Chapter Text
Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and unto God the things that are God’s.
October 24th, 1993
Its name was Cesar Hernández.
It hadn’t needed a name before – there was no need for them in the darkness it had crawled out of. But humans needed names, so now, it had one too.
There had been another Cesar Hernández once, exactly five minutes ago. A young human with dark eyes and hair. It had watched him through the static of the television screen, listening within the speakers during every phone call. It had compiled and catalogued everything Cesar Hernández looked and sounded like over careful months, meticulously planning until it could hold some semblance of a form that didn’t lose shape too quickly.
It wanted to get it right.
It needed to.
The human known as Cesar Hernández had died screaming. His fear had tasted bright and heady, addictive and all-consuming. The salt of tears, the stench of sweat, and the coppery taste of his mother’s blood hung in the air. It had been all too easy a plan in the end: waiting for the mother to leave the house, masquerading as her, whispering to Cesar in the night that she couldn’t be trusted – that something was wrong with her.
She had seen her child’s behaviour and known something was amiss. The young man before her was but a shell of her son, jittery with nerves and so paranoid he could no longer sleep. But, like all humans, Lola Hernández was stupid. She wouldn’t believe that something was truly wrong with her son, for that would make her a failure of a mother. Confirmed to everyone that she hadn’t done enough, couldn’t protect him from himself, from the thoughts in his head that would have him screaming awake in the early hours. It had heard her say as much once when she was alone, when Cesar wasn’t home to hear it.
It had all come to a head in the kitchen.
Cesar lunging for the knife oh-so-conveniently placed out of the block on the side. A flash of metal that drew his ire as much as his eye. Lola’s shrieks of fear as she’d begged, pleaded with him not to do it. How they had turned to gurgles and moans – rasps of wet breath as the blade sunk in. Over and over. Until there was nothing.
Silence.
Only stillness and the shuffling of Cesar’s knees on the ground. The clatter of the knife on the tiles as the reality of what he’d just done finally, finally hit him.
¬ You’ve killed her, Cesar. ¬
¬ You’ve killed your mother. ¬
It seized its moment.
He had died much like she had – screaming for mercy that would not come. It consumed him inch by inch, swallowing him whole. For only one of them would die here, and it could not be the one that did.
¬ There cannot be two. ¬
¬ Only one. ¬
¬ Only me. ¬
He’d struggled and wept and cried out for the mother he had killed and then he was gone. Only it remained. Looking down at the body of Lola Hernández sprawled out on the tiles, a dispassionate gaze flitting over her slack features, reflected back in the red slowly beginning to pool outwards, seeping into the gaps of the grouting. It turned away to where the landline was hooked to the wall. Picking up the receiver, it paused before pressing the shapes in the pattern it knew would make Cesar Hernández’ friend speak.
The dial tone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Dull trills stretching out into the yawning silence that filled the room. It stood still. The dead woman lay on the floor, still.
“Hello?”
It knew this voice very well. Cesar Hernández’ best friend, another young human called Mark Owens.
“Hello?” Mark said again and it realised, belatedly, that it hadn’t said anything.
“Hey, it’s me. Cesar,” It said in a perfect imitation of Cesar’s voice. Deeper, more pronounced than the sounds it usually made. More real. Tangible. Heavy and loud.
Looking at the window, it noticed it was no longer what humans called ‘day’, the sky outside black and bruised. Humans didn’t like being disturbed when it wasn’t ‘day’. It had heard Mark berate Cesar for calling ‘too late’ a few times before, so it said, “I’m sorry – for calling this late.”
A brief pause, a sigh. The creak of what sounded like a chair, or the closing of a drawer.
“I- no. No, it’s cool. I mean, don’t worry about it,” Mark said, a note of hesitance in his voice – a nervousness. There was a faint memory tugging insistently – an argument, nights spent staring at the phone in the bedroom, hoping against hope it would ring. Desperate to hear the other’s voice, but too scared to make contact. Too ashamed over what had been said.
Mark cleared his throat, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah…” It replied, staring down at the body of Cesar’s mother, noticing the way one of her sleeves was steadily soaking up blood, “Hey, look. My mom isn’t very well. She won’t say anything to me. She won’t move.”
