#anyone who doesn't play this game I HIGHLY recommend Catherine Classic as Jonny is best man

[erinelizabethh]

Memento Mori | Catherine (1/?)

So I thought no one asked for this but apparently on AO3..... they unfortunately did. So, voila!

A self indulgent Jonny x OC :)

"Astra inclinant, sed non obligant." "The stars incline us, they do not bind us."

The story of Rapunzel supposedly goes as follows, if the two different text messages of the same folk tale were any indication of its length; Rapunzel was a child imprisoned in a tower due to her parents’ misdemeanors. With the careless compromise between her father and a witch that owned a garden, Dame Gothel, the newborn Rapunzel was taken from her birth parents where she would live the rest of her days under the witch’s care. However, the age of twelve proved troublesome for Rapunzel, as she was maturing into the most beautiful lady of the land, and she was shielded from the world’s sins and virtues at Dame Gothel’s jurisdiction. Not to mention, she was told by the witch to care for her golden threads of hair during the time inside the tower, forcing her silk strands to be grown as long as Dame Gothel found them to be of use. Then, a prince happened upon this garden, and the tower in which Rapunzel inhabited, with the girl letting down her hair for him under the illusion that he was the witch.

Yawn.

Because neither the prince or Rapunzel had phones, or time to waste skimming through this two-parter crammed inside a screen, the prince would return every night with the incentive of eventually asking her to marry him. As Dame Gothel was only inside the tower when the sun was out, the two hatched a plan where the prince would bring her eight threads of silk for the following eight nights; a total of 64 threads, this would be a ladder for Rapunzel to craft and make her escape… and that was the end of the message beyond the limit of one hundred and sixty characters. Presumably, this person halted their incessant typing of this tale in need to be told at the realization it was towards the wrong number, their story reaching its abrupt end in a cliffhanger that was neither correct or far from its climax.

The utter tenacity and perseverance of man to never complete what was began, perhaps that was to blame for the welcomed cutting of ties of relatives, and this flat… apartment that was now my home. With a curl of my finger, the slick matte of my cellular device—flip-phone, quite the term—smacked against my palm with the notification of the time at its most recent being half past two in the afternoon. A glance at my carpet was my confirmation, lines of translucency through holes of tattered curtains defiled with specks of neglect and abandonment. Like the curtains, the hues of the interior that once were semblance of idiosyncrasies and individuality were dulled to a mundane, boorish gray. Even the marble coating my kitchen counters were discolored save for the line the pads of my fingers once tampered with, lacking a glimmer that only existed when the landlord gave a shit. One could assume every appliance before me shared these traits, deserted and lost in their apparent lack of use to the world.

All too familiar of a reality, a grunt left my lips at both the thought and the weight lifted from my arms as I placed the box of belongings on top of a surface meant to sit in my dining room, hands reaching up to push my glasses against the bridge of my nose. Why the people moving my furniture to and from apartments befuddled themselves with the placing of an ottoman and a transparent glass table reaching my waist, commenting on a job well done despite achieving nothing, perhaps I was never meant to know. Regardless, I left the cardboard box of memories if only for a little while, if only to perform feats the movers apparently could not. For what seemed to be an hour or two, my mind was occupied with the layout of my home and what decorations atop shelves and hung on walls were worthy enough of dwelling on. Frames of high school events and reunions were inches from ruin, edges of the rectangular mahogany bordering the genuine smiles of my classmates nearing the ledge. The same could be said for the photo sitting adjacent to that one, my teeth concealed with a tight-lipped smile contrasting the stretched cheeks of my coworkers at my farewell surprise party. The snapshot of that moment in time, the glimpse of people showering me with gifts and good wishes, was to be kept of importance regardless of the mood I entered my apartment in.

Of course, no longer could I recall the date that picture was taken or the people inhabiting the photo upon further digging into my past. My mood soured the moment a ring was in the grasp of my thumb and pointer finger, the moonstone at the center twinkling in the becoming twilight; no fixed breeze or impending golden hour could ever hope to better the emotions bordering on painful and insincere. With this ring in my vision, thousands of years caught up to me and shackled me in chains of oblivion and contempt, unable to ever allow me catharsis for as long as I lived. With that gem, my life lost its façade and in it was a reality that was meant to remain as verbal tales and visual illustrations, passed down through generations through people so dense in their faith they would believe it. If only they didn’t, if only—bzzzzt.

