#but until then Val is the only one that's actually done anything completely unforgivable and the other two need to RUN

[festive-unserious-fellow]

Y'know, I have a feeling that no matter how much Viv says Vox and Velvette are gonna be on the same level as Valentino, they really w o n ' t -

[mallory-michael-langdon]

my beginning and end started with you

Chapter 3

pride.i

The table was cut from rich rosewood, sanded and polished to perfection, with a thick tablecloth made from a teal fabric draped over it. The way it felt beneath the fingertips, tough yet smooth, he could tell it wasn't anything store-bought, at least not recently. It was an old table, fit for an old house.  Many antiques laid about, from the strong wooden couches in the living room to the elaborately designed rugs that sat beneath them, the old decorative paintings of the Starry Night, and the mesmerizing terror that was the Scream.   Even the floorboards were ancient, though enduring, strong enough to last another decade. There was a hearth to, and it was still in use, filling the house with warmth. There were silky drapes hanging over the windows, so thin he could see right through the mellow yellow, and it painted the acres of green grass, darkening sky, and fading clouds gold.

The home smelled of cinnamon and pine, the scents of Christmas, and lights hanged out in the front, over the window sill.  But that was it, no Christmas tree, no presents hiding in the basement.  Not even a lot of land nearby that had those things to gaze longingly upon. Grandma had always bought a tree for Michael so that he could decorate it with their shiny red and golden ornaments. There was none of that here, and Michael wondered how Mallory could grow up in such a place until he remembered that her childhood had happened years ago, his had only just ended.

A soft withered hand placed a plate of mushroom chicken in front of him, on top of one of the many chilewich placemats. Then another plate was settled down for Mallory, who sat by him, then another for her aunt who sat across from her, and another for her mother who sat beside the aunt.

And when the woman was done settling down the plates she took her seat at the head of the table, the matriarch of the family. Three generations of unhappy women.

The mother was dazed but conscious, with half-lidded eyes and a lopsided smile on her face as she looked at Mallory.  The two had the same hazel eyes and chestnut hair but the resemblance ended there. The woman's face was long, with narrow features that must've fit her face nicely once upon a time, whereas Mallory's face was heart-shaped, delicate and soft like a porcelain doll.

“Shall we say grace?” the Grandmother posed a silent demand, stretching out her hands for her daughter and granddaughter to take.

It will burn you, the Voice whispered.  Your ears will bleed and ring with a screech, and they will know you for who you are and you will never have her.

Michael remembers the priest, remembers the scriptures, each word ringing in his ear like a thousand knives screeching against a stone wall. The only way he’d silenced the pain was by silencing the priest, cutting his throat clean open with his mind alone.  Michael could've very well done that to Mallory’s family, but as much as he’d rather he would be a fool to think she’d ever love him with her family's blood on his hands. He felt his stomach roil in trepidation.

Consider this a lesson for not listening, the Voice hissed with violence. Mallory grabbed his hand, and he tried to find strength in her touch.

The women closed their eyes and bowed their heads in prayer as they spoke in unison.  

“Heavenly father thank…”

Immediately Michael tried to drown their voices out, focused on any and everything that wasn't those god-awful words.  Instead, he closed his eyes and zoomed in on all of their thoughts, for they were loud and easy to tread.

The mother’s thoughts weren’t on the prayer at all. A little film played in her head, a moment in time from years past with little Mallory and a day at the park. It was an endless never-ending loop. The woman’s mind was a broken record, not really worth saving in the end.  Val was all tense and unforgiving at the end of the table, angry at whatever it was- be it an old feud or envy against Mallory’s mother, that set her and her sister apart in her mother’s eyes.  Other than that she was suspenseful of the boy she’d invited to dinner. That was a problem he’d deal with later. The grandmother was completely indifferent to everything, of the tension brewing at the table, of one daughter who's become somewhat of a simpleton and the other bitter, and Michael wondered if she felt at all.  Old age has taught her not to care about most things she has no control of.  And Mallory, his sweet, sweet angel, was actually focused on praying.  So much that he had to back away from her open-field of a mind, so easy to sink into.

The prayer ended as soon as it started, the women digging into their meals, but Michael found he wasn't really hungry, to begin with. Mallory let go of his hand, despite how much he internally protested against it.

