Chapter Three: Fascinating Dilemma
With a clawed hand still attached to the doorknob, the fish-man was shell-shocked from the present, disquiet, scenario before him. How in the world did it get inside his home? The backdoor had been closed, Moreau had to use his key for the front entrance, and the glass panes of all the sealed, icy windows showed no signs of damage. It didn't make any sense.
Why didn't anything in his poor pretext of an existence, ever make any sense?!
After a couple of minutes of raking those unanswered inquires, Moreau finally let his spinning, muddled mind regain traction, and he blinked at the curvature form on the tattered oval rug by the fireplace. Then, the fish-man repressed a gasp from forming in his windpipe. Originally, he had thought the trespasser was merely some cold critter seeking refuge from the wintery wilderness. However, it wasn't an animal... at all.
The person appeared asleep and hadn't seen him, for they weren't running or screaming... or not doing both of those actions at once. Moreau had to cogitate on what he should do. But first, he had to get better discernment. It was late afternoon, and he had not yet turned on the several oil lamps which were posted throughout the lodge. The only current light source was the soft orange and golden glows flickering in the hearth. And with the storm clouds suffocating the sky, the entire interior within his home was rather dim.
Previously underground, the lone fish-man had adapted to a life of obscurity; it had helped conceal his humiliating unsightliness. Not just from others, but also from himself, as well. But right now, the murkiness was hindering him from clarifying who this stranger was.
Surely but slowly, Moreau shut the door so the cold breeze would not disturb the dozing being. And with bated breath and utmost trepidation, he gradually began to advance.
Despite the frigid sensation of almost being engulfed in the snowstorm, the gulping fish-man's palms and covered forehead were clammy. And if his torso and limbs had hair follicles, he'd have goosebumps on his callous, ashen skin. Moreau wished to almighty Mother that he was unshod again. The big winter boots were not exactly making his clumsy steps silent, much less nimble.
At long last, when Moreau was two meters away, he stood, stock-still...
By the outlandish tailored clothing, the stranger was not a resident of the late Village. And when Moreau squinted amid the hair, partially draping the person's face, his delayed cognizance pinpointed that they were female.
The small woman had a stout frame but was far from overweight. Her fair skin beheld a tinge of pink, and she appeared young and in good health. Moreau inwardly reprimanded himself for using up the last of his cadou on the silver-scalp man. Because this person could've been the candidate to be the perfect vessel for Mother's special child!
Suddenly, a sharp simper crept onto the fish-man's creased countenance. Silly him! He could hold her captive with enzyme! He would extinguish the indoor flames to keep his work intact, and the woman would stay glued to the floor. Then, Mother would sense a perfect vessel has been finally found for her baby, and she would come to claim her! And then...
...Mother would thankfully accept him as her baby, too!
Excited, yet still extremely nervous, Moreau progressed a bit forward until he was only a few feet away from the peaceful, oblivious figure. He wanted to be absolutely certain to not mess up on this ultimate opportunity. From his recent experience with restraining a subject, Moreau concluded that the nearer he was, the better he could make sure he bonded the woman properly without drowning her lungs with oozing mass. He needed to do this before she awoke. For fleeting targets always got away.
Moreau briefly stopped squirming his fingers to shake his fists.
Damn! I wish I had more sleepy-bye medicine to keep her sleepy!
When he was about to condense the woman in a gooey straitjacket, his anticipated grin evaporated while perceiving the close-up characteristics. Medium-length strands were in disarray, and there was puffiness under resting lids. And despite the rest of herself being dried from the warmth within the lodge, her cheeks and chin were strewn with dampness.
From an indefinite amount of decades of sadness, the crestfallen fish-man knew all too well why this young woman looked the way she did...
She had cried herself to sleep.
Frowning, Moreau subdued his animated hands and sank his reedy limbs. Unexpectedly, he was reminded of his own lonely, long nights of sobbing. Now, the fish-man's conation to trap the young woman in enzyme had dropped from his yearning heart and was disbanding in the pit of his swollen stomach.
What if adhering her to the floor continued to make her cry? What if just seeing him made her cry? Like when the Rose baby first caught sight of him, thus, making him cry?
God, he hated crying so damn much...
The heavy despair on Moreau's mien lessened as he continued regarding the slumbering being. Deep red hair that accentuated rosy lips. A short, straight nose with a round, contoured profile. And sleeves of a sunny-yellow coat, hugging the wrists of youthful hands; which like the face resting over the knuckles, were smooth and completely clear of blemishes and bumps.
Moreau was intrigued and at the same time, despised his disfigurement even more. This was conceivably the reason why he felt so anxious if her eyes met his. She was so... fascinating. Whereas he was so... not.
The fish-man canted his large head until it was symmetrical with the small woman's face. The position of her eyelids was atypically further apart. In fact, he couldn't recall viewing anyone resembling such a facet. Nevertheless, Moreau considered it another fascinating feature, since it made her fluttering lashes even more prominent.
Wait... Fluttering?
Lurching in place, Moreau gaped with dreaded comprehension.His enthrallment had lured him to foolishly and unknowingly skulk closer! He was hovering above the woman like a sunset shadow, and melted snow had dripped off his trench-coat!
Proposals scrambled through the fish-man's contorted concentration...
Maybe if she was very tired, she would resume sleeping?
Maybe he could plug up the cabin instead of sticking her to the floor?
But wouldn't she still weep from being trapped inside?
And how would he get outside?!
The woman's head swayed as so did Moreau's. Whatever he was going to do later, didn't matter. What did matter foremost, was for her to never witness his ugly fuggly face. Unlike the last interaction in the cabin, he couldn't use his past royal prestige to resolve this dilemma. This stranger was an outsider! She would not see a House Lord, but a monster...
Just a disgustingly grotesque monster!
With fretful, deep inhalations, Moreau commenced backpedaling toward the kitchen.
I'll, I'll slip away! Yes, yes! She won't know I'm-!
Then, the sole of a wobbly boot touched that one creaky floorboard, provoking the petite person to truly stir.
Oooh, NO!
Sniffling, the sleepy woman murmured incoherently; hands shoving her up onto folded knees. And after a swift stroke of messy bangs, her hazy awareness was also wiped clear...
For widened, bright green orbs had locked onto the gawking, murky white sights of the hunched, hooded fish-man, looming in arms reach.
Noratcat: Glad we all can agree that Moreau isn't innocent, but you still have to feel bad for the guy. He's really been manipulated; most likely his whole life within the Village.
Guest: Yeah, our fish boi needs a self-esteem boost. And sorry but not sorry for another cliff hanger. ;)