"Jus' doesn't make sense. Amon a murderer? He's jus' too damn stupid to kill anybody! Got to be somebody else."

"Since when did people need intelligence to kill?"

"Oh, well, you can't blame him, in his blood you know. They say his family has been cursed for centuries."

"Because of that I should pity him?! I hope he's caught and killed immediately, the bastard."

"It was God's will that he was born to that family, John. Not his."

"You're defending him? He might've killed somebody! God knows how many!"

"Give me that poster. Did it happen to say?"

"No…"

None of the three men arguing outside the tailor shop happened to notice an awkwardly tall woman stagger by, her thin cane hardly touching the ground as she scurried. Or perhaps it was an old man? Whoever it was, they were moving far too quickly within the crowds of people walking the streets this morning for anyone to actually catch a glimpse of them. Not that it mattered. What with the many posters hung all over town advertising a killer in their midst, a pang of paranoia spiked in the hearts and minds of London's citizens. Women huddled together and traveled in larger groups now while men kept their wits about them. All eyes roamed the streets, hungrily searching for the beggar Amon whom was the prime suspect as far as they were concerned. After all, the citizens knew of no one else by the outlandish name Amon. So then, no body cared for an old bat walking down the street.

"Watch it, you!" A factory worker snapped as the old bag smacked into him. Anxiously, the woman stumbled back and circled the large man, saying not a word and paying his angry glare no heed as she sprinted into the closest alley available.

A breathless gasp escaped her as she smacked her back against the grimy brick wall at the far end of the alley, her legs losing the power to keep her body up and allowing her to slide down to the filthy floor below. For a few minutes the figure rested silently with her head bowed until finally her chin rose up and her hands flew to the ugly wool shawl over her head, pulling it down to her shoulders and revealing a mess of chocolate hair and strangely colored eyes. Amon let out a soft cough and pulled the scratchy cloth off of him, letting the winter winds dry the sweat from his brow. Oh God, what had happened? Why, why was he being called a murderer?

It had all happened so suddenly. Everywhere, everywhere his name written in such hateful writing! What had he done to disserve such malice? What had he ever done…

"Bailey…"

Honey and blue eyes squinted towards the sky. As always that beautiful name sprung into mind like a lightning strike and his heart reacted like the thunder, jumping at the name and sending a sweet wave of pain dancing in his chest. Flashes of reddish hair, memories of clean, soft skin…

With a childish gaze, Amon's eyes left the sky and fell on his own hands. Dirt and dry blood clung to every inch of him. His hair was matted with dirt and sweat, and his clothes were baggy, filthy and full of holes. He could feel the swell of shame deep inside as he pondered on the differences between himself and his beloved Bailey. Bailey was clean, soft, breathtaking… but what was he?

"A rat," he confirmed, his lips slightly parted and his eyes half closed in a dreamy state. "A rat dressed like a woman." He added and he suddenly slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. His face flushed a burning crimson at the horrible reminder. Yes, it was a mortifying situation but what other options did he have? If he resumed dressed like a man (like he knew he was) it would only make things easier for everyone to point him out on the street. As a woman, and an old one at that, no one would bother to investigate any further than necessary.

Oh, but attaining this disguise was so needlessly difficult just like everything else. He was getting so tired of these struggles, so exhausted of living. If it were not for Bailey… well, he didn't know what he would do. He couldn't even remember life before the strawberry-haired boy. The aristocrat was the only thing keeping him going at a time like this. The man was like a symbol! While others held onto the holy cross to give them strength during their times of need, Amon depended on Bailey for the same comfort. But where was his beloved? These days it was rare to find him in the city. He remembered some people gossip that a lunatic left behind a heart or some other grotesque object in his room some nights ago and now the lad was afraid to leave his house. But Amon was quick to dismiss such lame ideas. He knew he was the only one who gave him that present, the posters confirmed it, and he also knew Bailey cherished it. At least, in his mind he did. In his mind Bailey accepted his token of affection and loved him even more for it! In his mind, in his mind…

Where was he, then? Was the true purpose behind the posters to call him forward, get him to come back to the mansion? It wasn't like Amon never tried to break in again but nowadays he found strange men standing guard outside the mansion. Suppose such a thing was a test? Something to prove himself with? Oh, he just didn't know anymore. His body was weak from hunger and exhaustion. All he wanted to do was rest. At the same time, he wanted to see Bailey. He needed to see him.