An intense silence pressed in, with none deigning to speak.  It was almost ritualistic, how they all ignored each other in favor of solitude.  Something tells him that maybe Mallory’s mother was the light of the family, the one to melt the ice and bring warmth in its place.  But that light has since dimmed, and the torch has passed to Mallory for she is the first to speak.

“I really like the academy. Miss Cordelia is a kind woman, and the girls are very friendly,” she stated.

“Good,” the grandmother asserted. “Because you're going back as soon as feasibly possible, Mallory.  Why you thought you had any say in coming back here is beyond me.” she settled her fork down, pointing a slim narrowed finger at Mallory.  Michael would love nothing more than to watch it go up in flames. “Now when you return, I want you to thoroughly apologize to Cordelia for your mishaps, and for leaving so suddenly without permission.”

Mallory remained silent in response, content on being the timid obedient granddaughter until Michael reached through their bond to rouse her anger. You're not a prisoner or a slave, and she is not your master.  Who is she to tell you what to do?

“It’s a school, not a prison.” she spat back, with just as much bite in her voice.  The table went into a silent shock.

Mallory looked shocked herself, for back talking.  It was her voice, but not her words.  Still, she continued on at his insistence.

“Besides, I want to stay for a little while to take care of mom.  She needs me right now, and I’m not abandoning her again.”

The old woman’s brown eyes darkened. “Are you suggesting that I can't take care of my own child or that I took her away from you and left her in the fray?  If so, you are gladly mistaken. Separating the both of you was both for your own good. She’s not you're responsibility, Mallory.”

“Oh, because you've done such a good job with her. So much that she was nearly on her deathbed.  Had I not came she would've died on her living room floor, alone.” Mallory pursed her lips, determined to defy and disobey, and he loved it. “No, I’m not leaving yet. And you can’t make me leave.  I’ll just keep coming back until-”

“Mally, sweetheart, I’m fine-” the mother tried to chime in but to no avail. Her voice was to low and slurred with each word spoken, the first she’d spoken all day.  

“Have you lost your mind little girl?”

Val slammed her hand down on the table, causing a light thud. It was enough to garner everyone’s attention. “Please, not now mother. There really is no need.”  

The grandmother scoffed, shooting Mallory one last scolding look before focusing on her meal. Mallory looked down at her hands, clenching onto the hems of her dress just above the knees, knuckles white and red.  He found himself grabbing one of them, thumb running over the back of her hand, over the veins and bones, as the rest of his four digits moved in a circular motion within her palm. It’s okay, the gesture said. You did nothing wrong. He could see her shoulders drop a little, tension rolling off in waves.

Val smiled wolfishly, teeth gritted.  Then she fixed her feral eyes on him, a lioness in human form.  He returned the look back, with ease, a cold smile creeping upon his face.

“God, Michael.  I can only imagine what you must think of us now, arguing like a bunch of old maids.  Mind you we aren't usually like this.  It must be the cold weather.” she chuckled lightly, but there was no humor in the tone. “Why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself.  I’m sure there is much to know.”

“Where do I begin?” he laughed. “Well, I grew up in Country Club Park. I’ve ever only had my grandma, but she passed recently, and I don’t have any other family. So, I’m on my own now.” his voice grew demure, but he was anything but.  The best way to lie was to give half of the truth.

It was all a ploy, an act to soothe her suspicions, whatever they may be.  For all he knew, she could just be an overprotective aunt looking after her niece.  And could he fault her in caring for Mallory for all that he wanted her for himself?

“No family at all, not even a distant relative?” Val inquired, leaning forward on the table.

“None that I know of. It doesn't matter really, I prefer being alone.  Though I do enjoy Mallory’s company.  She’s-well, she’s my friend.”

Mallory looks at Michael then, surprised, but then she smiles, squeezing his hand.

“Hm, is that so.” The woman was not impressed. “So, what school do you go to?”

At that, his mind froze.  He hadn't been to school in a few years, didn't even know which school to go to if he were to re-attend. 

 “He should be going to Hawthorne- I think that’s what it’s called,” Mallory hastily replied in his place.

The woman frowned, looking between the two of them. “Hawthorne?  As in the Hawthorne School for Exceptional Young Men?” then a chilling smile crept onto her face. “So we have a warlock in our midst? Interesting, unsettling but interesting.  How did you two meet again?”