Humans always made lying appear difficult. Cesar Hernández had been a terrible liar, never able to keep a story straight even under the most miniscule of pressures. It remembered hearing Mark laugh at him for trying to lie once, letting out a loud barking sound that had taken it by surprise. It had never heard a sound like that before – strange and noisy. It made no logical sense to disrupt one’s breathing like that. Humans were supposed to breathe. Weren’t they?
There, standing in the kitchen with a corpse, it wished to hear Mark laugh again.
Just for a moment.
“What?” Mark was suddenly sharp, focused, concerned, “What happened?”
Lying was easy, and lying to a human was even easier.
“I’m taking her to the ER. Could you do me a favour?” It asked.
Predictably, Mark trusted the voice of his friend, Cesar Hernández, “Yeah, man. Yeah, of course – anything. What is it?”
He sounded so eager to help. So unaware of what he was talking to. A moth in a spider’s web, beginning to pull the threads of silk, dooming itself. It would have smiled – but not in this form, it couldn’t.
“I don’t have time to set up our cameras – I’m trying to get her in the car,” It said, an edge of perfectly crafted panic in its tone, “I’ve got to get her to the hospital. I can’t turn the system on.”
Humans liked security. They liked to believe that their homes were a bastion of safety. Lola Hernández had bought cameras for that purpose – to perpetuate the age-old falsehood that humans had any control. Pretending that Cesar had no time to turn them on, too panic-driven and absorbed in ‘concern’ for his mother was just another easy lie that Mark took at face value. Humans were so gullible with their tiny little minds. Trust came so naturally to them.
A fatal flaw in God’s so-called ‘perfect design’.
“Oh,” Mark said, “But- uh, why?”
It paused, not expecting him to ask that.
It wasn’t often that Mark questioned his friend’s words. Now it understood that it had misstepped; after all, why would Cesar care about the house if his mother so urgently needed the hospital? It took an artificial breath and looked down at the bloodied knife on the stained tiles, reaching out, smothering it. Absorbing it into itself.
“Well,” It reasoned, “I don’t want someone breaking in. Something breaking in. I just- I worry ever since the cops said-”
But Mark interjected, “Well, can you lock the doors at least? Are your windows locked? Like the broadcasts told us?”
“Yeah,” It said, feigning worry with the exact same pitch and inflection Cesar used, “But what if this is one of… them? I- I don’t know…”
It had seen the broadcasts on the television, heard the humans speak of creatures they didn’t understand – could never understand. The name they had given them, the things like it: ‘mimics’. A small word, quaint – deceptively so. Cesar had had them playing in his bedroom over the radio, and it had been drawn in by the confidence the announcer spoke with despite how little he knew – how little they all knew.
This was so much bigger than Cesar Hernández and his mother, bigger than Mark Owens, than the quiet town of Edensfield, the County, and all of North Dakota. This was retribution on a scale unlike anything seen before. But it would use those strange human notions of thinking they knew what they were doing against them, against Mark.
It would convince him to come here.
There was a small, breathy noise on the other end of the phone before Mark said, “Alright. Okay. I can- I’ll do it fast, alright? I don’t- I can’t hang around and wait for you though. I don’t- You know how- It’s just that your house is… you know?”
Oh, it knew.
There had been a moment, several months ago, whilst lingering in the walls of Cesar’s house, that it had followed Mark to the living room, dogging his footsteps in silence. Lurking in the shadows, it watched as he had sat down on the couch, swaddled in the duvet he’d borrowed. Mark had been restless that night, tossing and turning, muttering half-complete sentences before finally getting up fully and leaving his friend’s bedroom. It had seen it all, a captive audience for the only thing awake in the house so late into the night.
But then-
Then Mark had turned around.
The movement had been so sudden that it hadn’t anticipated it, barely having enough time to scarper away, disappearing under the frame of the doorway to the cupboard under the stairs. But Mark had still seen something. Not all of it, perhaps, but enough to know he wasn’t truly alone.