The ring fell from my grasp at the disruption, a knock at my door my temporary release from it all. A slight murmur existed beyond my walls, belonging to a man and a woman, and moments passed before they were under the impression that no one was inside. However, one last push at the button beside my doorknob, and I was striding towards the entrance of my apartment with the intention of halting that vexing sound. Sliding my lock along the hole, my arm was reared behind my back as the door opened to reveal presumably a man and his girlfriend standing idle in the hallway. Over their shoulder was a glimpse of the apartment across from mine, a twin sized bed edging past the view of the doorframe shared with magazines and clothes thrown to the floor to stay there for good.

“Welcome, you must be…” The woman before me, carnation strands of hair falling past her hips, tapped her baby blue polished finger against her lips. “Eris! Sorry, but that’s got to be short for something.”

Ereshkigal. “It’s really… not.”

“See, Katherine?” The man beside her, shaggy black hair resting centimeters above his stone blue eyes, leant his shoulder against the wall. “Eris here isn’t even done moving in yet.” Intaking a puff of air, he blew it all out in a long and suffering exhale. “Sorry about this— the, uh… landlord’s been going batshit over a new tenant.”

Katherine’s elbow collided against the hot pink graphic shirt her partner wore, her frown stretched to a smile towards the newcomer. As polite as their appearance was, my face hitting my pillows in the hopes of the force knocking me into an awaited slumber was much preferred. “And I thought Vincent should welcome you into the complex. Just a thought I had, considering you’re now neighbors.”

With a simple wave of my hand, Vincent was nothing more than an acquaintance to me. Judging by him threading his fingers through his locks of damp hair, droplets of water trailing past his chin from a visit in the shower, he shared my sentiment of neighbors, and nothing more. Although, before he grabbed Katherine’s hand and led her down the hallway, the one act of kindness offered was the recommendation of a bar down the road, the Stray Sheep. A place he frequents, he said, this statement was followed by his promise for us to meet again in an apt, “I’ll be seeing you… I guess!” With fingers wrapped around his doorknob, then entwined with the ones of whom I presumed belonged to his girlfriend, the two strode down the hallway with their hands a bridge of a supposed distance put between them. With one last inquiry of the foreign pronunciation of my words throughout our conversation, a mutter of guesses not far from correct bouncing off of the two, they instead were searching down the flight of stairs for an answer rather than asking me themselves.

“Yeah, no shit ‘I guess,’” My body trembled with laughter, head shaking. Pushing myself off my palms, I was no longer leaning against the door, my feet planted inside the square tiles of my entranceway on the way to my bedroom. Pulling at the hair tie wrapped up in my hair, the auburn strands fell past my shoulders as my other hand inched at the power button of the remote. A sigh of relief was appropriate, considering the cables and plugs were tangled to the point where it was difficult to recall which belonged to the television; the attempts to prod at the outlets were questionable considering my aptitude for innovation, yet I solved the mystery of which plug fits with that color, reaching back to my long, long, long term memory in order to figure the definition of an HDMI cable. Regardless, the blur of my reflection was evident until the screen popped with color, and I was able to pat myself on the back for a job well done.

“— and in other news, a series of mysterious deaths have continued to plague the city, with scientists fearing the worst: a global epidemic.” Now that was able to grab my attention, since I hadn’t bothered to find a seat in my fascination with what was falling past this news anchors plush, crimson lips. “More to come.”

I held her to that promise. With the side of my head leaning against my palm, my body was relaxed towards the direction of the television, my shoulders tense with what was to come, if it would at all. If not, I was forced to crawl from my mattress and pull out the folder of notes and information regarding to the reason of why I was transferred; the source of these deaths was found to be among the population I was now a part of, so the next course of action was to appoint me, a forensic pathologist with an attachment with death and what followed. No one else appeared to be on that wavelength, as humans could never, so a bit of kissing my ass here and there and I was convinced I would be the one to investigate. With that came the decision that a new life for me was well deserved, as well as a search for more that I couldn’t seem to shake.

With that being said, something else well deserved would be my treat for today.

The thought caused me to pack up my case files, papers folded at corners and crinkled at edges due to my careless cramming inside my messenger bag. Inside were also pens and erasers without pencils to complement them, as well as my proof of verification as the new forensic pathologist at the precinct and evidence I smiled a bit too late when I was told to; a façade my exterior was, as just one glance inside my personal belongings was enough to tear that down. However little the effort required, that did not stop me from peering into the mirror resting against the living room wall, swiping at blemishes while dragging the bristles of a brush from the root of my hair to my ends. Perhaps that was to be another bonus for living alone, and preferring it that way, as no one saw the repulsive and grotesque that was underneath. Why bother raising up others hopes for a better, more tangible me when they could accept what was?