“Oh, would you stop with the twenty-one questions, Val.” the grandmother quipped abrasively. “I think we’re all growing tired of it.  So what if the boy is a warlock, leave it be.  And Mallory I haven't forgotten about what I said, you’re returning to New Orleans.”

Michael felt his blood run cold.  New Orleans?   He wasn't well versed in geography, but he was smart enough to know that there wasn't any New Orleans in any part of California. He hadn't thought her academy was that far. Michael had no means to travel that far, no money, no passport. Go to Hawthorne, the voice whispered, urged.  They will give you everything you need.

But Michael didn't want to travel all the way to New Orleans just to see her.  He wanted her to stay here, in California, forever. The mother was looking at him now, a feverish glint in her eyes, both daunting and grave, as if she’s just noticed his presence at the table, and didn't like it.

“I’m going to return grandma, I promise.  I just want to take care of mom for a bit.”

Val looked at the time on her phone.  “Would you look at that, it’s rather late. It’s time for you to go home Michael, wouldn't want you staying up late into the hours of the night.”

“I’ll take him home instead Aunt Val.” Mallory let go of his hand before coming to a stand, smoothing down her dress.

“Are you sure Mallory?  Because I don’t mind doing it and I thought we all initially agreed on me taking him home, you know, to make sure he actually gets there.”

Mallory merely rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure. I think I’m capable enough to drive on my own. And I’ll take mom home to.  Grandma do you still have that blow-up mattress?  Nevermind, I’ll check in the attic.”

“That’s not what I meant but okay,” Val mumbled, more to herself than anyone else. “The keys to the Range Rover are on the counter, and I want it back in one piece Mallory. I’m only staying in town for a few days but after that, I am leaving, the last thing I need to deal with is a wreck.”

________________________________________________________________

The house-or more like the apartment was an absolute wretch.  It resembled a box more than anything else, with a living room that led to a small kitchen, and a bedroom in the far back. The carpet was covered in cigarette buds and empty bottles, with a sickening hum that just sat and never abated. He sat on the couch that was wrapped up in a suffocating plastic, watching as Mallory opened up the long rectangular windows.  The girl stood there for a moment, staring aimlessly into the night out the last window she’d opened, the shadow of her silhouette reflected on the floor from the moonlight, then proceeded to pick up the bottles, tossing them in a bag before grabbing a broom to sweep up the floor.  She looked intent, perplexed, bothered.  Michael sensed a conflict in her, anger and regret, guilt and disgust, at whom had yet to be discerned.  But her eyes were far away, lost in another place, another time. A personal hell.  She looked but didn't really see, hummed to a tune she didn't really care for either.  Mallory, his broken little angel, the source of her problems nestled away in the bedroom, soundly asleep.  He had half the mind to go back there, and just a touch of his finger alone would spread cancer in the woman’s system that’d kill her overnight.

The broomstick began to groan beneath her tight knuckled grip, the brush of the broom moving to and fro bristly across the stiff surface.

“Mallory? Mallory?” he called innocently. “Mallory do you need help?” all movement stilled.  She looked up from the floor, gracing him with a smile of acknowledgment.

“Sorry, I was somewhere else. Um, you can help if you want. Maybe hold the dustpan down as I sweep the trash into it.”

He nodded eagerly.

They went on like that for a while, her setting the place to rights with him by her side to carry out the mundane task. Taking out the trash, drying the dishes, getting the covers to lay out as she blew up the mattress, plopping down onto it as soon as it was firm.  She was exhausted by the end of their cleaning spree, and she claimed she still had to wipe down the stained walls tomorrow.  She sat on the edge of the mattress, face buried in the palms of her hand. He sat on the floor in front of her, legs crisscrossed.

“Crap, I still have to take you home.  I’m sorry, I just lost track of everything.” she tiredly ran her fingers through her hair.

“It’s alright,” he assured.  Michael hadn't wanted to go back home anyway. “You look really tired, you should sleep.  I can stay here for the night and you can take me home in the morning.”

“Are you sure?” she leaned back into the mattress, sighing in relief the moment her back hit the covers.  Her mind was already made up, and so was his.

“Anything for you Mallory.”  

The night breeze crept into the living room, and she shivered. He looked at the thick blankets, at the sea blue, and green patterns, then stood up to pull the covers over her frame.  By the grace of his mind, the lights flickered off, and after he took off his shoes and jean jacket, he slipped beneath covers beside her, arms slithering around her waist, encompassed in her warmth.

