gross he was? Ah, but he has done it anyway. No Greek tragedy redeems a tragic hero as its suffering echoes in its mind, as it reflects on all the misfortune it has gone through, as its tears turn into the crowd’s terror and pity, entertainment, catharsis in its purest form. In short, it is still destined to die on its own, quod erat demonstrandum. The peasants would still drink his blood in a theatretical joy despite his regret. “Do I… really have the right for this?” - It dared to ask, though it knew the dire answer Of course it knew. - “The license to decide someone’s will?” - He muttered the last word, pretending he knew what it meant, for others and for himself. Will, one that was silenced by the forceful close of the faucet. Wailing must be kept silent. The damned doctor knew his cue, and purposefully tore it apart.

“But once a life is brought back” - He continued - “Bringing it back down is not an option.”

“It’s, for all, love’s fault. Compulsion’s fault.”

“After all, you knew what you were doing. Didn’t you, Viktor “Baron” Frankenstein?”

With a disruptous sigh that carried the weight of the world as he knew it, the door was slammed open. It dragged on the floor, sickeningly so. The scratching of the polished yet unkempt flooring hurt his ears, making him physically recoil. The cracked, vandalized walls of an abandoned hospital immediately came into the focus of his dark irises, his pupils dilating to process the new setting of bright colors. The purple, almost opaque light that bounced through the half-destroyed building dimly lit the cold, rancid corridors, guiding the steps of the white-vested demon through the rooms, that surprisingly, were still occupied. Voices of the sick, of the nurses, of the doctors and of the dead could be heard. The clanking of metal, the coughs and of the stabbing made unconscious conversations with each other, making sure that everyone chiming in knew what was happening, including himself. And he knew what was happening, he knew that this place was a slight centimeter from putrefaction. It was rancid, he thought to himself. It made him uneasy, the unfamiliarity and the darkness... - “Whoever comes into this unkempt place has quite the death wish” - He stated, yet, despite himself, kept walking. Wandering alone in such a place, was the equivalent and alive similarity, the explanation and exemplification of White Night’s melodramatic sight. Just like the distracting narrator that dreamed and fell in love with life itself in Saint Petersburg, he heard across the walls and what they told him about, paid attention to all and everyone around him, and relished on the later time, on the moon’s rise, to feel secure in his own body and how he was perceived by the people passing by. - “How low can people go just to get taken care of, to find salvation?” He quickly cut the train of thought off, to avoid finding his journey to be way too similar to the people he looked down upon. It was an useless energy spending habit, one that he should dispose of. After all, everyone was haunted by the same pointless wish of salvation. Everyone lets their blood run down cold just to find a glimpse of a warm “welcome home”, of familiarity, of a fervorous ballad of bodies, the pure connection of hearts and unclothed limbs, of passion. Everyone has a fixation, a figure that looms over their shoulder, laughing at their choices, tempting them into pointless love, driving their will short little by little, devoiding them of their own choices, driving them to the edge of insanity, savoring the wine of lust with tongues tied, draining them of their treasured purity, painting their spread legs lipstick red, injecting guilt and self-hatred in the places where it hurt the most; straight into the heart and mind. These people, who let themselves succumb, who can’t control their visceral, epicurean attraction for what was human and mundane, useless, deserved to be destroyed, obliterated by the harsh reality of situations to witness, of the tragedies to pass by, before it was done to them by the angels of death and justice themselves.

As if called upon, summoned by the thoughts circling in his messed, dirty, ragged brain, the one who was mentioned showed up. - “Keep telling yourself that, Baron.” - …He was certainly speaking for only himself. And he knew it. - “It’s quite the show, really… You could have just said it.”

Baron halted his pacing, not even looking behind him. This voice, this mind-wrecking voice. “Can’t you… leave me alone?” - he muttered, as lowly as his perception of his own self, looking down at his stained hands, that gave away his own criminality and guiltiness, not much on his stress and anger upon being disturbed, in such a moment of self-reflection, which could also be referred to as self-loathing, even if it was a justified hatred, as even the purest form of life and consciousness would also loathe his actions, pathetically so. His arms rested against the sides of his body, his muscles clenched as a dire attempt to keep his composure, but even so, they were in constant agitation - “I need some time to think. Please, I’ll do whatever it takes… ”

The decomposing curtains gave way to the faint moonlight to get inside. It danced along the glass shards on the floor, briefly illuminating the ceiling, to finally fall on his delicate, pale face. The jazz music from the club nearby was dizzying, slowly seeping into the cracks of his tired mind and giving a soundtrack to his sloppy despair. De facto, it wasn’t truly despair, but an overextension of his automatic task-completing, robot-like behavior that was starting to wear off. Not that he would be exactly aware of it, but observations must be made. Not that he would exactly figure out what desperation means, as his pulsating heart has gone cold and dead. Not that he would know about anything at all, as this was but a reflection of his mind, scattered and begrudgingly kaleidoscopic, lightly floating by in a spectrum of hopes and naive wishes, one more disturbing than the other; a landscape as fragile as the slight sound of the phonemes that it contained, just about ready to slip away between his fingers - the memory of it all, leaving a faint scent of lavender behind, a faint, restful sigh, to echo on his mind as far as the memory would let him replay it. A dream of efficiency can’t be lived forever, after all. A tool needs sharpening and disinfecting after being used, for it can still continue by, for it still needs to serve its filthy purpose.