That task proved to be of ease once I was beneath the awning of the aforementioned bar, men and women alike halting their routine to spare a glance at the one outlier of it all. Customers inside were no different, tables free as regulars flocked toward one another in the attempt to not drink alone for that night and the next. Above me was the faint, hollow noise of a tune mirroring the blues, sad in its tone while coalescing with the dimmed lights overhead. Surrounding me was endless chatter, words picked out from voices ranging in pitch pieces of a puzzle: just what was the talk of the Stray Sheep tonight? Chills were travelling throughout my nerves, setting them alight with the demand to continue, to take a seat, to converse with people not appreciative of a newcomer at this bar. Regardless, my fingers fiddled with the sleeves of my cardigan, nails pulling at the fuzz resting atop of the gray cotton, before taking two steps up stairs and circling to the booth near the entrance. To distract myself from the lingering gazes and whispers lost in the horde of conversation, my papers were spread out on the table before picked up in multitudes to at least correct the page numbers.

“A newbie! Haven’t seen you around here.” With nails tapping at the table to the left of my figure was a woman with hair the hue of fresh blood, brown eyebrows at a fine angle that suited her exuberant demeanor. One of her hands reached up to pinch her nametag—Erica—resting on her uniform the color of dandelions, red strips trailing up her middle past her apron to exemplify her cleavage. No doubt was she a hit with customers. “Where you from?”

“Man— Manchester.” My cheeks brushed with crimson, for my lack of social skills could not save me from the accidental shuffling of eyes towards her chest. “United Kingdom.”

Her eyes were wide, fist against her hip. “You’re kidding! Jeez, what brings you all the way here?”

Her head fell to the shoulder, a dazzling smile tugged on her lips glimmering with red lip gloss, so charming that I couldn’t help but return the grin. Regardless, before I was to respond with a curt answer regarding work, the woman’s ears perked up at a demand for more drinks; with nothing but a frown passing her expression, Erica’s heels clicked across the floorboards, only pivoting to send a wink my way and a promise to continue the conversation after she was done tending to her customers. Not that I planned for discussion, her body exhibited radiance from her actions and her way with words, and the tension gradually rolled off of my shoulders as I moved to organize the pile of files before me. Adding to the tone set inside the bar, Erica’s attitude provided the need for destress, the allure to stick around for a while. For regulars, worries that once remained a thorn at their side were as trivial as fallen leaves beneath their feet, the choice given to either choose someone to vent to or allow the issue to eventually slip from their minds.

Maybe this was the intention of one of the victims listed in my papers, a man by the name of Georg Valença, a man of Polish descent and once a video game developer at Fowles Electronics. It was reported three months ago that the man was in good health prior to his death, nonetheless lying in the midst of severe atrophy that rendered his body in a questionable state due to the cause of death still unable to be found. Said to stem from a physical condition unbeknownst to the people he surrounded himself with, Georg’s death was one of many that continued to baffle investigators and those living in the city. Two photos snapped of him during the process of rigor mortis and after were held behind a silver paper clip, essays of victims in connection to him behind it. However, one fact was common in all victims, a deduction handwritten in capitalization and highlighted in pink on the ninth page: most, if not all, were men reaching their thirties that visited this bar. Despite the fact that I was allowed no permission to investigate this myself, the case was captivating enough to the average eye—meaning I was obligated to, for the people.

It was evident to the masses I hadn’t the slightest clue of what to order, and how to act, as my gaze remained fixated on the notes before me instead of the foreign environment I was in. Difficult as it was to not heed such distractions, having one drink to belittle such distractions into trivialities was my goal, since the energy required from me to shop for groceries and order for delivery was depleted the moment my foot stepped past the threshold of my flat—apartment, again. Allowing sociability, the chance for someone to do their worst to me, wasn’t virtues I was willing to uphold in this lifetime… or the next. The moment my eyes left the ink on the papers was a regrettable one because it was also the moment I caught the stealing of glances from the booth diagonal from mine, four men including my neighbor awaiting the opportunity to insert themselves into my business. Now that wasn’t happening, I nevertheless clawed at my piles of work and held them to my chest, a giggle bubbling up in my throat as I greeted them with an extended, worse alternative than keeping my mouth shut: “Hi.”

