HAEL

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— “ Runaway. “

The season has come.

Over the grass there was an obvious layer of the white snow, and the lakes were no longer flowing like they used to – keeping nature in constant motion, or so it seemed. Instead of seeing the flowers blossom in their garden, as they would a few months looking back, the only ones they would get to see only bloom against the glass windows, creating something so unique and gracious, yet awfully cold and fragile to the touch.

No wonder – the things we find most beautiful always seem to disappear after meeting warmth.

The middle of winter of 1997, England ; a day John would remember clearly, burned with a mark against each dent of his brain, every nerve of his senses.

He’d lived on a farm for as long as he could in the middle of nowhere, creating sustenance for himself and only occasionally taking one of his horses out to the town half an hour away from his home, through the forests and the muddy paths, the thick snowy path.

One of those trips was much different, though. It shifted his routine, forced him to abandon that stroll with one of his horses. A person, a *soldier*, left and bleeding out in the middle of the forest grounds he’d learnt like the palm of his hand.

Hael laying in the white snow, blood soaking the white ground. It was a contrast, John hummed to himself as he stood next to the laying body the man assumed to be unconscious, if the lack of any guard was anything to go by. Oddly vulnerable for a soldier another thing he made sure to note.

But it wasn't like he could just .. abandon them, could he? He *could* leave them there to die, it wasn’t his responsibility. Should have let nature take its route and swallow this bleeding corpse in its embrace.

Yet, he’d brought them home ; to *his* house.

Cleaned them up, changed their clothes into his loose ones, bandaged their body. Made sure to keep it warm, with the snowstorm raging out the windows of the dimly lit wooden house like an unstoppable vice.

And all he could do was stand there. On guard. Watching this stranger.

𝟏.

His feet against the tiles, naked and sore, walked into a room, and it was cold – it is the type of coldness that reaches into his bones as if his heart were a door left wide open to the icy wind, slamming only to open again. Maybe, because the walls were a deep shade of grey that felt closer to a freezing season’s nights, or maybe because it seemed to be far too empty with the chairs and a table in between the room. There was a reflection in front of him, the glass where he seemed to only see his own figure along with strangers standing behind the glass, it was, and undoubtfully, felt, very vague but familiar. Maybe, he’s been there before. Or it was just a dream from days ago? But, it felt like a reminder. A reminder that it’s over, the suffering and everything that comes with it, should have been gone the moment he. . .

He could hear it – a faint voice inside the room.

It was unsettling how the noise didn’t come directly through a person but a speaker inside of the place, high up the walls in the very corner. What were all these unnecersary precautions for? The brunet wasn’t dangerous, despite hands, that once created art for those who dared to hope for happy endings, having been stained with blood and his eyes, that could ever only see stars and everything that used to seem pure, that have seen more than the world was ready for.

He knew his name, it had been called several times by the same voice the boy was sure he would not get out of his head. It was feminine. It had a very soft tune to it, and for some reason, he imagined her voice sounded like the colour blue. Like the sea when the moon was yet to fall above the sky.

But this wasn’t a place to compare colours to people, it wasn’t the time to listen closely to what a voice sounded like. It wasn’t what they wanted. He was in this place to anwer with truth, to push away all the police reports and the texts in magazines about the sudden death of a person who society saw as pure and innocent. His flesh was drowned in blood and his hands never hesitated to slit a knife across someone’s skin. As the other man saw and thought, it was clear that it’s twisted, but it felt right – elegance is more important than suffering.. that was his design.

“We will ask you a few questions — all you have to do is answer truthfully,” the unknown voice more so demanded than requested, a voice that could only be described the same way as the room which felt more like a cell, with the walls closing in on him, “Firstly, is your name John MacTavish ?”

And he wasn’t sure which time has it been now that he heard the voice speak up yet ag in from the broken speakers, the noise he couldn’t bear was the one your ears would be filled with when the old TV in the living room simply wouldn’t work, but this time it felt different. The tone in the woman’s voice was more cold. No longer filled with sympathy towards the male. It was obvious – he didn’t care for the chance of freedom now that nothing to hide from. And his hands would only paint the dead again, bodies covered in red he would see on the floor every time he’d return to the place the brunet had to call . . home.

His tired hazes stared at the reflection in the glass once again, and it was a sign that would not be repeated twice if the brunet dared look away for once. He was listenting, fully, but he never sat down or even moved from the steel door behind him in the slight bit of fear that seemed to be haunting him without a reason given enough ; it seemed like it wouldn’t have made a difference even if he did not. They knew he was there, they knew he was right there and that was enough.

“Yes,’” his own voice sounded something sort of like an object of a kind rubbing against harsh sandpaper; it was an unpleasant, gritty, yet quiet sound. But heard, clearly audible to the perople adressed to. Wondering how or why, when it was barely close to a whsiper from underneath his shallow breath; not prepared for his mind to run back into the time when his screams were empty and the nights seemed to be endless along with the sheets he wanted to burn, not wanting to have the other . . man, his beloved murderer, wander back inside his dreams where heaven would be turned into hell and whatever it was, he’d feel drawn in no matter how badly he wanted to resist that absoloutely disgusting, gentle, with dirt filled touch. 𝘖𝘩, 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦, 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦?

𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘮𝘦, 𝘪 𝘣𝘦𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳, 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦. No matter how long it’s been, the memories were still fresh. Craved into his memory, and it was enough to put the image in his being again, just how gracefully the knife glided against the skin of a person whom he had, perhaps, met before but only if some things would last forever, like faces of people we used to see around us, although, at times like these there was some sort of relief in his chest just knowing that he cannot recall it. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦.

“Tell us when it began — your involvement with this person. Place, date, time. Any surroundings. Anything you can remember,” they only needed the information for their own benefit, no one felt even pity for this person sitting in between these four walls in a room as small as a dog’s cage, he felt like a beast under someone’s control and that’s not close to what a man wanted to be; it were moments like these he hated most.

And memories rewind.

Some parts erased, or just deeply hidden into his brain for no other to see or reach for. It wasn’t meant to be put into a book of memories or into a white, stained canvas. Black and white or filled with too much shades that might’ve differed way too much from each other, that didn’t make even the smallest sense. It was a created mess, but that mess is eevrything that he was filled with, that he was created to be from the start and greatness of it all. Shades of black and white; of red and blue. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

[ credits for art @ MakenziePolkas aka wombywoo on Twitter !! Their Patreon is also amazing !! ]