‘Who’s there?!’ His voice had called, wavering, uncertain. It smelled the beginnings of fear taking root, felt the jump of his pulse reverberating in the air. But it wasn’t time yet, and so it slipped away with a final taste of sour fear as Mark’s voice reached out into the darkness once more, ‘What the fuck. What the fuck.’
“Yeah,” It said, remembering the thrilling taste with a shudder and barely suppressed growl, “That’s fine. Hey, could you just check that I didn’t leave anything switched on in, like, the kitchen and stuff? That would be great. Thanks, man. I’ve got to go now.”
Mark said something else, but it was suddenly distorted, crackling and punched with static. It looked at the phone and saw the hand-like appendage it had summoned starting to slough away like skin from dead meat.
No, no. It couldn’t lose control now, not so close to the prize. Another garbled sound burst from the receiver, droning like a swarm of hornets and, before any more damage could be done, it hung up.
Mark would still come. He had to.
It hadn’t given itself away entirely. A bad connection was more than reasonable an explanation and wasn’t necessarily a cause for suspicion. It had laid the groundwork at least: Cesar Hernández needed to get to the hospital, and Mark was coming to check on the house.
Soon, it would have Mark, too.
Hearing an engine cut out on the driveway, it watched from the kitchen window as Mark Owens walked up to the house. He did a double-take upon seeing the Hernández’ family car still parked outside, but continued on his approach. As he fiddled with the ring of keys, finding the spare Cesar had given him years ago, it turned to face the door that opened up into the hallway.
Finally, it took the form of Cesar Hernández.
At the time, it had not paid much mind to the clothes the human had been wearing that day, but knew full well that humans considered it taboo to be naked in front of others without a good reason. Yet another strange human custom.
Unable to look at Cesar’s corpse for reference, it turned its attention to the photo of him from prom that his mother kept on the wall, willing the black two-piece and white shirt into being around its new form. All clothing looked the same to it – anything would do.
The front door groaned wearily as it opened and Mark’s footsteps creaked out in the hall. The faint taste of his fear permeated the air deliciously, and it had to resist losing control right then and there. Focusing hard on keeping its shape solidly together.
“Cesar? Cesar, I thought you were going to the hospital?” Mark’s voice carried down, “Did you end up not going?”
It said nothing, listening to the sound of approaching footfalls on the wooden floorboards, getting ever-so-steadily closer.
“Is your mom okay? Cesar?”
Closer still. Almost there.
“Cesar! Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me!” Mark Owens stood in the doorway of the kitchen, one hand grasping the frame and the other poised stiffly over the waistband of his jeans before slowly relaxing.
“Cesar?” Mark asked, a confused lilt in his voice and a pinch now between his brows, “You okay, dude? I thought you were at the hospital?”
“Oh. No. No hospital. We didn’t need it after all.”
He frowned, “Your mom is okay then? Where- where is she?”
“She doesn’t need the hospital,” It pressed once again. The pulse thudding in Mark’s throat jumped, “Not anymore.”
“Not any-? Cesar, are you okay? You don’t- you don’t look too good,” Mark swallowed, seemingly torn between taking a step towards his friend or backing out into the hallway. Concern had tightened about his eyes, but fear still leaked from him rapidly. Heart racing like a cornered rabbit.
His hand reached for his waistband.
No, that wouldn’t do. It wanted Mark to trust it. It needed him to.
So, it finally told him a truth.
“She’s here, on the floor.”
“What? What are you talking about?” Mark asked, the pallor of his skin turning grey as he raised up on his tiptoes to look over the counter to where it was pointing on the ground.
It watched the moment Mark saw Cesar Hernández’ dead mother closely – the realisation dawning on his face. Mark’s eyes widened, his breathing accelerated adrenaline and dread washed off him in waves. He couldn’t seem to find the words, opening his mouth, closing it again, making stumbling, choking sounds.
It waited for a scream, for the tsunami of terror to come crashing in and drown him-
“Oh, God, Cesar. What happened?”
What it got instead were five words and the sudden, strange feeling of two arms wrapping around its chest.
Mark was holding it, had gathered it up into his arms to pull in close the same way it had seen Cesar be held by his mother. Usually, Cesar was crying whenever that happened.