With a cigarette lodged between two fingers, the man nearest to the bar ruined the silence. “Hey. I’m guessing you’re Vincent’s new neighbor?”

Ignoring Vincent’s groan, assuming that this man was able to discern of my identity based off of a description from the man himself, the only response I could muster was a nod of my head. I could feel the hairs trailing along my skin standing at his voice, oh so gruff but flat upon first meeting; charcoal threads of hair were swept past his eyebrows, irises the color of coffee beans, easy to become lost in the universe behind them—fuck, it had been a while. Still, it was difficult to disregard the words of greeting from the two blondes lounging in their booths as they raised their glass bottles of beer from the same, popular brand. However, the tones of their voices appeared to be complementary, sleeves of a cobalt jumpsuit falling from the elbow of what was evidently the man with the most years ahead of him as his range grew with each word. Meanwhile, the acknowledgement from the man beside Vincent escaped past his lips as a low and gravelly, “Vincent’s told us about ya’,” attempting to mask his cheeky grin at further embarrassing his friend by tipping his fedora over his face.

“Um.” My lips were tightly pressed together, never apart until my legs slid themselves from the seat at the booth. Now I was forced to speak, gathering up the rest of what I was working on before my thumb pulled the strap of my bag back to the juncture between my neck and shoulder. It was then that I inserted myself into their business, my nose scrunching up at the hypocrisy of it all, standing beside their table with an affirmation, finally. “Yeah… Yeah, I moved in— t-today.”

“Woah! That accent!” The blonde sitting at the edge of his booth threw his hands in his pockets, figure leaning towards mine. “Vincent did tell us you were British.”

“Slow your roll, Toby.” One of the men allowed a chuckle to fall past his lips, eyes then finding mine. “Name’s Orlando. This here’s Toby, and the quiet guy over here is Jonny. Don’t be shy. He doesn’t bite.”

Jonny’s eyes rolled to the back of his head. “And you do?”

“Ignore him, Eris, please.” Vincent warned, fingers pulling at his ear, but I expected his actions stemmed from an exasperation built from love and acceptance of his friend’s behavior. “Didn’t expect you to come, if I’m gonna be honest.”

Was quite a fascinating sight, witnessing the friendship transpire between these four men. Despite Toby by far the most juvenile, the three men accepted his youthful demeanor and enticed him to their woes and fortunes, building a relationship off of each other so strong Toby’s age was trivial in the grand scheme of things. While this was all conjecture, there was no mistaking the bond existing among them, the four unable to run out of topics to dwell on until they unconsciously and simultaneously took a swig of their drinks. I couldn’t help but will my teeth into biting at my lip, as having friends such as Vincent’s would have certainly spiced up my life. My friendships never were to last; I was brought into this world aware that humans were fearful of me, as I was symbolic of their inevitable damning. I lived mortal lives after with me unable to grasp the concept of it, instead awaiting news of the deaths of acquaintances knowing they would no longer exist on Earth… knowing I would continue to. Despite the longing for contact, media and prior experience solidified that I was better off alone in this world; life was more laid back, and effortless.

Just how life was meant to be lived. “Surprise.”

“What’cha workin’ on?” Toby chimed in, bringing the attention back to me. “You seemed pretty— Oh, Erica!” True to his calling, the waitress’ shoulder brushed against mine as she returned from her duties. In her palm was a circular tray, arm raised to balance the one Cosmopolitan leaving its imprint upon the name of the bar carved into the center; eyes trailing past her chest, the Midori Cosmopolitan in her grasp swayed with the movement of her hips, almost pressuring me to order the favorite of mine. My taste buds began to water, fingers wrapped tighter around my papers to suppress the urge to reach up on their own free will and request the same drink with a hard pull on her sleeve.

“Told you I’d be back.” Her free hand found her hips. “These guys aren’t bothering you, are they?” With a shake of her head, the woman’s wrath was to be subjected by the group of four before us. “Didn’t I tell you to go easy on her?”

Jonny pulled the glass of sake from his lips. “Relax, Erica. She approached us.”

“He’s right. I’m— I’m Eris.” Holding my hand out, I mustered up the best smile I could manage. “Vincent’s neighbor.”

Instead of her hand weaving with mine, she decided a better place for it would be to hang off my shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. I know who you are. This is for you, by the way. Boss insisted it was on the house.” In a surprising turn of events, the tray was now held to my height, still despite the delay in my reaction. “Sounds like he’s got his eye on you. I’d keep my eye on him, if I were you.”