“So, that was what I really came here for.” - A click of his tongue and the rubbing of his forehead. Baron continued to mindlessly walk, now with a supposed destination. - “This is messing me over...” - A whisper of his, but not that it actually mattered to him, as far as he could distinguish his own persona from his ideal self, as far as he could seek into the remnants of what he actually knew about who he was. The deepest secret of his own, that made sure to terrorize him deep within his psyche, that weighed at his inner consciousness in a way that he couldn’t ignore, was his most powerful neurosis; his instinctual pull towards what was messed up in nature, for what would make his consciousness question what it was and what it could have been, that made him quiver at the possibility of ever witnessing it happen, feeling it on his own skin. He would throw himself on burning fire, not for the selfless action of helping others, at most, but to feel it happening and to come back alive to remember what was.

“Well, if you’ve forgotten, the laundry is in the room just next to your very body….” - A slight brush of her hand to his shoulder was all she needed to do. Sneaking right behind his thin structure, pressing up against his tense muscles with meticulous strategy, roaming a hand across his curved, bent spine. Her pointy chin lightly rested against his shoulder, her mouth coming to curse his mind with a teasing, breathy whisper - “...You won't pass by it again, will you?” - The cunning voice purred just close by, along with a laugh that he swore that it would taste just like sugary decorations. Counterfeited, but undeniably sweet. A slight note of a flute, it was, one that the Snake of the First Sin would play, luring you in to hear more, with a plump, honey bathed fruit in its hands. A head-aching temptation that left a savory taste behind. - “Your clothes could use some tending to, Franken. As well as the disheveled face of yours.”

He listened to it, as intently as he could, despite not wanting to at all. He halted his pacing to finally give her the affirmation that she so much seeked. that she was able to not only affect him, but to make sure to do it when he couldn’t fight back, when all the battle in him was completely drained out, when he was out of breath. And oh, did it not work, he’d be damned to ask. He hated it, how his hips slightly leaned their weight against her cold, uncaring hands, he absolutely despised, with all his will, how he lifted his heavy head for her own to gain more access to his neck, for her words to reach further inside, hoping, yearning she would go further up, or further down. Just as much as he hated her filthy touches on his body, the way she squeezed herself into him without knocking first. He had grown used to it, he really wanted to believe he had - “That is, maybe if you quit talking for just a second…” - He snapped - “I might not.”

Baroness quickly picked up on the unusually sharp tone of his voice, gently making her way further up, slowly altering their positions so her mouth was barely touching his forehead, their bodies entangled, face to face with each other, as if to make him miss the contact, explicitly request for it. She knew it was not the time yet, and yet… - “My, oh my… Someone is quite responsive today.” - Her breath warmed his skin, leaving behind an ache that only she, who intentionally caused him, knew how to soothe. Purposefully locking the antidote away, are we…? A move worthy of its torturous delight. - "Am I finally digging my way into these weakened nerves? Isn’t that nice, Baron?” - A shot in an already dead corpse. And a perfectly aimed one at that, straight into his weakest places. All of them. Baron leaned against the wall, sliding his weary body to coat the walls. - “Truly, truly a wonderful day! Oh, I missed that heated tone of yours… You may-”

The woman, as rapidly as she appeared, ready for slaughter, retreated back into her meticulous shell, in surprise. That he was not resisting she was sure, and could comprehend, even expected for it to happen in such a dire moment of his grieving. Yet, even with her weakened senses, she swore he felt his ragged breathing hit her face, followed by the imperceptible sound of a tear-stricken gasp for much needed air. That, for sure, was strange. Frankenstein wasn’t one to show clear emotion or sadness with ease, or even at all. He was a plain-white canvas, it was practically impossible to know what was going on in his nasty mind. And as much as this trait was unassuming to one such as her, who craved for intense reaction and havoc, the opposite happening right in front of her eyes didn’t exactly cause a positive effect, as per se. Still, considering the factors she stood for, a show must be continued until the curtain falls, and a perfect smile must be kept until the entire theatre finds itself empty. Such a harsh reality, it was, but it was terribly easy to keep going on with life with such a mindset. She couldn’t lose the opportunity to strike even harder, as she wasn’t even sure if she would ever be in front of such a sight again. With her meticulously constructed charm unaffected, the choice made by the woman was to leave the important questions for later. Leaning her torso against his, she made sure his back was harshly pressed against the wall. Not as a way to restrain him, but to push him jointed with his shame, that she much was aware that existed. His confidence, just like a wounded bird, unable to fly, was fragile and useless for most. Her fingers lightly brushed against his cheek, that was humid with still warm tearstreaks, smudged eye makeup and cold sweat. She could sense the warmth and dryness of his cartilages, even through rubber. - “Baron, isn’t that strange…?” - She feigned concern, her fluttery voice even higher in pitch. - “Or have you really grown used to not processing anything at all?”

