Chapter 7:

The loud shriek of the alarm clock across the room jolts Flug from his restless sleep, and as he opens his eyes, taking in the dimly lit area, he finds himself staring at the manual clock with contempt. Its endless shriek cleaves at his ears and bounces around his brain with tap shoes and golden pickaxes, simultaneously enraging and cowing the embattled creature.

Without thinking, he hefts a book from the nightstand, barely glancing over to note the name (Library of Souls), before he lobs it at the screeching golden clock and knocking it to the floor. A wicked crash erupts from the impact point, thankfully silencing the contraption once and for all. Barely a tick leaves the broken husk before it truly breathes its final breath and announces its finality with a barely audible crunch of broken cogs.

And it is only then, when the clock breathes its last breath, that Flug opens his eyes fully, but they are nearly blind to the swaths of color and softness. On autopilot, he heaves himself up from the bed, his mind too foggy and numb to remind him of where he is; he's exhausted, but perhaps... that is for the best.

He creeps out into the hallway, not of presence of mind to remember that there is no one left in the apartment to wake. From there, he wanders into the main room, his stomach growling and reminding him that he has not been good to his body in the past few days. And as he stands in that open space, a scent catches his attention, one of sulfur and a sweet note of blossoming flowers, but behind that is another, more sinister smell that simultaneously sickens his mind and grips his stomach with a furious hunger.

He pushes aside the sharp anxiety in his chest and inches ever closer to the kitchen where the smell is heaviest, saturating the air with tarnished sweetness.

His mouth waters, saliva pooling under his tongue and swamping his teeth even as he desperately swallows, again and again.

His eyes affix on a hunk of meat sitting in the very center of a white and black plate, the blood oozing from the flesh and dripping onto the china like the juice of a well-cooked roast.

Flug forces himself to look away, to take in the rest of the sight... to ensure that he's alone and that this isn't some kind of trick.

On the table is a little black note in that familiar, looping hand... Black Hat's been in his apartment again. Beside the note is the vase that had arrived right after Kayla's death, but the flowers inside have been replaced with a deep red, almost black rose and two flowers he doesn't recognize: one white and one purple.

With that out of the way, he glances at the message and reads through it carefully, but the sentences don't register at first. They sit around in the empty space between consciousness and animal until the hunger finally takes control. Suddenly, its words sear his mind and replay over and over again as he finds himself gripping the hunk of meat in his clawed fingertips and tearing into the flesh with ravenous speed. The taste explodes across his taste buds and whispers words of innocence and justice... and a violent end. It's then, as he's gulping down the victim's thigh, that he realizes what, or rather who he's eating; it's a hero...

'Take care of what you eat... And who you eat. Not everyone is palatable, and not everyone is obtainable. You've been eating scum for far too long, and your body knows it. Until you decide, I will feed you and teach you what a real meal is. Sincerely, BH."

When the flesh is gone and the hunger abates, its claws sheathing themselves for the moment, Flug finds himself staring down at the vase of flowers and the new arrangement within. Curious and confused, with just a touch of worry, he looks up the purple and white ones, quickly learning the meaning behind the striking bouquet: anemone, fading hope and a feeling of being forsaken; white heather, protection; and that single black rose, death...

The reality of just who he's eaten sticks in his heart and mind with dull needles of guilt, forcing Flug to remain inside for the rest of the day.

When morning dawns again, he finds yet another chunk of meat on his table with a crystal glass of blood beside it; he eats. Again, guilt pricks his insides but not as sharply as before...

But Flug doesn't leave his apartment for the rest of the week, choosing instead to hole himself up by the window, where the sunlight washes over his skin and makes the apartment's multitude of colors glow... He doesn't trust himself to behave if he crosses paths with anyone, and so he chooses to stare at the humans as they wander by, fulfilling the equations of their lives without fail. He doesn't trust himself to keep pretending, pretending to be a human, a wandering sheep just waiting for a wolf to come by and rip their flesh from their frightened forms.

He gets a call from his mother on Saturday. It's brief but it tells him everything he needs to know; Kayla's body has been released.


Sunday dawns with a dark, cold light that leeches the color from the apartment walls, but the cup of blood sitting on the table seems to be a richer red than before. On yet another white plate is a heart, spilling out blood as deep as garnets onto the gleaming china; Flug can practically taste its sweetness, the scent curling up happily in his chest and gnawing at his self-control… But there are much more interesting things to see.

In the flower vase is more white heather intermixed with thorn-less black roses and a single purple one; it is this purple one that steals his attention away from garnets in the tableware before him. The purple rose still bares its thorns, wickedly sharp protrusions that bare a black, oozing liquid; Flug can smell Black Hat's blood on them, and it makes him feel light-headed.

Eventually, Flug pulls his attention away from the flowers, and after another brief moment of staring at the innocent flesh on his plate, he eats.

At noon, Lillian calls, and when Flug picks up, she informs him that she'll be driving him to the funeral. He sighs but nonetheless concedes, and so, at one fifteen, Flug and Lillian pull up to the funeral parlor where Flug can see a man in a suit standing at the edge of the woods, just outside of the cemetery.

The figure tips his hat to Flug, and the scientist, in return, nods tactfully but follows his mother into the establishment, wondering when Black Hat will decide that this game of hide-and-seek has gone on long enough. He wonders when he'll be forced to acknowledge what's between them and when he'll be forced to make a final choice.