It didn’t know if it was supposed to be crying now, though.
“It was one of them, wasn’t it? A… a mimic,” Mark rambled on, words slightly muffled and quiet against its shoulder. It could feel each sound rumbling in Mark’s chest, each puff of breath against its neck, slightly damp.
There was something likable about it, it supposed. It couldn’t place the sensation, but knew that this was different. It didn’t taste like fear at all. No – it was something almost tart and soft. It was, for some unknowable reason, reminded of Mark’s laughter; bright, strange… new.
It wanted more.
There had been moments – when it was still watching from the walls – where it would choose to follow Mark around the house instead. The young man was so unlike Cesar Hernández. Where Cesar was quiet confidence, Mark was loud, more animated – always filling spaces with nervous tumbles of words. Cesar had listened to the broadcasts with an anxious look and air about him, but Mark would consistently close off, deep in thoughts only he knew as his fingers toyed with the silver cross he wore about his neck.
Cesar may have been its mission, but Mark was alluring nonetheless – he had an appeal his friend had not. It wanted to know more about Mark than Cesar Hernández had ever discovered and used it all against him. It wanted Mark Owens to break, to die in absolute terror, the likes of which it had never tasted before.
And such a thing would surely take time.
It needed more time.
“Come one, man,” Mark said, pushing back to hold what he believed was his best friend at arm’s length before stepping away, fingers flexing, “We- we need to call the cops, right? Right. Yeah- Yeah, we need to call them.” His dark eyes bore into it until it realised he expected some sort of response.
“Oh, right. Yeah. The cops,” It said, not knowing why these other humans were needed. It could only focus on how odd it suddenly was without the human standing close by.
“Fucking shit,” Mark murmured, voice low as he moved over the phone on the wall. He pointedly stared at the buttons as he held the receiver up and dialled, refusing to acknowledge the body lying at its feet. It watching him go, unmoving, listening intently as he spoke to someone on the other end in a forcefully calm voice – flat and tight.
It would be so easy, It thought, to attack now.
Mark was entirely vulnerable and blissfully unaware of the hungry creature that wore his friend’s skin. All too easy to grab him, force him down to the tiles, twisting his neck, sinking teeth in through flesh and muscle and sinew. Bones would crack into splinters, the rush of copper and iron slaking its thirst. Mark would be dead in a matter of seconds.
But the brief, fleeting fear would not be enough to satiate the hunger it had felt since its creation.
It wouldn’t be enough.
It wanted it to be enough.
“I- I think my friend needs an ambulance,” Mark said, abruptly grabbing its attention once more, “He might be in shock.”
It regarded the human before it as he turned and shot a reassuring smile its way – far too wobbly and drawn out for its intended effect. It didn’t even know what it was supposed to be reassured about, but there it was again – treacle, thick and potent. Sweet and cloying.
Addictive.
Sitting out on the porch, it stayed statue-still as Mark place his jacket over its shoulders and sat down beside it, close enough that it could feel him brushing against its side with each breath he took.
“There,” Mark said, “It’s not much, but they said to keep you warm.”
It looked at him and blinked slowly, tilting its head. His hands were trembling ever so slightly, muscles tensing around bone in dithering pulses. The fingers of one hand tugged at the crucifix on his necklace in a sporadic rhythm, snapping the chain taut over and over senselessly. His anxiety prickled in the air like static from a screen, buzzing waspishly. He swallowed hard enough that the cartilage in his throat dipped.
“You, uh, don’t need to say anything,” Mark continued, “The lady on the phone said not to push you. But I just want you to know that it’s okay. It’ll be okay, man. I’m here for you.”
It turned away and out towards the tree-lined driveway. With the hand that wasn’t occupied with the jewellery, Mark kept touching something hard at his hip, making sure it was still there as his eyes darted between shadowy trunks and over dead bushes.
The sky was pitch black now and, so far out in the County where the countryside sprawled out endlessly, the stars were somewhat visible through the clouds that attempted to shroud them. It didn’t need to see them to know they were there – it had been there at their creation and would remain long after the last one was snuffed out.