Michael fell asleep to the lull of her light breaths, the fall, and rise of her chest, a smile on his angular face.

________________________________________________________________

2018 December

The house was covered in thick spindly vines that crawled up the red brick walls, overgrown grass, and weeds that tugged at the ends of Mallory’s dress.  

The morning had been a long one before she even managed to make it out of the house. She’d taken a much-needed shower, and changed into one of her casual gowns.  The seventies styled easy wrap white dress with a geometric pattern of red flowers encircled by small green leaves and thin vines that swopped diagonally to the hems of her dress, that reached a few inches above her ankles, and a v-line that rested between her bosom.  She wore her two prized necklaces, the ones with the silver star and moon, and a pair of black ankle boots.  Her hair was an ombre of brown that gave way to gold, resting below the nape of her neck, crinkly and wet from the shower.

She’d cooked a breakfast, an easy meal of toast and scrambled eggs, and watched wearily as her mother took bite after tremble handed bite.  It got to the point where Mallory had to feed the woman herself, that in itself a trying task. Then she went on to bathe the woman and saw how weak and frail, and realized with a horrible clarity that she’d restored life and youth, but not health.  Maybe she could try later… Or, maybe her mother has always been a frail woman.  She didn't know anymore.

“It was because of you Mally.  I had you when I was only sixteen, not the age any girl should be having a baby.” her mother had croaked when Mallory dared to ask. “Giving birth to you has drained most of the life out of me, but I don’t regret it. Not one bit.”

In the background of Mallory’s turmoil was Michael, always smiling, willing to lend a helping hand.  She still shuddered from the way she found him, them, when she awoke.

When Mallory woke it was to his face buried in the crook of her neck, legs entwined with hers while her upper body was encaged within the embrace of long, firm arms, toned and strong. His chest, his body, pressed into the back of her.  And something else too, hard and hot and- Oh, Oh. she had thought, with terror and excitement.  But when he woke, nothing happened ( she hadn't known whether to feel relieved or disappointed, of all the things to feel), he simply let her go, oblivious to his own arousal.  Did he even know what lust was? Of course not.  Michael Langdon was far too naive.

So naive, he didn't even notice the way she blushed whenever he casually took hold of her hand.  Like now, as he guided her to his front door, hand in hand. He’d insisted on inviting her inside and she willingly obliged, despite every cell, joint and hair in her body screaming at her to turn the other way.  To him, they were just friends simply holding hands. She shouldn't feel bitter about that, having known him for only two weeks or so, but she does.  And it confuses her, the way he makes her feel.  At first, it was a spiritual thing, -and not all soulmates need be lovers- but now it was a physical thing.  She could feel herself gradually growing attached to him with the more time she spent with him, and it wasn't hard for Mallory to grow attached to things.  The girl feared what this would do to her emotions, her state of mind when she inevitably leaves California.  Would he even care if she left right at this moment or would he simply shrug and go on with his day?  There was no telling.  

The door creaks and groans as he swings it open, and the moment her foot passes the threshold, the hairs on her arms and neck come to stand. Little dust particles danced in the pool of light from the window near the entrance, but everywhere else was dark, with long shadows.

I should not be here, no living creature should, and yet she continued to follow him, flinching when the door closed on its own volition. It smelled like burnt roses, the ozone before a storm, and decaying leaves in autumn.  It smelled like him, and his scent carried throughout the house. Or maybe it was vice verse, the house had imprinted on him.  They climbed the stairs, before walking down the mouth of the hall that led to infinite rooms.

She did not feel the comfort he felt walking down the corridor, could not shake that penetrating feeling of being constantly watched.  Despite that, it was a beautiful home, hauntingly so.  The ones that’d you’d read about in a gothic novel, with walls painted in tragedy, that groaned from bitterness and heartache. This house was much the same, a rare thing to find in sunny California, even in the life of a girl like her, a girl whose house was reduced to burnt timber and soot by her own hand.

“So you live here by yourself?” a stupid question to ask, one that she already knew the answer to, but she needed verification.  

