#gerryagnes

They’re walking along the park at twilight, Gerry’s page tucked away inside her bag. He’s doing a good job at making it look like his feet are at least grazing the ground so as not to attract suspicion from passersby. Agnes drops his hand and shoves her own into the pockets of her jacket.

“I wanted to look at the sunset, when I came back,” Agnes tells him. “It was the first thing I wanted to do. But they don’t let me leave the house anymore. I had to escape.”

“Yeah, I’d wager they wanted to keep you shut in and breathing scream fumes all day, huh,” he says, voice flat. “Grooming you for their purpose. Bolting you to a track and pushing you along it whether you want it or not. Seems to be a bit of a shared personality trait among cultists, I’ve noticed."

“And I wanted to try going to the cinema again,” she continues, placid. “But they never do get their violence quite right. What did you do in your spare time when you were alive?”

He seems taken aback by the question. “Painting,” he replies, after pondering a moment. “Reading books that weren’t bound by my mum. Listen to music, though I doubt you’d like what I listened to. Sometimes I’d go down to the animal shelter and pet some animals. Obviously we couldn’t keep any, unless my mum took to the notion of testing out her binding on cat-skin. Not that I would have allowed it, but…” he trails off.

She hums thoughtfully. “Did you have any friends?"

He shrugs. “A few? There was…” There’s a long pause; Gerry stares hard into the air, trying to remember. Eventually he gives up. “Sod it, I can’t recall their names. I’ve always been better with faces anyway. Being in this state… it does things to your memory, a bit. But speaking of cats—” he lights up a little— “I do remember Biscuit.”

“Biscuit?"

“Yeah, she was a cat at the shelter. Big brownish thing, poofy tail and all that. Really did look like a misshapen biscuit when she was curled up. I used to keep a few treats in my bag for her for whenever I could stop by. But once I threw the bag in the wash without taking them out and they exploded.” He chuckles humourlessly, and is only confronted by her blank stare.

“Oh, right, I forgot you wouldn’t be familiar with that. Cat treats come in little tubes of wet stuff, they go absolutely crazy for it. Biscuit always meowed at me real loud until I gave one to her, then she’d knead my leg for a while as thanks.”

“Knead?”

“You’ve never seen one do that?”

Agnes shakes her head.

He exhales in something like a laugh. “Right. Sometimes I forget how much they kept you shut up in there.”

“Oh.” Then, “Do my questions bother you, Gerard?”

He startles, turns to look at her. “No, actually,” he replies. “It’s… nice. Very nice, even, considering the usual fare of questions leveled my way. People always want to know all about monsters, and fears, and entities. Not much of a chance to talk about animals, except when they ask about the Flesh.”

She is silent, her expression soft. He goes on. “Anyways. Kneading is when a cat presses on something with their front paws. Funny thing, people actually call kneading ‘making biscuits’ because it looks like they’re pressing dough when they do it. Used to joke about Biscuit making biscuits, and all that.”

“Why do they do it?”

He glances at her sideways; surely she doesn’t actually care? An avatar of Desolation surely doesn’t have the capacity for honest curiosity—that’s reserved for people who want to know, not destroy. But he gladly obliges. “No one’s sure, to be honest? It’s said they do it when they're happy. But I like to think she was trying to give me a massage as thanks for all the treats. As if getting cat hair off black clothes isn’t a total nightmare already.” A strange, fragile look alights in his eyes. “You know, I genuinely haven’t thought about Biscuit in a long time. She’s probably dead by now. Cats never live as long as they deserve.” He gives a small, bitter laugh. “Hell, maybe that’s why I remember her."

“I would like to touch a cat,” Agnes murmurs. “I imagine their fur would singe easily. The other members of the Lightless Flame, they never let me go near them. Diego once said it was ‘beneath me’. Have you touched a cat recently?"

“Hah, no, I wish. I can’t feel much of anything these days, really,” he says. “Again— comes from being dead. One of its many perks."

Agnes eyes him closely then. A moment passes before she slowly and deliberately lifts his hand, and grabs it with both of hers. She inhales, her eyes flutter shut, she concentrates; the air around them starts to shimmer, waves of heat radiating from her hands clasped around his, even her palms beginning to glow cherry-red, incandescent, until it dissipates all at once and she re-opens her eyes with a long sigh.

“Not even that?”

Gerry, who had been watching all this happen as if from a distance, looks a little dazed. “Nnno,” he says, slowly, then: “No, not even that, I’m afraid.” A genuine smile finally breaks across his face; it's equal parts sad and pensive. “But… thank you, Agnes.” He gives her hand a squeeze.