His hand ran down the front of his face to his mouth and lingered there for a while as he tried his best to think. Beside him his fingers curled and uncurled around a lump of sharp ice, crushing it and molding it into an irregular shape. Anxiety, tension—Lord, he had to see him. He was being called for! He could hear his voice on the wind. Calling him, calling him… laughing. Like a child's laughter. Lullabies…

It had been decided before his brain could even register his body's actions. His wool shawl was pulled back up to shield his face from the world, and silently, the man slipped out from the safety of his alley and headed off to the Adam's family home. His empty stomach fueled by sheer determination, daydreams and psychotic obsession. He had to see Bailey, he had to see him, he had to see him, he had to, he must. He must.

He must have been walking for hours in that half awake daze of his. Almost nothing snapped Amon out of his phase as he journeyed to that tall house. Not until he heard some suspicious cooing passing him by.

"Did you see that? Lucy, I do believe that boy is in love!"

A woman's shrill laughter managed to pierce the bubble separating the man from the rest of the world. Curiously, he listened wanting to know who she spoke of. Self consciously, he wondered if it was him. Had he bore such a look as he walked? Never mind the fact that she had clearly said 'he'.

"Don't say such foolish things."

"Oh, but really now. Don't you find it a tad bit suspicious?"

"I agree. Sir Adams as of late seems so strange!"

Adams?! Darkness seemed to evaporate in an instant. All around him the sun shone bright in orange skies and the world was made real again, the old Adam's house standing near by as elegantly as ever. Immediately Amon stopped walking and looked behind himself with a horrified expression towards the servant girls chattering and walking away from him.

"He seems more interested in courting that man Oliver than his sister! Just look at him standing at the window! Did you see that, Betty?"

Amon's heart beat slowed to a near stop. "What?" He breathed, the color draining from his face as he turned around to find the window one of the ladies had mentioned. His eyes jumped from one to another in a frantic search, his mind praying for a reason to accuse the wench of lying, but, alas, there he was just as she described. Standing at the window with such a look of misplaced sadness and longing. But where the man was staring was Amon's real concern, and what Bailey was staring at was a small coach… a man climbing into it. He didn't need any confirmation to tell him anything. His jealousy had already decided. This was Oliver. This was the man trying to steal Bailey away from him, trying to make him forget. This, this--!

His cane fell immediately, but he didn't hear it. His palms were beginning to bleed from the pressure of dirty nails digging into them, but he didn't feel it. The world around him was beginning to turn red. Like plain white paper falling onto a puddle of blood, the images around him became tainted and distorted. Soon all Amon could hear and feel was merely fantasy. The haunting screams of women, the sounds of shattered glass and brass church bells. The feel of the heat as it ate away his skin. The burning—the painful sensation of hate! Of pure hate! It consumed him like the devil's fire and seduced him with beautiful images of mangled corpses and pleading shrieks.

For the first time in a long time, the name Bailey was the farthest from his mind.

And everything fell to black…

Somehow he remembered tracking the coach. When the sun was just beginning to hide behind the tree tops, Amon had finally managed to stop the carriage from leaving the woods it was passing through. He had tricked the driver, he recalled, into thinking that a woman had suddenly fallen onto the road directly in front of his horse. With no one else around at this time of night, and this path dangerously secluded only for those specifically traveling to Sir Oliver's house, the man stopped to come help him. His good deed ended with a violent crack of bone. The poor fellow was on the ground before he knew it. Amon in his rage didn't give the driver much attention as he tore his knife out from the side of his head and got on his feet yet he remembered him in great detail, from the wide, swollen eyes to the exact pattern the blood made as it dripped down his face onto his gray tongue. Then… then he remembered meeting Oliver. He climbed in the carriage, yes that was it, and pounced on the young boy before he could make it out the door on the other side.

Yes, yes, he remembered. The words were all but a muffled sound now but he could remember everything in pictures and motion. But his favorite memory of him must have been how he looked near the end. Bound by his shawl and just laying there, battered and trying to scream past a broken, limp jaw. He had said such horrible things to the boy. If he didn't hate him so much he might have felt sorry that those were the last words he would ever hear. How much he was despised. Over and over… how much he was hated. How passionately he was hated. "You think I'm a rat too, don't you?"