Michael nodded his head, his strawberry blonde curls bobbing to the beat of his stride as he led them to his room, a forlorn thing with a brilliant heat that instantly made her sweat. The walls were coated with a dusty blue-grey paint, only darkened more by the shadow that seemed to hang over the room.  There were three wooden arches as well, embedded into the walls and ceiling, and between two of them was a shut door. Beside it was a computer sitting on top of a small desk cluttered with pencils and paper and a green lamp.  On the side of the entrance, a board adorned the wall, covered in sketches and doodles, no doubt Michael’s.  Across the room dwelled his bed with a metal headboard, and behind that were two windows with white blinds.  Sheets were splayed on the floor, with a fan plugged up next to them.

He pulled the strings to the blinds, letting in natural light. Then he pulled out a vintage record player, sitting it on the sheets at the foot of the bed, and a box of vinyl discs, the kind her Grandma still has displayed in her living room.  Mallory’s interest was piqued at the sight of them.

“Where did you get these from?” she gracefully sat upon the sheets, smoothing down her dress as she did so.

“They were my grandma’s,” he responded.  Perhaps it was a trick of the light but she’d sworn she saw his eyes water at the mention of the late woman.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he smiled, then sat down beside her, their shoulders touching.

She pulled the box closer and began to search through it.  There were many classics, most of them being from the sixties or seventies.  The Mommas and Papas, the Zombies, the Turtles, the Beatles. But her hand stopped at the Rolling Stones.  The album cover was a light blue covered in clouds with an abstract picture of the band in the center. Their Satanic Majesties Request, it read.  Michael’s crystal blue eyes gleamed.

“This one is my favorite,” his hand reached in the box after her, his long fingers faintly brushing hers as he gently took the album.

She watched as he slowly took the disc out, watched the way he handled it with care, afraid the faintest scratch alone would bring it to ruin. Mallory was mesmerized by his hands.  How could something so calloused, long and large as his hands be so gentle, move so elegantly?  Once again, she was struck by his beauty.  The way his pupils focused and dilated, filling out the blue of his eyes, the way his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, lips slightly parted. The light from the window cast one side of his face in shadow, while the other half was highlighted, all the sharp angular edges, the arch of his nose and the cut of his jawline.  He looked to be made out of marble at that moment, one of those greek sculptures come to life. Once again she asked herself how a man could be so beautiful.

He placed the record on the turntable, setting it to the right speed, then lifted the tonearm and placed the needle gently on the outermost edge of the record.  The moment the needle grazed the black surface music began to resonate throughout the room.  He skipped the first two grooves, but paused at the third, seemingly content with the choice of song.

“I love this song. It reminds me of you,” he looked at her with those piercing blue eyes that could roam the depths of the soul and told her this as if it were the ordinary thing to say.

In another land, where the breeze and the trees and the flowers were blue.

The singer sounded hollow and drowned, but it was loud and clear enough. Perhaps that had been the band's attention.  Michael laid down on his back, legs stretching out, before pulling her down with him.  The movement caught her off guard, but it mattered little when he nestled his nose in the crook of her neck, much like this morning, deeply inhaling her scent. Or when he slowly threaded his long fingers in the strands of her hair that crowned her head on the floor like a halo. “You smell so sweet,” he whispered, his warm breath ghosting her skin, lips not far behind.  So close, so very close.  

A shiver crept over her body, then pooled in her abdomen. She rested her hand there to feel a strange heat and cool.  From above, a girl and a boy laid side by side in the center of the room.  Oblivious to the things that crept in the halls and watched from afar.

I stood and held your hand/ And the grass grew high and the feathers floated by/ I stood and held your hand/ And nobody else's hand will ever do, nobody else will do/ Then I awoke, was this some kind of joke?/  Much to my surprise/ I opened my eyes.

His other hand trailed on her collarbone, edging its way closer to the valley of her breast, the part her dress so generously exposed.  She wasn't even wearing a bra, the dress wasn't the type you wore a bra with. He went down further, to where her hands lay, pushing them away to replace them with his own.

“...Michael.” she choked, eyes closed, too caught up in the moment, both terrifying and exciting.

Each breath she drew was shaky and unevenly spaced. What is he doing to me?

“Only what you want me to do, Mallory.” was his voice always so deep, had it always made her tremble?

His hand went no further, only stayed in that particular spot, rubbing circles. The small friction alone made her squeeze her thighs together, trying to repress the building need.

“When will you teach me?”  The deepness was gone.

Mallory opened her eyes, bending her head to look at him.  “How about now?”