Solid advice from the waitress, it was a warning that could not be taken in stride regardless of the incentive behind Boss’ actions. Vincent shared my sentiment with a, “Didn’t know Boss was the type to give freebies to newcomers,” downing what little was left of his rum and coke before setting the glass inside the circle of faint discolor on the table. Regardless, I accepted the offer by dragging a raspberry down the needle sitting at the edge of my glass, the tangy yet sweet burst of red then overflowing my taste buds. My favorite fruit, next to pomegranate seeds, there was still the desire for hesitation upon that second bite and that first sip that I inevitably threw aside since, well… Boss’ reputation for mixing drinks certainly preceded him. For someone to offer my favorite drink paired with my favorite fruit was mere coincidence, a speck of fortune in a world thriving on them.

Before I could share my gratitude, Erica shook her head with her pointer finger raised toward the man standing behind the bar. The man exhibited no signs he was aware of our conversation, occupied with grabbing a rag and wiping lipstick stains off of the edge of various shot glasses. His silver hair was slicked back, no hairs out of place despite the angle of his face; in fact, he was so well put together it was to be expected, being the boss of the establishment after all. What was unexpected, even catching me by surprise, were the sunglasses pressed against the wrinkles on his face, contrasting from the notion that he was indoors at nighttime. However, the regulars surrounding him paid no mind to the peculiar trait he displayed to the public, the discussion to be had a necessary distraction from whatever fashion sense this man held. Could I be sure he wasn’t heeding my response if his shuffling of gazes were so effortlessly hiding behind his glasses?

“Th— This is my favorite.” I approached him following the exit of the majority of people at the restaurant, my elbows resting atop the damp bar. “I didn’t… didn’t want to come while you were working.” No reply. “Thank you!”

“You’re very welcome, Eris. I hope it was to your liking.”

So he was listening.

“Don’t fall for a dog who has eyes for every bitch.”

Now no one could anticipate those words, in that order, spilling from his mouth like destiny foretold it so. Of course one would laugh it off, eyes shuffling to their twiddling thumbs in hopes of erasing the musings from their short term memory before it lingered, but I was that fool who inquired of his reasoning. “I— I didn’t fall for anyone,” was what I began with, hoping to entice more out of him, a foolish alternative than shutting up and never asking why. What I received in return was but a gaze over my shoulder, the man doing away with his laid-back and charismatic demeanor to allow a frown to pull at the lines forming at his cheeks. What foolery it was on my part to follow the direction of his vision, his still stature confirmation that whatever was behind me was far from permissible. However, the one excuse I could offer was the morbid curiosity overpowering any thought that would save me from myself, a desire for a quick glimpse behind those sunglasses that perhaps held the world.

A woman, clad in a dress of cream lace and form fitting material, was tugging at my new neighbor’s jacket collar in an attempt to pull him closer towards her embrace. Her lips, soft and baby pink, clashed with Vincent’s as his whimpers were faint beneath the smoke, her fingers entwined with his as they continued their tango across the ends of intricate, thin designs that were outmatched against her beauty. In other words, if no one was to step in, there was no doubt this woman would lead to his ruin, an utter damnation at the expense of his friends, the one whom I thought was his girlfriend… with that, I swiveled back around towards the direction of the kitchen, my body warm with what transpired. Warm was an understatement in fact, the smoke was no match for the fire trailing along the hairs of my skin, nipping at my fingertips as if attempting to mirror the same effect. Eris— My hand smacked at my cheeks, expelling the thoughts lest they become normalcy. Get it the fuck together.

“Frazzled, are you?” Boss chuckled. “Well, what are you—”

Quite the question, was it not? What was I to do regarding my neighbor lip-locking with a woman not sharing the familiar pink threads of hair trailing past his girlfriend’s waist, instead sporting ringlets of blonde pigtails tied at her temples mirroring her youthful complexion? What was I to tell Katherine if the question popped up in the middle of a conversation—not that it would if I never spoke to her following this chain of events, but if it did… what then? There was no telling if Vincent would recall any of it, his cheeks brushed with a deep crimson as his words left his mouth in a slur that would warrant repetition. Did I have an obligation to poke my head into such trivialities? Was control of situation perhaps in my grasp? Cheating, that was what that moment narrowed into; however, that one word could destroy Vincent’s life, taking the lives of those most dear to him down with it, and I somehow had the ability to act to perhaps lessen the impact.

“None of my business,” I said, a mistake in the making.