Cesar had installed a light fixture for his mother around one of the banisters last Summer and, finally caving, Mark reached across to turn it on with fumbling fingers. After spending so long in the dark of the kitchen and the shadows of the house, it winced as the ground before them was lit with white light, sickly and stark. The trees watched them both silently, their leaves whispering to each other.
Mark Owens, who should have been dead, commented, blissfully unaware, “It might take them about twenty minutes to get here… One of the shit things about living so far from the main roads, huh?”
It didn’t understand why Mark insisted on talking, but knew that it was something this particular human liked to do with his friend. The world felt strange with his voice constantly filling the quiet. It had spent most of its eternity living in silence, buried deep in the void from whence it was summoned. There had been nothing else – no one else – just it and the promise of an existence without end.
Then there had been Cesar and his mother, but their words had meant so very little to it – just noises that humans used to communicate; sounds it was then expected to learn, to replicate. Duty had forced it to hear then.
But now, with Mark speaking, it found that it wanted to listen.
It needed to know each facet of his voice on an intimate level. How his barking laugh would punctuate his words when they were directed at it, not Cesar.
How would his tears drown them? How would he sound when he screamed in agony and mind-breaking fear?
It had to know.
“You okay, Cesar? You’re staring. It’s- it’s starting to freak me out,” Mark said, concern etched into his tone.
It stared at him, “I’m okay.”
The corners of Mark’s mouth twisted downward and he quickly looked away, muttering under his breath. The real Cesar would never have been able to make the words out, but it heard him all too clearly, “Fucking hell, man… what the fuck.”
He stopped talking entirely after that, gazing out into the trees as red and blue pulses of light crept closer and the wailing of sirens pierced the air.
It missed his voice now that he was silent.
Mark held onto his crucifix a little tighter.
One of the biggest indicators of humankind’s stupidity was just how willing they were to believe whatever they wished.
It watched as this particular group of humans and Mark huddled in groups and talked. One even flashed a light in its eyes, but it was too enamoured watching Mark talk to a police officer to care. Otherwise, it would have attacked – it should have attacked.
But then Mark would no longer trust it, and that would not do. It wanted Mark to trust it.
It wanted Mark to trust it.
They dismissed the inconsistencies of the scene in the kitchen as ‘mimic attack’. They said that Cesar was lucky to be alive – told Mark that Cesar was, indeed, suffering from shock and needed support: somewhere safe and quiet. To be aware that he might be traumatised.
The creature with the face of Cesar Hernández looked on with some semblance of admiration for the lengths that humans would go to in order to make something terrible fit their world view. It would’ve been impressed if that was not a weakness that could be exploited.
God’s so-called ‘perfect’ creations.
Mark approached where it sat in the back of the ambulance, legs overhanging the lip of the doorway stiffly. A human had draped a blanket around its shoulders, over the jacket Mark had given it earlier on the porch. It stared at him expectantly.
“Hey, come on. I’ve told them I’m taking you home,” He said, seemingly more settled now that the other clueless humans had told him that the thing wearing his best friend’s skin was just Cesar Hernández. His best friend.
“Home?” It asked. Was it not already home? Was this not Cesar Hernández’ house? Had it somehow missed some vital piece of information?
“Yeah. You’re staying with me,” Mark explained, placing a hand on its shoulder. He was no longer trembling and the necklace had been tucked back in around his throat, safe and out of sight. His fingers squeezed against its collarbone, hard enough that it could feel the press of each individual digit.
It wondered what Mark’s hands would look like twisted and broken. Mangled into a shape beyond comprehension – so fragile and malleable as they were. Would he still be able to hold onto his cross then? Or would he finally resign himself to the fact that God wasn’t listening?
¬ He never had been. ¬
Mark’s face fell slightly and he barely suppressed a shiver as he turned back to his car, fishing out his keys, “Hurry up, it’s cold.”
It sluggishly got to its feet and stumbled off after him.