We walked across the sand/ And the sea and the sky and the castles were blue/ I stood and held your hand/ And the spray flew high and the feathers floated by/ I stood and held your hand/  And nobody else's hand will ever do, nobody else will do/ Then I awoke, was this some kind of joke?/ Much to my surprise/ I opened my eyes.

The song had such a lovely melody,  woozy and otherworldly, with such dreamy elements and sad lyrics that left her on an acid-drenched high.  The type of high that you can only get from a song about two star-crossed lovers, only together in dreams, roaming a completely different realm. It reminds me of you, he said.  Of course, it would.

We heard the trumpets blow/ And the sky turned red when I accidentally said/ That I didn't know/ How I came to be here, not fast asleep in bed/ I stood and held your hand/ And nobody else's hand will ever do, nobody else’s hand...

“Okay,” he says. “We can do it now.”

Then I awoke, was this some kind of joke? I opened my eyes much to my surprise.

________________________________________________________________

Do you ever feel things happen exactly the way they are supposed to happen?

Every move made, every word spoken, every song played, it was for a reason. Everything, even the smallest of things Michael did had a purpose, a meaning, a message behind it.  One only had to pay attention to see the subliminal stimuli. When he’d played that song, he was telling her that those dreams, those memories were without a doubt real and not a trick of the subconscious mind. A confirmation to what she’d felt she knew. And now she was certain their souls were bonded- linked and chained- it was no longer a flight of fancy in her pretty little head.

After spending hours in his home, she didn't feel so out of place anymore.  She had walked these halls a thousand times before, she knew it in her bones. If anything, the house should be afraid of her not her of it.

The house was now alive with magic, crackling in her ears like static. The result of two powerful beings testing the waters before diving in. She’d remembered the little she learned from Miss Cordelia and handed those lessons down to Michael, who excelled in each spell and ability. He was always unsure about each one, but when he did them he took the extra mile and did something more.

Magic is often something to be possessed and controlled, but the magic possessed him, controlled him. Perhaps that is what made him so good at it. Magic possessed Mallory too, truth be told. It always has.

The sun was past its zenith, and it wouldn't be long before the moon took its place as the source of light, giving the room that evening gloom. Her mother had taken her medication after breakfast, which should have put her to rest for a few good hours.  Mallory had placed the house phone near the bed stand, phone number on speed dial just in case her mother needed to call. Dinner had to be made, sheets cleaned and walls scrubbed to create a more sanitary area for her mother to be in.  Nothing less would do.  Mallory and Michael’s little waltz was a nice one, but now the dance must end.

Yet they sat side by side beneath the crystal chandelier in the living room, in front of the cold empty hearth, and Michael refused to let her leave, always diverting her from the door with one thing or the other.  

“Please, just one more spell,” he begged, his head rested on her shoulder, arms wrapped around her waist as if he were a child. Such a baby.

His Rubik's cube had been set aside after 20 minutes of him showing her the many ways it could be manipulated to a different design instead of the same monotonous one that everyone else did.

“I’ll come back tomorrow, I promise, but I need to go home now.  My mother needs me.  I’ve been with you for half of the day.” her voice was stern, leaving no room for any more debate. “Now let me go, Michael, I’m serious.”

He stared at her in intense dead silence, not at all pleased with the tone of voice she’d taken with him, and the house itself held its breath.  It lasted for only a second, but it stretched on for hours in her mind.  Then he let go.

He let out a bitter, pouty. “Fine.” before racing out the room.  She heard his footsteps receding up the stairs and the distant slam of a bedroom door.

She sat there for a moment, in the empty living room, and the almost empty house.  The empty halls that didn't feel so empty at all when you actually had to walk down them. The floorboards that groaned on their own, and the air that at one moment could turn cold and fester with the smell of rot and then become hot, overpowering the house with the smell of him.  There was a silence that permeated so loud it was hard not to hear. She wondered about the stories the walls could tell, about the things they would say if she urged them to but dare not actually try it.  And then, it made sense why Michael wouldn't want to be here on his own, why he would want someone to be with him.

But she has to leave, she has to. Mallory stands up, making her way to the foyer. The door is right there, and her hand hovers above the doorknob, ready to twist. Mallory, of course, hesitates. She looks at the stairs, knowing where they’ll lead if she goes up. Michael’s little domain.  The least she could do was say good night.  Truth be told she was going to miss having him around her all the time, miss being around him.  Maybe she could get his number?

