Dante's eyes were fixed in an unwavering stare, his hands being the only part of his body allowed to perform any sputter of movement. His fingers were unfeeling and curled taut, lethal and choking the life out of himself without any need to reach up to touch his own throat. He continued to gaze, sweating and suffocated mute, through the slit in the closet door. Completely awestruck as well as sick to his stomach, but unable to tear his eyes away from what was occurring on the other side.

He saw the heavy cadence of moving flesh, glimmering with perspiration and vocal with rhapsodic moans. It was his most sinful nightmare made real and writhing, spilling like afterbirth over into his awful reality. Overwhelming with teeth that gnashed and painted nails that were fervent to wound and scratch at a form that mirrored his own. Dante shuddered, feeling Trish's nails dig in deep into his arms, feeling his skin open up like a fresh cadaver under her hands, even though he remained inert and untouched, blank and unmarked.

This isn't wrong. They aren't doing anything wrong, they're…

Dante's higher-functions tried to plead, to rationalize and excuse and wave away his disgust with a quick shake of his head. Though his heart would not listen; on the verge of collapse, it screamed at him to burst in and put a stop to it, or at the very least to cover his ears and avert his eyes.

(Even Oedipus had the decency to blind himself)

The copy and the copy; the ungodly mother in union with her antichrist child. They are thoroughbred demons; their uninhibited love a pernicious disease, slowly killing Dante with the private hell of his own regret and disgrace. But still he refused to look away, too determined to even blink to relieve his bloodshot eyes of their tearful burn.

From his hiding place he saw a hand, large and shaped in his own image, but burnt to sienna in color, reach out and grab a fistful of long golden locks, pulling hard with the movements of a murderer catching his victim. He saw how Trish was forced to bare her neck, beautiful in spite of its bruised discoloring and contours of old and new blood. Her mouth dropping open with a subtle gasp, her skin flushed pink and soft, lathered with the nectar of her sweat that his Doppelganger tasted with his lips and red, red mouth.

She was buried in the bed, pressed down onto her stomach, her breasts pinched and groped in a way that never failed to drag long fraying moans out of her. Her hair wild and strewn across the sheets, twisted and coiled like some flaxen-haired Medusa about to be beheaded.

Dante continued to watch, still breathing and touching himself but not feeling anything as she was moved over onto her back; her arms immediately encircling around his Doppelganger's shoulders to draw him close to her, her fingers gnarled throughout his lustrous black hair. Dante chewed and licked his own lips as they kissed each other with a passion that was slow and dripping wet, a grotesque caricature of a husband and wife on their honeymoon.

Just like how his mother and father used to kiss, Dante thinks, and then really wishes that he didn't. But the inside of his head quickly filled with images of his parents getting to know one another in the biblical sense; behind closed doors, during his conception and after. Maybe even shortly before he and his brother had been born, years before they brought his mother's life to a bloodcurdling end.

Dante's breath began to quicken as pre-ejaculate wet his hands and made them slippery, pleasure building up slimy and vile inside his stomach. The perennial darkness of the closet making him feel trapped and about to be eaten alive, the smoky orange light of the bedroom scrounging up tears from the inner walls of his chest and making them fall thick from his eyes.

He nearly chokes on his spit when he saw Trish spread herself open for his Shadow, as willing and as submissive as she would ever allow herself to be, her smile tight and mysteriously cunning.

Then she jerked, made a small blistering cry that was cut into two when his Doppelganger pushed into her depths. And Dante finally had to look away, down at his shaking hands that were stained white with his spilled milk, having orgasmed at the sound she had made and wishing that he was dead.

Trish let out a vulgar little whine, tossing her head from one side and then to the other, her legs over the Doppelganger's broad shoulders, his fingers engrossed in the slick softness in between her legs, making her whimper and thrash in obscene delight.

Dante only closed his eyes but still saw their vestige of constant motion, listening to their perfect human moans and whispers quickly deteriorate into the snarling of two brainless animals abusing one another for their own entertainment.

The heavy slap of a hand against naked skin made him wince, he didn't know who had hit who, what had provoked it; and had decided that he was better off not knowing, keeping his eyes shut. But even then the stench of meat burning forced it's way into the closet, calling forth forgotten memories of a Sunday dinner roasted black in the oven.

All of it ended with the din of weightless groans and hungry wet slurps. He knew without seeing that his Doppelganger was dragging his tongue down over her breast, sucking her nipple into his mouth and letting himself nurse; drinking in the taste of home sweet home.

Trish did not look at Dante when he finally exited the closet, cloaked and panting softly in a soiled sheet that was stained with blood and other fluids, looking like some condemned Greek goddess who had just sat down to rest after laying mankind to waste.

He imagined her womb as he walked passed her, (comfortable, spacious, and perfect for twins) fertilized with nothing and dripping onto the sheets with empty seeds that would find no purpose.

Dante looked towards his Doppelganger, glancing over his countless wounds without any flicker of genuine interest. The nail marks the gouged his face, the burns cooked into his shoulders and back that only seemed to make him smile.

Dante saw the way those eyes glittered, simpering, more than satisfied, and beetle-shell black, feeling his own pale to the soft blue of an abandoned robin's egg as he walked out of the room