"Ciel Phantomhive. Age fifteen. Born December 14th, 1875. Fifty-eight centimeters tall. Blue eyes. Caucasian." My eyes remained close, because I could not will them to open. "March seventh. First visit went well. Looked sickly. Speaks with stubbornness but with confidence. Childish in appearance, although he is well-spoken. His butler, Sebastian Michaelis, on the other hand leads me to suspicions. Looms over Ciel with a possessive aura. Was very quick to lead me to the door. Did not answer my questions directly, attached to physical form. I suspect some sort of abuse, attached to physical form." There was a small pause, a ruffle of papers, and then the words began again. "October twenty-second. Appointment with Ciel Phantomhive was much easier than my first visit. Matured in the face and body, updated physical form in manilla folder. Opened up about himself and his relationships with those around him. Suspicions continue between Sebastian and Ciel, see attached form on diagnosis paper. Shall we see the diagnosis, Ciel?"
"Yes." I heard my voice speak without my permission. I definitely did not sound confident.
"Diagnosis. After much thought, I have come to two possible problems behind Mr. Phantomhive: Clinical Depression, and General Anxiety Disorder. Did you hear that, Mr. Phantomhive?" The voice mocked my name. "Clinical. Depression."
"I'm not depressed." My eyelids separated, only slightly, allowing me to see the dim outline of my lap. I was sitting in a chair, my hands bound together in my lap with my ankles tightly pressed into the legs of the chair.
"Ah, but what the doctor says goes, hm?" I heard a chair squeak from being pushed back. I didn't answer, but I waited for the voice to speak again. "The doctor isn't very far off- Kennedy, that's his name, isn't it?" The silence suggested I was to answer.
"Yes."
"Good! I knew you wouldn't lie to me. I'm sure I can ask a few more questions – and if you're good, I can give you answers about Jim Macken." I felt my heart fall to the floor. I hadn't heard that name in months. A year, even. "From your face, I'll take your reaction as your compliance. Wonderful. Well, first question, Ciel. What you do think your butler means to you?"
"In what way?"
"In any way, earl. My questions are up for interpretation."
"Well, Sebastian is... very close to me." I said hesitantly, and I lifted my head slightly. My eyes tried to adjust to the darkness. "Emotionally, physically, mentally."
"And, what do you think you mean to uh, Sebastian, as you call him."
"I would suppose the same thing." I heard a small tap of plastic against metal, and I could hear the gears grind together.
"And what would you say if lets say, your fiance, tells you otherwise?"
"What does Elizabeth have to do with anything, Spider?"
"Answer my questions without spitting them back at me, Phantomhive. You're not in the position to question me." I bit back a response.
"I would tell her she is naïve to how love works."
"I could laugh at you for saying that. What do you think a demon's purpose is, Ciel?"
"To indulge themselves upon the seven deadly sins."
"And what are they? You seem educated enough, even in religious aspects."
"Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Wrath, Envy, Pride."
"Very good. And I'm sure we are both aware that your butler is a demon – and that he is no exception to the rule- so I would like you to give me an example of these sins in Sebastian."
I hesitated only briefly. "Gluttony: He plays in his own interests over others, sometimes even when he's ordered to do something different. Sloth: He does not practice spirituality or faith. Greed: He owns only the most expensive and top clothing material, nothing less. Pride," a snort came from me, "When does he not practice that? Wrath: He is easily angered when it comes to my well being. Envy: He is jealous when I don't include him into my affairs. Lust," my voice became lowered, "Well, he practices lust every time he looks at me."
"Would you say that every one of those 'deadly sins', as the Christians call it, are practiced when he looks at you?" My God. He was right.
He lusted for my body, how he would kiss every crevice and imperfection as he ran his fingers over places they expect to remain untouched. He lusted over every cry I made, every moan and sob and pleading request I ever made during our moments of intimacy. I was his desire.
He was greedy, during those moments of lust, when he would press his fingertips into the mark of the beast that resided overtop of my ribs, sometimes until I would whimper. He'd promise no one would hurt me again like they had, that no one would lay a finger on me, and he'd kill everyone who touched me like he had. I was his treasure.