She knew she was pushing it, indeed pushing the limits farther away this time. Her, the dangerous Lady, was one to constantly get physically close to him, wander her hands across his body to purposefully irritate him, talk in a softer, breathier voice, but this… She wondered if he would react in any ways at all. And she hoped he did, he was a previsible man, in all his biases. Her toying around with him always ended up in the same way. Both of the souls, as much as not admitted so out loud, have wishes that could not happen, that went against one another’s nature. A snap of the thin ribbon that tied their composers and identities together could change everything, unfold situations never expected by any of them. She wasn’t sure herself about how much longer she could handle playing around, and Baron seemed on edge himself. She could feel his almost too thin muscles pulsate under her hands, as if he was struggling to stay still, to contain his emotions in a single body. She was sure that, soon enough, she would be abruptly surprised. Alas, even sooner than that, Frankenstein, with the instinctual fierceness of an animal, with the agility of a carpenter wasp, and with the thoughtlessness of the unfeeling, shot a violent blow straight into her direction, de-estabilizing the always composed Baroness into a shocked, confused and harmed mess. The mistress didn’t have the luck to process it all quick enough, her head spinning at the sudden, unexpected chance of environment and position. Looking down at her legs, that now shook intensely, she brought her sleeves close to her face, as to wipe her now scarlet stained chin, falling onto her knees straight on the ground once the action was finished, in utter pain. His pitch-black, glass-like gaze pierced right through her, all through her, reflecting both his newfound fear, his wavering pride, his backseating anger, as well as his never-ending tenacity, that was, for once, unfortunately shattered, even for the smallest of the seconds. It seemed like his intention was solely getting out of her grasp, yet, it was hard to say for sure. After all that unraveled, nothing could be said certainly, for both. The silence extended itself for an intelligible amount of time, but it was useless to try to count how much passed, not that it was an important matter.

As Baron snapped out of his shocked daze, as he had, indeed, done something unfathomable (even to someone as himself), he ran away, not giving himself the time or chance to look behind. Running away wasn’t only literally, as in the physical realm, as in the sense of pushing his body away from something. Baron knew what he was running away from, and why he was running away from it. He was running away mentally, from his part in his world as a human, emotionally. In a drinking party between his feelings, his sadness and grief would be the first off drunk, hugging each other’s shoulders in a pond of tears, drowning in an ocean of intensity, pathetically, so he wanted to silence that. He had to silence that, this weird sinking feeling in his gut, paralyzing him from the inside out, making him shiver and tremble. It wasn’t pleasurable, wasn’t ideal at all, so it had to be terminated. As his foot rapidly tapped and scraped against the halls, he could feel his clothes rustle and crinkle against the cold wind, he was admittedly going against the current.

When the time and distance, that moved alongside in a disturbingly undemanding way, finally came, the heavy, rusty metal door made a loud screeching sound against the walls and his own hands, coating his now exposed, roughened up skin in copper-brown debris, a cocktail of the long decomposed iron and the oily dust, meticulously built in within the creases created by human contact, poured into a fine glass. It made his body recoil, as he slowed down to process the sensorial sensations of it. The absolute disgust, the feeling as if he was being mocked by life itself, almost made the bile in his stomach rise further up out of pure rage. As it was open, it left behind a trace of unfathomable mortification, as if the mere sight of such a broken, barely working engine wasn’t worthy of display, even in comparison to such a dreadful ambience. Like cracking a pristine porcelain vase filled to the brim with drinkable water, the start of instant action did not give place to futile thoughts. Baron was rushing in a strangely urgent way, as if something was in absolute risk. A hammer strike in the delicacy of a cold breeze. He swiftly took off his coat, which was stained by all sorts of fluids, coming from dead or alive origins, and quickly turned on the washing machine. slamming the entrance closed with his shoulders, leaving Baroness behind.