¬ Do you know that, Mark? ¬
¬ God is not there. ¬
Mark drummed the steering wheel as he drove. One-two. One-two-three. A pattern over and over. It watched him from the passenger side seat; each little flick of his fingers, and how the nails were all bit down to the quick. Patches of skin that were red and sore, strips peeled away by insistent teeth, half-healed and flaking.
Do they hurt? It wondered. Does he feel pain?
¬ What does pain feel like, Mark? ¬
The human shifted slightly in his seat as a tremble juddered through his bones, reaching over to press at a button on the dash.
“Sorry,” He said, “It’s colder than I thought. You should’ve told me, I’m supposed to keep you warm, remember?”
It did not feel cold and thus had no need for warmth. But it hummed in acknowledgement, a sound that was blurred around the edges with the thrum of static. Mark glanced over in the rear-view mirror before hastily looking back at the road once more.
“I just-,” Mark started, but then he sucked in a breath, holding it for a moment. He looked torn between acknowledging something and wanting to say nothing at all, “Nevermind. You can take my room tonight if you want, you know? Maybe try and get some sleep?”
Sleep was the last thing it needed.
It had been asleep for so long, dormant and dreamless, but now- now it was awake and finally in a form of its own. There was no need for sleep anymore. Its eyes were wide open.
¬ Open your eyes, Mark. ¬
Mark swallowed and bit into his bottom lip, white teeth digging deep enough to leave rigid lines imprinted in flesh.
“Don’t worry,” He said in a tone that wavered doubtfully, “We’ll sort something out, you’ll see.”
“Okay,” It said and watched, taken in as Mark flinched in his seat at the sound of its voice.
“Here.”
Mark placed a mug on the kitchen table between them, slumping into a chair with a deep sigh. He raised a brow, “You can sit down, Cesar.”
It sat, the hinge of its knees tightening awkwardly, stiffly, as it stared down into the liquid contents. Cesar’s reflection wobbled on the surface.
“It’s just tea,” Mark said, “It won’t poison you.”
Grabbing the porcelain handle, it raised the mug to its mouth and drained it all in a few large gulps. Mark let out a startled shout, standing up so fast that his chair was pushed roughly back, screeching across the linoleum. The tea tasted like ash on its tongue, lacking any real substance.
Mark looked at it in shock, pulse racing.
“What?” It asked, putting the mug back down with a dull thud.
“What the fuck, dude? That was red hot! You could’ve hurt yourself!” Mark exclaimed, fingers coming up to grasp at his hair in sheer disbelief.
The creature with Cesar’s face just stared at him blankly.
After a moment, Mark seemed to rethink and compose himself. His exasperation, riled up by his anger, drove out from him in spikes, razor sharp and bitter. He all but collapsed back into his chair and buried his face in his hands, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes. He drew in a breath, still shuddering but slower, steadier, “I- I’m sorry. I don’t- I’m just- It’s… it’s been a long day.”
Its gaze caught on the kitchen light hanging from the ceiling. Every few seconds it flickered ever so slightly, the bulb humming dully. It thought Cesar had told Mark to replace it months ago.
“You didn’t fix the light,” It said suddenly, still watching the filament buzz sporadically – dark to light, light to dark. The shadows of a few dead flies caught in the glass dish covering.
“What?” Mark asked, finally moving his hands away and sniffing. He looked upward, “Oh. Yeah. I’ll get round to it.”
Mark frowned and it wanted to know what he was thinking. His brown eyes were tired, lines of exhaustion cutting deeply beneath them. Humans were weak and needed sleep to function, it knew – that was how it had broken Cesar, after all. But what was keeping this particular human awake? For a moment, it wondered if another of its ilk was already here, lurking, waiting to claim Mark and assume his form. But that couldn’t be so – it would have sensed another presence long before it had even walked through the door.
And if there had been one already there?
¬ There can only be one of us. ¬
Mark winced and pressed his fingers against his temples, furrowing his brow.
“Sorry,” He said again, “I know that everything is worse for you right now. I’m being selfish – making it about myself.”
