marionette
A voice, so soft and tender works its way through his mind. It races in one ear, lolling in the drum and whispers. Open the briefcase, it says, the words sounding far away, yet he knows she's there; the warmth of her breath prickles hairs along his neck. The streets are crowded that morning, the glare of the sun reflecting off buildings is almost blinding. He tilts his head back a bit, sending the glasses sliding back up the bridge of his nose. Open, comes her voice again, because she hates being ignored, especially by those as weak as he. But he shakes his head, something he's only done on rare occasion. 'Can't,' he sighs, placing his free hand on the railing, and waves to the free cab below, 'Not now. They'll see.' It's the first time in quiet a while or at least in as long as he could remember that he's ever denied her request.
A sound, similar to that of a growl escapes her throat, and even before he can dodge, her claws ripples across his skin, pawing from chin to throat. He startles a cry, tries to swallow it back, but can't. People turn and they stare at the lone man with the briefcase. The one who screeches at air where there is nothing. Most turn back away, and try to ignore him, nothing more than another strange character of the city.
Don't disobey. Open. And he feels the fingers of his right hand unclench without consent, as if they were running on someone else's control. They're numb and he can't feel them. It's as if his arms ended at the wrists and never before had there been digits. Though odd, and most likely alarming for most, it felt normal for him to feel this way. Maybe because she's overshadowed him before. But he can't remember when or why. He doesn't remember much. She's erased and re-written. Making herself the author, and him the novel. She may type out a sentence, a birth year, maybe, or a childhood friend if he's lucky, but if she's grows bored, she may dab a brush into her white out and then it's gone. Who was that young man with the curly blonde hair that lived a few doors down back home- or what she'd told him was back home, in Chicago? Jason, or Jackson, or something with a J, but never mind that now, because apparently they hadn't lived in Chicago after all. It had been Argentina, his name had been Enrique and he hadn't spoken a word of English.
The man himself had gone by many such names. One for every letter of the alphabet, and then some. He didn't know why'd she'd done this, or even how he'd come in contact with her. She'd just always been there and always would be. Come now, open. And there he goes again. The briefcase falls to the ground, with a soft ka-thunk! He let's his guard weaken. It was nothing for her to control fingertips, it would only take a bit more to grab his subconscious. He knelt to the ground, fiddled with the lock, until it successfully clicked open.
A sigh escapes from his pressed lips. 'Now?' he asks, though he rather her answer be something along the lines of never. Of course. He can feel her excitement welling up inside him, as if he were a balloon full of helium. Her adrenaline streaks through his veins, as she begins her single word chant, echoing the four-letter word over and over in his head. Her bloodlust is sickening, his stomach rocks uneasily just at the thought of the interior of the briefcase. I need to feed, she hums, and his resolve again is weakening, despite his hardest attempt to fight her control.
Still, this time he has feeling. And there's a rush of cold as his hand grasp around the barrel of the pistol.