The stairs it was.  She took two steps at a time, moving as fast as she could. And then there was a blur of burning flesh, as red as the bright embers that fell of the skin, speeding across the corridor, children's laughter following behind it. And then it was gone. She blinked once, blinked twice. A trick of the light or a trick of the mind, she reasoned, maybe tiredness. But not what she thought it was, what she thought she heard and saw.  Was it out of the realm of possibility? No, perhaps not.  Mallory would rather ignore it though.

She hurried up the stairs then down the hall until she reached his door and knocked. No response. She knocked again, and still, no response.  “Michael, sweetheart, I swear I’ll come back tomorrow.”

There was a short silence before there was a shifting on the bed and the sound of someone drawing closer to the door. Michael opened it slightly, leaving it ajar, and peaked his head through.

“But how long will you stay?”

“For as long as I can.”

He opened the door more, stepping past the threshold.  She almost forgot how tall he was, his childish nature always made her forgetful of his age and height. Mallory barely reached his chest.

“I’d rather you stay here forever.”

Mallory frowned. She was a little confused and a little worried...and maybe a little touched.

“That’s not possible. Nor is it reasonable. We’re friends, right? Well, friends see and talk to each other all the time. We can visit each other or not. We can talk on the phone, we can go to other places too.  Look,” she raised her hand, sticking out her pinky, giving him a genuine smile. “We’ll swear on it.”

Michael hesitated at first, a frown marring his beautiful face, but eventually, he relented. Such a child. He wrapped his pinky around hers, gripping tightly.

“You swear we’ll always be together?” he asked worriedly.

“Cross my heart I hope to die.”

Michael returned her smile, showing his white teeth, slightly crooked in the front but in an endearing sort of way. Suddenly, he leaned down, gently placing a kiss on her forehead. As cold as ice on her hot skin.  It left her wanting something more.

“Goodnight Mallory.”

                                                          ________________________________________________________________

envy.i

It simply wasn't enough. Maybe it hadn't truly clicked for her yet, maybe the bond wasn't as strong on her end as it was on his. He didn't want to have her around only sometimes, didn't want to hear her voice for a brief moment over the damn telephone. Michael needed her by his side, forever and infinity. That’s what the bond called for.  He should have gone further when they were laying on his bedroom floor, should have given in to his desires, should have given her his mind, body, and soul completely. Should have kissed her lips instead of her forehead when he’d said goodbye.  They both had wanted it.  But he had to show some form of restraint, and he didn't want it to be here.  With friend and foe alike watching in their dark corners (and they were always watching, always hiding).  Her moans, her sighs, her body, should only be for his eyes and ears. Michael Langdon was too prideful to have it any other way.

Liar, the voice cackled. You were too scared.  You have no idea what you're doing.

No, he doesn't, he can’t deny, but he was going to damn well try. He buried his nose in the sheets she laid on, branding her scent into memory.  It still lingered there, the warm vanilla sugar aroma. His sweet flower, his sweet angel. She’d written down her number on the chalkboard before she left, and will soon be awaiting a call.

You will never truly have her with her mother in the way.  She loves her mother more than she will ever love you. The voice taunted.

“That’s not true,” he muttered into the lorn darkness. The ghost of this house must think he’s a madman if they don’t already. He clenched and unclenched his hands, trying to swallow down the envy that was steadily brewing in his system.“That’s not true, leave me alone.”

Yes, it is. The voice only returned with a vengeance. How about, for once, you actually do something useful with your powers, instead of doing those pitiful witchy tricks and gimmicks. Do you know what you are capable of?

Oh no. “Please no, please just shut up.” he tried covering his ears, but there was no point in that.  Whoever the voice was, whether it be his father or his father's demonic servants, it was in his head. And it was taking over again. Michael hated not having control, especially over himself.

It always started like this, with the faint whispering and hissing.  And then if Michael listened long enough it would go on, filling his head like a toxic gas before it drowns him out and takes over. In those moments, he fades into the dark place and disappears.

You could bring the greatest mountains to kneel, could bring about the downfall of the greatest nations and their armies, befall millions with plagues and storms, could turn souls into ash if you so wished, yes...souls into ash, The Voice seemed to consider the last option, an insidious chuckle resounding in his head. And you only need use your mind.

Michael’s body began to tremble as something stronger than adrenaline coursed through his blood, sending chills down his spine.