There were tears running down the boy's bruised face as Amon began to finish breaking his knees. He could see it even in the darkness of night, all those glamorous tears. When Amon felt confident that Oliver wasn't about to make a fuss anymore, with the utmost detachment, the peasant went to work undoing the man's trousers. "Oh, don't lie." He sighed as Oliver tried to scream again. Angrily, he stabbed the hilt of his knife into his eye. Unfortunately the hilt was much too wide to fit into the socket but it got him quiet enough for Amon to finish undressing him. And when that was over, well, he didn't much dwell on that part of the torture. He supposed he was much too angry to pay attention to the way the other man screamed and sobbed. If he was to ever do this again, he'd much rather have Bailey underneath him.

"Would you like to see how hollow your heart really is?" He breathed into the moist air, smiling wickedly and roughly pulling out of him. Amon took the knife stabbed into one of Oliver's legs earlier and replaced the tip of it on the center of the other's heaving chest. He didn't wait for an answer, simply went on cutting.

The peasant couldn't really recall whether or not Oliver had actually stayed awake long enough to see that ruby he pulled out of him. Hard as he tried to keep him alive to see, the pain was too much in the end. But Amon liked to hope that he did get to see it. See his chest cut open and his heart ripped out of place behind broken ribs. Even in the dark Amon could tell the heart was still beating after he had pulled it out, the black ink splashing on his face and down on the other's body. He smiled, looking down at him. "There, you see? You're just like me." He laughed. "You're just as filthy as I am."

Once the anger was gone, Amon couldn't help the feeling of… ice. Never had he felt so empty. Rather, he forgot exactly how empty he felt alone in the world without Bailey. There was a feeling of illness rooted in his stomach that he couldn't get rid of. The taste of betrayal slept on his tongue and the man didn't know whether to break down and cry out all the excess emotion or simply walk it off.

"I want to write Bailey a letter, mister." He explained to the fallen coach driver, the heart pried out of Oliver nestled in his arms like a precious child. His eyes stared down at the snow powdered man and waited, patiently, for an answer. None came, and he nodded his head. "I'm sorry," he sighed. On his knees, Amon put the heart down and began to dig around the man's clothes for anything he could use to write a letter. All he found was some pounds, but that was good enough.

The next morning Amon bought himself a little wooden box, a piece of paper and a envelope, and after asking to borrow someone's pen, Amon proceeded to write Bailey a little poem and delivered his presents to the head butler of the house. The heart in a box and the poem. The moment the door closed he ran. And within that innocent envelope he wrote,

I've been racing for you, Love.
You are the one thing I could count on
even if your apathy was what I expected.
Oh darling, I waited and waited to feel your footsteps
and to hear your breath,
but maybe I just wanted someone to wait for…

You are ever in my mind,
you were behind my soul each time
I held it to the flame.
You are ever in my thoughts.
I'd leave a room of angels
just to be alone
if only to say your name.
I never told you I needed you, Darling
like a flower needs the rain.
How could you possibly know how much I cared for you?
So I reach for your love
like the moon and the stars,
ever in my sight,
ever out of touch.

There's a light of a holy kind,
I think it comes from somewhere
up in the sky or from some far off lovely place,
but this light never, ever shone on me, Darling.
At least as far as I could see…
So I sat in the dark and I watched you,
but now, I just cry to myself
when there's no one around
and I teach myself to walk backwards
out of any given situation.
Yes, I can be graceful and try to run away,
you don't even have to say goodbye.
But I'll be right here if you want me to.

I could paint your portrait
if I never saw you again and
when I am old, someone may ask me if I ever loved,
and I will speak but they won't recognize
my words, they'll say I'm telling lies.
And maybe I am,
maybe I am.
All I know is you are ever in my mind.

Amon

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((The poem was actually a editing of Emilie Autumn's song Ever. I felt the song suited Amon's thoughts and feelings so I don't take credit for the "poem". Hope some of you like this story. :P Its being done with another person. I play Amon, she plays Bailey. Tell me what you think so far.))