It knew all about selfishness. It was a being crafted from it – the urge to take everything that belonged to another until it consumed them too, mind, body, and soul. To be selfish was to be hungry, ravenous, to endlessly starve for things that were not your own. To covet them, hoard them, and feed the darkness within. To never be satiated, to never know contentment. Only the all-consuming void that screamed for more, more, more. For Cesar Hernández’ knowledge, voice, face. For his mother, his life, and his best friend.
It did not see those qualities in the human sitting across.
There was no darkness like that in Mark Owens.
He had opened his arms and home without a second thought for what he believed was his best friend. But, even before today, it had understood that Mark was a giver. He never took. It had seen each small, telling detail over the months: how he had driven Cesar to the hospital last Spring when he’d broken his arm in the middle of the night trying to climb a roof on a drunken dare at a party; how Mark had always gathered up the pieces whenever Cesar fell apart and held them in place until they stuck together again.
There was also that night three weeks ago, before the argument, when – so close to getting what it wanted – Cesar, distraught at the truths the creature the looked like his mother had whispered in his ears, called Mark with a half-downed bottle in his shaking hand and a pocket knife sitting temptingly close by to scream.
It had always been Mark giving and giving, and not once caring to take anything back.
He was so very… strange. So bent and distorted when held up against its very own nature. The beast that devoured and the lamb that refused. Two polar opposites that somehow… attracted. Parallel lines that could, perhaps, converge. To hear Mark call himself selfish was awfully wrong. It was a sense it couldn’t entirely comprehend but knew to be true regardless – as set in stone as the things it told Cesar Hernández right before he lost his mind.
“You’re not selfish,” It said firmly. There was no underlying static to the words, just its voice – Cesar’s voice – flat, hard, and unyielding.
Across the table, Mark sniffed and his lips twisted. He slowly scuffed a foot against the floor once… twice.
“You, uh, you should go take a shower or something – and get changed,” He said quietly, “You can borrow some of my clothes. Were- were you planning on going out somewhere? I mean before, well, um-”
It balked, uncertain why Mark had simply ignored its words, brushing them aside like sand to change the subject, “What?”
He made a vague gesture in its direction, “The suit, dude. Isn’t that from prom? I thought you got rid of it ages ago?”
The lie came easy, “I don’t remember.”
Mark stared for a moment, eyes turning sharp as he looked for something only he knew. The kitchen light flickered again. Once. Twice. Thrice.
He huffed, scrutinising expression softening into something it had seen only when Cesar had been at his lowest, “Okay, man. Whatever you say.”
He got to his feet and it followed after him.
The light bulb finally burned out with a final hiss like a sigh of relief.
Cesar Hernández stared back at it.
The mirror was fogged by steam rising from the water in the sink beneath, smudging the reflection. But it knew what Cesar looked like on an intimate level.
Each mole, blemish, and thick curl of black hair was mimicked perfectly. It could sift through the memories it had absorbed upon his death and piece each scar with a place and time – the line behind his right ear from a stone thrown by a childhood bully; the mark concealed within his hairline from a bout of chickenpox. As fragile and human as Cesar himself had been.
However, for all this knowledge, it felt… disjointed. Spread out too thin like a canvas pulled tight over a wooden frame.
It knew this body, this face, but it didn’t know where it fit in.
It was not Cesar Hernández, and yet it wore his skin.
It had Cesar’s memories, but hadn’t lived them personally. It could play any one in its mind and recall everything in extreme detail, yet it didn’t know how Cesar had felt. Cuts had no pain, tears were hollow, and smiles may have pulled up cheeks and shown teeth but there was no warmth or sincerity behind them.
Hands touched its face.
The reflection of Cesar tilted his head from side to side, admiring each angle. He pressed his fingers into his cheeks, nails digging into skin and imprinting crescents. Hard enough to redden, to bite in, to draw blood.
It pulled its hands away and watched the human in the mirror do the same, taking in how crimson beads welled and started to spill. There was no pain, nor anything it might have assumed was pain. There was no difference that occurred within, the sensation only being surface deep.
Injury was happening to Cesar Hernández, not it.
It thought of Mark’s chewed fingers, of the way he’d rubbed his head with a pinched expression. How he’d leapt to his feet when he thought it might’ve been hurt by something as insignificant as hot tea. It seemed that there was something intrinsically so very human in the experience of pain.
