AN: Hello humans! It's been awhile. I should probably be working on my other story, but this popped into my head all at once like most things never do and I just had to write it down. I promise to finish my rewrite of Dead End Moon, it'll be a while longer though, sorry. You may interpret this story as you see fit, I myself have come up with quite a few ways it got to this. Reviews are VERY welcome, and you may flame if you must, though I'd rather you didn't. The genre is Horror as in Twisted, since they don't have a genre for that.
Shattered Illusions
"How do you feel?"
The question was so simple, it was asked every time the man entered your room. He is such a nice man, in his lovely white coat, black gloves and rimless glasses. He always sits across from you on the stool he brought while you sit on the bed and he always asks you questions and listens to your answers – no ever did that outside, they were all so mean there! You realize you haven't answered him – how rude you must be not answering the nice man! You are just staring at the strap on the outside where your fingers can't be – they have to be inside the stained white jacket you wore, that's what the nice man told you, it's because your fingers hate you; always wrapping around your pretty white throat and squeezing 'till it hurt.
"Look up," the scary sweet voice tells you. You make your eyes look up and you quiver; the nice man is so beautiful. It scares you to look at something so pretty, so pretty it makes your ugly white room seem that much uglier; dirtier and more stained with nothing but your gross, yucky bed and stained sheets. Your bluish colored hair falls in front of your face, hiding one eye as you look up; the unhidden blue orb stares at the man; drinking in his beauty; his pale pretty face, arched ruby eyes, high cheek bones, pointed nose, and full, tasty, pink lips; yes, you've tasted them just once, a very, very long time ago, you've also run your fingers through that shaggy raven black hair – before they hated you - some days you thought it looked like feathers; it felt like feathers, a long time ago.
You open your mouth to say 'I'm fine' like you always did, but other words got out first; "I'm quite frightened."
"Oh," says the nice man looking at you over his glasses. "And why are you frightened."
Why are you so frightened? It's strange, you didn't realize until now, but, you've always been frightened, ever since you came to this room you've been terrified, why didn't you know that until now? What are you afraid of? The answer becomes clear.
"Because, you don't believe me," you tell the man. "Because you think I'm crazy."
He gives him a smile full of sympathy. "And why wouldn't I, my dear? The things you rant about are utter nonsense."
"But there not!" you scream. "I'm not a liar! I'm not crazy! I'm not! I'm not! I'm not!"
The man lifts an eyebrow. "No?" You watch him leaf through a file – your file. "Let's see, on November 23rd you told me; as a boy your parents were murdered by an angel then sewn back together as one person, whom you later had killed."
"They were, and I had the angel killed as well!"
"So you said." He flips to another page. "Ah, December 5th you said a red haired man killed your aunt with a 'chainsaw' in an ally way."
"Yes! Because she didn't want to kill me!"
"Wherever would someone get such a fantastic weapon?" he asks you.
"I-" He is already turning to another page. Page after page he reads and every time you come back with perfectly honest answers, but he still thinks you are a liar, you've seen it, your blue eye had always seen it, every. Single. Time. You just didn't notice until now.
Finally he closes the folder and gives you a look. You can't help it, you start crying. "I-I'm not-" you choke on your own spit and start sobbing even harder. "Am-am I…am I a b-bad boy?" you finally manage. "Are-are y-y-you p-punishing me?"
He smiles at you and stands and steps over to the bed, one black gloved hand cups your chin and raises your head; his other hand brushes your tear-sticky, blue hair out of your face showing your other eye; the purple one. You've always hated that eye. Every time you looked at the man he'd always glow so bright in that eye you couldn't see, so you clawed it out. You wish you hadn't now, because now you knew why he glowed. Too late, too late. His black fingers cup your tearstained cheeks and wipe the tears away. Leaning close enough for your noses to touch he whispers; "Yes, you've been a very bad boy."
"But-but-" you hiccup, fresh tears falling. "You-you l-l-love me-e, w-why?"
"I only act on your orders, young master, this is what you wanted; punishment."
His name, his name begins to swim around your mind, just slipping from your fingers as you try to remember.
"You were so clever," he tells you with a smile as he gently strokes your cheeks. "Far too clever for your own good, you waded too deep into waters you had no business being in and got sucked in by the undertow." His eyes crinkle in a silent laugh.
His name, you almost have it, it was all coming back now, in bits and pieces; glowing pink eyes, feathers falling everywhere, boots clicking across stone with every step, and razor sharp fangs.
"And now," he continues as he captures your soft lips in a melting kiss. "You're mine; forever." He pulls away and walks to the door, taking the stool with him. "Farewell, my dear, young lord." He leaves shutting the big metal door behind him.
"Sebastian," you murmur to the surrounding darkness.