At the doorway to the foyer is Mr. Carlison, all done up in his finest suit with a gentle smile plastered to his face. He opens the door for Flug and Lillian, offering his condolences once more and passing them off to Mr. Smith.

The genial old man offers his hand to Flug and then to Lillian when Flug does not take it; he doesn't even look Smith in the face… No, he's staring beyond, into that little room done up in bold, fresh cut flowers and plastered with pictures, many of them bearing just two faces: the siblings who were never apart.

The casket is shut, the body inside hidden from view, but Flug knows she's in there.

Despite the thick cloud of incense and perfume that swamps the air, he can smell her scent and slightest tinge of blood, both hers and her killers'. To his relief, no chemicals mar her body; she is as she was when she died, but she is cold, no doubt kept on ice to suspend the decay as long as possible.

Somehow, his mouth waters, and the faintest thought of devouring her where she lies trickles into his brain. He ducks his head as his eyes shine with golden light, but then another scent reaches his nose, one that is so familiar…

He looks up and finally looks around to see flowers: some standard bouquets from a florist filled with daisies and daffodils and lilies, but around them, around her, are roses, black as the night sky, blacker than they should grow naturally and a wreath of white heather. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a shadow, one so very tall with a piercing eye, and Flug nods, a soft smile gracing his features.

And then the shadow, Black Hat seems to smile back before disappearing through the wall.


"The just man, though he die early, shall be at rest. For the age that is honorable comes not with the passing of time, nor can it be measured in terms of years. Rather, understanding is the hoary crown for men, and an unsullied life, the attainment of old age. He who pleased God was loved…"

The pastor's voice rings out in the little hall that thrums with life and reverberates the murmurings of those before him. In the front pew are the Slys, all six of them with their heads bowed and their own disquieted whispers bouncing up from the laminate floor. Only Flug's eyes are dry, but they are hollow, staring beyond the floor into the void of thoughtlessness, into death itself.

"In these troubled times, when someone so young meets their end, we find ourselves wondering why. Why would God take someone with so much to live for and who has barely started their journey?"

The words tumble around his ears and box his head until he can feel them cutting into his brain; Flug hates funerals. He hates the drivel that people spew, somehow expecting their words to mend the hurt left behind when they don't understand anything.

"We cannot understand the plans that God has for us… God had a plan for Kayla, and it is my belief that she fulfilled his plan."

Knowing what's about to leave that man's mouth, a part of Flug dies inside; he isn't worth what that statement means… He isn't worth the sacrifice, worth the effort expended by any decent being… If God is real, certainly letting a monster live wouldn't be part of his plan, not at the expense of a shining woman like Kayla.

"Kayla Slys died to save her younger brother, and so I can say with certainty that she was good. And so, we should not mourn the loss of her life but be grateful for the time that we knew this angel on Earth and remember that all angels must return to heaven one day…"

It takes hours before the last of the visitors leave, and then, it's just the Slys' with their heads hung low and their eyes misty. But still, one by one, the children leave, until it's just Lillian and Flug standing before Kayla's coffin with a quiet, disconcerting tension clawing at their throats.

"How're you going to take her home?" Lillian eventually asks.

"She isn't coming home," Flug replies, avoiding eye contact. "She's going to my lab. I'll call in a favor to get her there."

"Are you- are you sure?"

"Yeah… You can go home, Mom."

She stares at him for a moment longer, her expression a cross between worry and relief, but then she claps him on his shoulder and whispers, "you take care of yourself, okay?"

"I will..."

With that, she disappears into the parking lot, and Flug can hear the sound of her car starting up. Once he hears her pull away, he breathes a sigh of relief, until the scent of sulfur reaches his nose… He should have known that Black Hat wouldn't wait much longer for an answer.

He huffs out a long drawn out sigh, catching the attention of the remaining director who'd been busy in the other end of the room, sorting out cards for who had sent flowers. "Flug?" Mr. Smith says, "are you alright?"

"Yeah… I'll be back," he says and slowly makes his way out into the parking lot.

It's not quite dark, the sun only just beginning to set over the cemetery, but in the farthest corner, the shadows are long and the figure within them is blacker than night. "Hello, doctor…" The raspy, growling whisper carries across the lot as the sun catches the creature's monocle, blocking out what little of his face Flug could see. "I was wondering if you had thought about my offer…"

"I have…" Flug replies and steps ever closer, despite the way his instincts shriek at him to bolt; this isn't a conversation to be broadcast.

"Good…" Black Hat grins a vicious smile that Flug will come to know so well and offers up a single lavender rose, its meaning not lost on the inventor: 'I am enchanted by you.'

Flug has no delusions about that; Black Hat finds him interesting and nothing else. There is no romance to be held in that gesture, just as there is none in ones before...

Still, the offer remains, and Flug, finding himself at a loss once more, steals himself for a decision that cannot be made so lightly… one he's been thinking about all week: to stay here in this listless space between human and monster, endlessly trapped in an expectation of humanity and to disappear, become a real monster, under the direction of someone so much viler…

He knows that he has to do something; he has to say something...

Now that Kayla's dead, he has nothing left...

Flug holds out his hand, his right, and takes the offered rose. The thorns bite at the skin of his fingers, threating to tear his flesh, but their teeth are much too weak to pierce his fingertips. Its scent is heady, so unlike the perfume on Kayla's pillows and clinging to his hair that it catches him off guard. It speaks of otherness and eternity and... finality.

Suddenly, the situation catches up with Flug's brain, and he realizes what he's committed himself to do; what he must do...

"When do I start?"