Mitchell stared down at her pale and torn beneath him, littered with trails of her own blood which now flowed rich and satisfying through his body. He shut his eyes, as they begun to overflow with remorse and agony and he wished it was him who lie there in her place. He wished anything, anything to relieve the pain in his cold heart and his head, seeming to overpower the unstoppable force of the bloodlust minutes before and keep his knees buckling every time he tried to retreat until he was stumbling from the alley. Faces of Annie, George, Steph persisted in his head as he ran in the direction of home until his boots begun to wear out and a stitch formed in his chest.
Mitchell smoothed out his hair as he saw the kitchen light flicker off and the figure of Annie swan out of sight. Annie. His mind flashed with her reaction when she realised, because she would realise at some point exactly what he had done, the crime he had committed. How could she ever touch him again, even look at him. After all, she was dead and he was a murderer, anyone could do the math.
Mitchell sniffed cold air once, shook himself in an attempt to discard the circus of images, memories cart wheeling through his mind and walked steadily up the path. He fumbled with his keys, his hand shaking uncontrollably until they clashed to the ground like a soaring strike of awareness and the door swung open forcing Mitchell to crawl out of his mind and the voices inside it and into reality.
"Get inside...", George was a figure of colour and blurs, his face outlined with panic and then confusion, he paused, and then his voice was high and slightly inaudible, "…get inside Mitchell!"
"Stupid keys", Mitchell mumbled with his best attempt at a cool smile and trying his best to hide the battle unfolding inside of him. He secured his hat further onto his head, trying to shield his eyes which kept no secrets from the suspicious gaze of George, and Annie who was now darting behind him. They had found him out before and if he wasn't careful, they would do it again.
"What…", George gulped and narrowed his eyes, his hands falling to his hips with all too much femininity for a werewolf "…what, have you done Mitchell?"
The way George's voice rose and fell and emphasised itself in random and unnecessary places was suddenly grinding on Mitchell. He blinked away the irritation.
"Mitchell", Annie breathed, as he stared at her and saw the sudden rush of realisation flood her.
"Look at you! Look at you, Mitchell, what have you done, Mitchell?" George was gasping, his eyes wide and frantic as he froze in motion, waiting for some kind of response that Mitchell hadn't gotten so far as to think up.
Mitchell mimed out the beginning of words which disappeared silently into nothingness, as Annie stepped forwards. He reached out for her instinctively, longing for the reassuring and unusually comforting feel of her arms around him, she could make him better, she always did. But she brushed his arm away.
"It's your eyes", Annie said regretfully, her eyes searching his frantically trying to discard the explanation fighting its way into her possibility.
"Not the most obvious observation, considering he is splattered in…blood, oh god, Mitchell, oh you've…", George's voice trailed away, beginning as inaudible high pitched sounds and ending as pitiful whispers.
"Tell him he's wrong, Mitchell, you haven't, you haven't have you Mitchell, tell him!" Annie was almost screaming at him, pointing a wavering finger at his chest.
Mitchell touched the side of his face, his hands still shaking disobediently and brought his finger down to see it covered in blood like deep scarlet paint. His nose twitched at the inviting scent but could not detain the looks of shame, disappointment, George's fury and Annie's pity as he found himself unable to speak.
"Oh, Mitchell", Annie was gasping, beginning to step back from the situation, back from Mitchell and the love that had begun to wind itself around them both. George quickly rushed about in a jangle of keys and a swirl of his coat, pulling on shoes as he hopped towards the front door.
"Where are you going George?", Annie said quietly. George fiddled with the hands of his coat.
"Where is she Mitchell?"
"Near the hospital", Mitchell muttered, running his bloody hands through his hair, feeling its strands clotted in dried blood. Annie watched as his body shook and he trembled, and tore her eyes away unable to watch.
George scrambled to the door and paused to let out a sigh of despair.
"Mitchell, no! Mitchell… not again", George was crying.
"She doesn't work at the hospital, George", Mitchell said, the irrepressible and giddy feeling of new blood gone before it had ever come.
"I have to go and see her", George said before shutting the door and yelping as he possibly tripped over his feet. And then it was just Mitchell and Annie's intrusive dead stare, as she tried to hate and despise hi for what he had done but knew she couldn't. It wasn't possible. Nothing inside of her, inside the scarce empty hollow that she was could hate Mitchell, no matter what he did. He caught her gaze and shook his head slowly, his chest heaving as he struggled to speak.
"I'm so sorry Annie, I'm so sorry".
Annie walked towards him, holding her hand towards his chest where a heart should have been beating and thought she felt something inside of him. A sudden rush. Something only explainable by the foreign blood diving through his body. As close as Mitchell would ever get to being human. But what set him even closer to being human than the heartless life snatchers that would come before and would forever come after Mitchell was what Annie had seen in his eyes the moment he had entered. The remorse inside of him dimmed his eyes just as the fulfilment of blood shone them like diamonds.
"I know", She nodded reassuringly; "I know you are".