You need to push yourself past anything you can do in this realm, the Voice reasoned. Conquer your ability in the realms that truly matter.

The last time he incinerated souls, it had been in this house, and he’d lost someone he cared for.  Ben Harmon, the father he’d always wanted but never had a chance to have.

Michael was paralyzed, something was holding him down. Then his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and darkness consumed him.

Whatever dwells between the realms of man and spirit, a soul should not tread upon. But this was no normal soul if it could even be called that.  A being that dwelled between both worlds and entered both the gates of hell and the gates of life with ease.  A realm that was a dark, hollow replica of both, filled with nothing but the lost and tormented, the damned who have yet to be damned and the saints who have yet to be saved.  The being walked with ease it did, marveling at the moaning and screaming and crying, and sicky-sweet laughter, a herald of a demise.

This was different.  Michael was still here, this time he had not faded into the dark. The Voice was guiding him in the netherworld, controlling not even his body but his spirit. What else could it control, if it so wished?  He might as well be dumb, deaf and blind.

There was a gloomy long hall, thick with fog, with an infinite amount of doors, but it only wanted one.  Whatever the being wanted he was obligated to want to, like master and slave.

He walked, footsteps loud enough for the damned to hear but none would harm him. All knew who his father was, all knew that they belonged to his father, and therefore belonged to him.  He stopped in front of the aforementioned door and opened.  There were other spirits in here. The apartment had a history, despite how recent that history was.  

The girl slept on the mattress in the living room, oblivious to all of them, oblivious to the kindred spirit that walked past her, down the hall and into her beloveds room.

He and the being looked over the frail body that dwelled there, listened to the leisurely taken breaths that echoed throughout the room. Do it, Michael, you know what you have to do.

It wasn't as if Michael had a choice. His hands moved on their own, hovering above the woman's body. An ancient tongue spilled from his lips that sounded like the crackling of ice on a winter lake.  The body began to spasm, the soul coming undone from its vessel. It rose, and rose, becoming an entity of its own, a weak one that didn't have an ounce of strength to fight back. The spirit levitated, before touching the ceiling, face looking downward below.  The woman's eyes were wide open, looking down at her body beneath her.  Her eyes flickered toward them then. The flesh that was her lips were sealed shut, becoming a patch of skin beneath the nose.  She wouldn't be able to scream her way awake, and the rest of her body was under their control. She wouldn't be able to wriggle her way awake either.  Meanwhile, her physical body was sound asleep.

Her lips may be sealed but her thoughts are as loud as ever. ‘It’s you, that boy. I knew it, I knew but I couldn't…’ the woman seemed more sound of mind than she did in the physical realm, even under the thumb of his power.  He could smell the fear and the anger but mostly the fear. That cold terror that caused a cold sweat to break out on her physical form. She so desperately wanted to return to it, but she couldn't, wouldn't. ‘Stay away from my daughter, stay away from me.’  The woman was crying now, but none would hear her.  Mallory was asleep, lost in her dreams of him.  ‘God save me.’ she pleaded. ‘Mallory save me.’

He felt rage, and humor, and regret for what he was about to do.  Other emotions that he was sure wasn't his own.

“I’m sorry,”

Are you Michael?

“I’m so sorry.”

Is that remorse I hear? Funny, I thought she didn't deserve the gift of life bestowed by your little angel. Hypocrite, you're being the very thing you hate. That was different, he thought. 

It’s always different, isn't it? it spat back venomously. Now do it. One finger alone and cancer will spread throughout her body remember? The Being, the Voice, the Darkness was forever the amplifier of his sinful thoughts.

And one finger he used. It was almost daunting, how impossibly still he rendered her body. A Metastasis cancer spread as quickly as brushfire, rattling her with tumors and a depressive sickness. The breathing had gone still, and so had the room. Her soul cried out for her daughter, each attempt futile.

He looked up at her, raising his hands toward her just as he spoke more of the ancient tongue, twisted and olden, more old and powerful than Latin itself. The language of Heaven and Hell. The woman would go to neither. Her soul caught flame, her ashes falling gracefully like snow, and she screamed bloody murder, a scream that no one could her except him. ‘MALLORY’ she screamed, and he laughed a sorrowful laugh, filled with pain and joy and self-disgust. The Voice laughed with him.

Ben was right, there was no saving him.

When he awoke, it was to the murderous sound of crows.