He over-indulged himself with every word or movement I made, in or out of his arms length. He watched me longer than he needed to at parties or at lunches, or during lessons and even when I slept. He drank up every sigh and lip bite and tap of my finger on the desk, and swallowed it down with the way I became flustered underneath his torso when he trapped me between him and the wall when no one was around. I was his food and drink.
On Sundays, when the others would go to sermons of their faiths, he laid with me and traced patterns with his ungloved hand on my bare skin. He'd whisper promises and break my insecurities with small tugs on my hair. He wouldn't leave my bed until eleven, and even so spent his time with excuses to see me once more. I was his religion.
He raged over the idea of losing me to something so ridiculous of killing myself, or of someone else killing me. He had become as angered as to threaten me with my own death, once, when I told him I was going to break the covenant so I could die at my own hand. He left kisses on the bruises he left on me from holding me down by my wrist when I tried to fight him, and I was convinced I had hurt myself. I was his passion.
He stared daggers into any who spoke to me. He watched my every move, and demanded I tell him what they said if he was out of earshot. He told me he wished I wouldn't speak to anyone but him because he was the only one worthy of my voice. I was his longing.
He prided himself in grooming me in every way. He ironed my shirts and steamed my pants, scrubbed me clean with a new cloth every two weeks and went through dozens of soap containers until he was satisfied with it's product. He always kept a handkerchief in case we stopped for a treat and I was allowed to eat in on the way home. I was his trophy.
I'm sure the realization registered greatly on my face, because I heard the faintest of a chuckle from the man who had moved to stand closer to me. I only made out the figure, but I was already sure of who he was. I was not stupid. His voice was too distinct for me to forget.
"And now, your questions, Ciel. I will answer three questions."
I took a deep breath, and I thought. "How did you kill Alois?" I asked.
"I waited until you left. I waited patiently, oh so very patiently, until he asked for a bath. Like usual, I did what was asked of me. I escorted him to the bathroom, ran a bath, and while he was crying over you leaving so sudden and in angered I rubbed his back gently. I'm sure you're not dumb enough to understand that when you've been ordered around for dull and miscellaneous tasks every day at a specific time, it gets very tiring. And there's this anger that builds up very quietly. It starts right here, in your stomach," I looked down at the hand that came forward with a pointed finger, directed at my stomach. It trailed upwards, "and as the days pass and each season rots into the next it becomes greater and greater, boiling more and more- and I did not follow a rejected angel to the depths of Hell to do tedious tasks for the rest of some human's life." The hand pulled back. "He told me to stop, but I didn't. He tried to tell me again, but that anger I spoke of exploded, and I tightened my hands over the back of his pretty neck. I turned him around- to watch his face as he registered betrayal, it's such a sweet sight- and I could see every ounce of pain I caused. He said something along the lines of calling me a name, and I slowly beheaded the bastard without much trouble at all. The blood was lovely, I apologize that you couldn't see it yourself."
I felt as if I could puke. I distracted myself with another question. "Did Alois actually love me?"
He shrugged slightly, looked towards the ceiling, and took a breath. "I would suppose so. Human emotions beyond hunger are merely nothing to us."
I tightened my hands slightly in my lap. I was silent for a while, that any other being would remind me about my last question. Finally, I decided. "Is it possible for a human to become a demon?" I heard a small snort.
"That's the last question? You humans are very interesting, I hope you know that. But, that question is only Greek to me, as Shakespeare said. I would believe so, as they can becomes angels and vampires and werewolves whatnot." He took something off of the table I could make out in the dim light, and he came closer to me.
"Are you going to kill me?" I asked, watching. I made sure to at least try to keep the fear out of my voice. I sounded unsure.
"No more questions for today, Ciel Phantomhive. Perhaps another time." The lighting that was there disappeared from the flame, and I hissed as I felt a pinch in my thigh. "Sleep well, Ciel Phantomhive." I mustered up every inch of strength I had, and I boldly said,
"Goodnight, Claude Faustus."