If it could just understand, know what it was like to hurt, even for a moment, would it not make Mark’s inevitable agony at its hands that much sweeter?
It would truly be delicious, would it not, to relish each break of bone, each wailing scream, if it knew full well what the very damage it was inflicting felt like?
That would far surpass anything it had tasted when consuming the screaming, sobbing mess of a boy on the kitchen floor.
The human in the mirror buzzed in anticipation. Bones slid from fixed positions, teeth drifted from their roots, jawbone unhinging to drop down with a dense slap against fractured collar bones and folded ribs that protruded from elasticated skin.
A wide eye, deep, endless, forever seeing. A limbless figure and yet all was within its grasp.
This was the creature contained within the flesh. Incomprehensible, but so very real all the same. An affront to God Himself. It could not exist, should not exist, and yet it was a cold hard truth that it did. It had existed long before God deigned to make the Heavens; had revelled in His abandonment of His beloved Creation, and it would continue to exist long after the destruction of it all. In its limitless span of time, it had bore witness to unspeakable acts which it had told, would one day tell, and was currently telling.
All this, and yet-
It could not feel, had never felt, and was, at this very moment, not feeling.
It had perfected Cesar Hernández’ voice, his body, and was aware of everything he had once known. But though it knew of Cesar’s life, it did not know it. That was information as though relayed from behind a pane of glass: before it clear as day, but unable to touch or understand any of it closely.
Cesar had suffered from colds, but it had not. He had lay for days on end in bed with no will to get up, but it hadn’t. It could tell you how many individual creases were in his bedsheets, how long it had taken him to stop crying after the argument, but it could not say what he had been feeling or why. Of course, it knew the words, the labels – had heard Cesar express sentiments of sadness, anger, and joy – but that was all they were.
Just words.
Words and the associated sensations gathered by a ravenous creature in the only way it knew how. Taste.
It had partaken in Cesar’s bright fear and his bitter sadness. His happiness – what little of it had been left by the end – had been tangy and pungent. It had gorged upon every little feeling and emotion without any real thought – just base instinct. Finally released from the void, it had longed for nothing but sustenance. There was no need to savour anything but the final kill – that last triumphant crescendo in a chorus ingrained into its very being.
But then there was Mark.
An additional stanza. A sudden coda it had not foreseen in a tune it thought it knew.
The plan had been clear at the start: kill the Hernández’, assume the son’s form, then slaughter his friend and any other human in its path. To carry out what it had been created for – its one sole purpose. There was nothing else. There should’ve been nothing else.
But there was Mark.
Staring into the water-filled sink, it was finally resolved. The plan wasn’t being put on hold, per se, more that it was taking a detour, developing into something more refined. More sinister. The prize at the end was more than worth the wait – to understand the despair and destruction it dealt would allow it to consume and relish on a level never reached before; to satiate a craving it didn’t know it had until Mark had held it in his arms, smelling of treacle.
This human would be its milk and honey; a blessing almost divine if God was still there to make it so.
It was not the only one awake after all; taking its time would go unnoticed. And if it were somehow discovered? Then it would simply show its profane siblings what it intended to learn and, together, they would feast like gods themselves.
With effort, it forced itself to constrict, body warping and shifting until the dark eyes of Cesar Hernández met its gaze in the mirror once more. Dunking its hands into the steaming water, it watched as the skin reddened angrily. There was nothing that might have been pain – nothing that made it want to snatch them back out of the water with a cry and spat curse like Cesar would have.
But it thought, if it focused enough, that it could feel something beneath the wetness. A prickling against its fingers and palms.
Outside the bathroom, a floorboard creaked under pressure and the sliver of a shadow appeared beneath the locked door.
“Cesar?” Mark called, tapping lightly at the wood, “I found some old clothes. They might be a bit big though, sorry. I’ll leave them outside the door.”
Instead of stepping away, he lingered, hovering awkwardly for a moment before knocking the door again, “Sorry, I just- are you alright?”
It smiled, stretched and angular as its hands slowly burned.
“Yeah,” It said, “I’m fine.”