Marinating himself in the silence, exposing his skin to the frigid, botheringly uncontaminated air felt like stripping himself naked in front of his worst fears, introducing himself bare to what would, with all certainty, destroy him completely, leave him gasping for air, begging for forgiveness, wishing for respite. Alone, he was, and he was now sure of it. Alone with his wrongdoings and his newfound impulsivity, that has driven him to unjustified, carnal violence. He was always alone, in his consciousness of it, but having no one to gaze upon him at his lowest, a moral motivation to keep himself upright, even if negative, tempted him to let his barriers shatter whole. He urged, therefore, he had to get out of there, of this vulnerable situation he had caused upon himself.. He could no longer stay somewhere silent, where it was quiet enough so he could feel his lungs contracting, the blood running down his veins, his bated breath. Where it was so quiet so he could feel, be aware, notice. Suddenly, what his eyes saw, his fingertips felt, his heart signed and his body gravitated towards, it was clear. Still, working in a place so empty and so full at the same time, thinking wasn't debatable at all, he had to, somehow, confront himself or what was attached to his spine, draining him out. He had to wait for at least three long hours until the next part of his shift as a doctor of a ridiculously low-budget intensive surgery clinic started, said clinic where he had the displeasure to sleep in and wake up to, recognize all the perimeters by memory, build his life over his very grave, the place which so much terrified him . And to stagnate was the declaration of a foreseen, inevitable disaster. It was clear to him, of course it was, as clear as it could be.He could feel the palms of the hands that traced his disaster roam through all the places of his complexion, running nails through his unkempt, knotted hair, squeezing his guts dry and fiddling with his very soul, in a fashion that was both painful and strangely, utteringly familiar. And so, he found himself relapsing, succumbing to the feeling of resignation. He looked at his wristwatch, hoping that the hours would pass by quicker, that all his agony was enough for someone, anyone to feel merciful and cease his suffering, making the minutes tick by with swift speed. Of course, he was hit with the harsh truth soon after. Only 30 seconds, in reality, have passed.

Not having any more suitable options, he decided to take in his surroundings after what they went through. This room, he had stepped on in countless times, but the last one would be forever imprinted on his memory. He took a glance at the clothing that were hanging on the window frame, they were still there, to admire how they swayed with the cold wind and dripped with the residuum of his defiance to the cycle of life, the clothing he used during the revival process. He still hadn't found the courage to touch it, move it around, or even wash the handprints, the leakings and wine-colored tears that covered the thin wool sheets. He didn't even feel the right to touch it, like it was too sacred, delicate and horrifying, it still held the moment it supported perfectly. He could almost feel how their cold, clammy skins felt, how he was stared at all through the process, with eyes that no longer held any life in them. How the memory was almost all he had left of them, and how no contact was secured since, how the detachment of the body, organs and soul was all well known to him. How he had deceived nature in a stomach-wrenching disgusting way... It was hard, torturous not to think about it. It was like a leech or a vermin, squiggling, eating and hollowing his brain from the inside out. Clawing at the back of the nerves of his eyes, and making him eternally blind,consuming the flesh that covered their path, and keeping him conscious all through his suffering. It was sickening, it was so sickening he felt the urge to gouge his heart out and rip it apart. And despite it all, ignoring the agony that shook his body to its death, the sadness that threatened to destroy him completely, he couldn't help but deeply love everything so much as he loved himself and foolishly hope, illusion for the best.

Noman, the ever Yesman, he hoped that his cousin, even if he wasn’t quite close to him, was alright. His body was least damaged of the two that he had to operate on, at least he had a moment of mercy, considering the maelstrom he went through everyday. Excluding the sore muscles on his shoulders from the labour, his calloused hands, with digitals barely recognizable, he found his body with several fractures along his spine, an open wound on his neck area, almost ripping his skull from the rest of the body, and an accelerated decayal, his skin already pale purple, most of the fluids on his body dried up. He was an impeccable worker, his skill undeniable, he was loyal and undefiant. Baron has come to admire his willingness to stand up for what he believed in, his ability to maintain himself stable, even through dire situations. It all felt like a violation towards him, bringing him back to such a complicated living, but he hoped he did what was right. He could foresee the scowl on his face as he took notice of his harsh reality, and he couldn’t help but be grateful he wasn’t able to see it in person. Nicole had his limbs ripped out, the bones cracked from the inside out, his stomach ripped apart and the rest of his body beaten, wounded and spit up. Despite all his efforts, he wasn’t capable of attaching his head back up perfectly, it was still susceptible to falling off, which wasn’t pleasant, at all. He imagined the young man, who was the prodigy of the family, his parents’ most prized possession for his early marriage and career achievements, would despise him equally. The worst is, he couldn’t blame him for it, not at all. He would be the luckiest person at all if they didn’t inflict the same torture on him, for it would be fair and an expected response. It sickened him, and he didn’t know what to do with his consciousness. With a vow not to let the blood rise to his head, he turned on the sink, washing the ichor away, hoping it would also cleanse the despair from his mind. He couldn’t dwell himself out of his body, not yet, at least. He could feel his arms starting to limp from the built-up stress.

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