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He was unable to shake that uneasiness for the remainder of the day. His morning talk with Lieta had lifted much of the worries wringing his heart, the ones regarding the opinion she held towards him after last night’s transgression; but his daughter’s innocent question had unwittingly unearthed some veiled truth, a discrepancy he himself could not completely discern, yet it echoed on that lingering feeling inside his gut that something was very wrong indeed.

The specter that appeared before him last night wasn’t about to relinquish its grasp on his mind so easily —this encounter with Aria serving as a stark reminder that while he couldn’t really see or feel its presence, there was a possibility that it wasn’t truly gone either.

And just thinking about such a horrid creature stalking his daughter during the night was enough to make his blood boil, to send him into a blind witch hunt.

“So you sensed a monster?” Narguile asked Aria during their breakfast, after the girl’s acute perceptiveness gave way to the displays of affection she typically gave so absentmindedly. “Should daddy take a look around your room just to double-check if Toast chased away any unwelcome guest for good?”

He made an effort not to show his own growing turmoil, the deep tone of his voice keeping a balance of nonchalance and play-pretend concern.

Approach that was met by Aria’s enthusiastic nods and Lieta’s amused chuckles. He preferred that the two of them remained that way, free from any encroaching shadow stretching its fingers into their tangible world.

After their meal, Narguile didn’t waste a single second before inspecting every corner inside Aria’s room. He swept through her closet and peered under her bed, searching for any trace or hint of that bloated green phantom still haunting his thoughts.

“No monster here.” Finally standing upright, he offered reassurance with a small smile tinged with affection, taking a chance to tousle his daughter’s already unruly hair. “It seems Toast is quite the guardian, huh?”

His actions were not a simple, condescending effort to put Aria’s mind at ease. He needed to do it just as well. When the young girl said she felt something inside her room, Narguile believed her. How could he not, for he also had faced something inexplicable during the last night.

If she hadn’t felt a presence —if these notions were baseless… Then it would be his sanity being called into question instead.

With Lieta and Aria settling down in the main bedroom to watch a movie, Narguile took some time to breathe on his own in their small balcony, letting the soft warmth of the afternoon sun reach him. The city sprawling before him felt distant, as he wrestled with persistent anxieties circling like crows around carrion, finally acknowledging Aria’s final question.

Was it possible that this green atrocity was clinging onto him somehow, lurking perfectly unseen? Was that why he felt so much at edge since the morning?

Employing hands that had become steadier than his own thoughts, Narguile reached for the glass he had prepared with a duo of ice cubes that awaited their liquid dance partner. Not long afterward, he poured the bourbon inside, lured by the promise of momentary escape that its amber liquid was supposed to bring —or at least a numbing comfort against the insidious doubts writhing within.

As he swirled the drink a couple of times, the sharp clink of ice against glass provided an oddly comforting soundtrack to this ritual. He raised the glass closer, allowing himself a momentary pause to appreciate the bouquet of aromas before bringing it closer to his lips. Sharp flavors abruptly invaded the corners of his mouth as he tried the spirit, and soon enough, he had finished drinking his first sip.

A disgruntled frown ensued, as he felt his throat burning, and a foul taste lingering on his tongue. There was no caramel, no toasted oak or vanilla in his mouth, just sheer unpleasantness.

He kept a couple of coughs in, but he had no such luck with a couple of shudders that his shoulders and head involuntarily made. This was the first time he had ever tried bourbon in his twenty-three years alive. Previous dalliances with alcohol had been limited to social sips of beer, but even then, the question as of why people subjected themselves to alcohol seemed to escape his understanding.

“This is so bad…” He muttered under his breath, wondering if it would be a better choice to dispose of the glass contents in the sink, if not making the entire bottle follow a similar fate.

But ultimately, Narguile couldn’t find the will to do either. The whole bourbon thing had been a Christmas gift from Phillip, and whether he appreciated the gesture or not, he esteemed the old coot enough not to do something like that to him.

He braced himself for another mouthful of the aged liquid before setting the glass aside, its duty fulfilled for now. The potency of its flavor was undeniably jarring, a stark bitterness scorching its way down his throat, sharp enough to cut through the nonsense of nightmarish fantasies and giving him some clarity to consider the cold, hard reality for a change.

The likelihood that he had extinguished a life the previous night loomed monstrously high. While self-defense could initially rationalize his violent onslaught in protection of his wife, such justifications quickly withered when his fury propelled him well beyond the bastard’s choking gasps. The cacophony of gurgling blood and the crunching displacement of teeth culminating in the oppressive stillness of a sunken face under his hands replayed dimly in his memory even now.

Childish courtyard-brawl rules didn’t apply to him anymore. There were no excuses to cower behind, and the lengths he reached escalated violently past the realm of a mere skirmish.

But then… What kind of consequences ensued? Narguile feared checking any news report from the area in confirmation of his potential murder, but if truth mirrored his dread, would then his door ring sooner or later, heralding police questioning?

If such a thing came to happen, trying to hide his involvement was a fool’s errand, a laughably futile charade doomed from inception. His knuckles bore all kinds of tell-tale bruises, and the bloodstained clothes he once wore now lay as silent but accusatory witnesses to his deed; condemning evidence he was unsure he’d be able to mask.

Was then confessing the best resolution? And if that was the case, wouldn’t it be better to turn himself in as soon as possible?

The thought of jail time made him shudder.

His paramount obligation was ensuring Lieta and Aria’s well-being. Their sustenance, their future, was too high of a collateral to pay. His savings could only take the two of them so far, and moreover, he didn’t want to imagine a future where his actions blinded by rage brought them anguish.

Besides, thinking of being apart from them weighed his heart enough to sink his mind into despair. Aria was still at an age where every month marked significant strides in her growth, and he yearned to not miss a single step in her journey through childhood.

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With a renewed sense of resignation, unable to reach any kind of satisfactory conclusion, Narguile coaxed another sip of bourbon past his lips, discovering to his mild surprise that the taste wasn’t as unpleasant as before. It was distracting enough to disrupt the tempest inside his head. Perhaps that was the reason why so many people were ensnared by its potent embrace.

A new internal question made him chuckle at himself. He was being a coward, wasn’t he? It was funny. He had always prided himself on being fearless, sure to never second-guess himself if any form of danger loomed nearby. Yet now he felt pathetic, scared beyond belief in anticipation of his deserved retribution.

While grappling with that internal disquiet, a foreign distraction brushed against his legs, with Toast weaving around his feet in an age-old feline display of affection and curiosity. The creature was an unremarkable fuzzy mosaic, mostly of black, but also plenty of browns; its fur patched with the evidence of numerous cat years lived.

Animals were often credited with a keen instinct, an innate sensitivity to shifts in people and their environments that eluded human perception. Yet Toast carried on blissfully impervious to anything like that, instead nudging against him, calling for attention with small meows.

If there was truth to Aria’s previous words, and his being had indeed been altered in some intangible way, the cat’s unmoving copper eyes certainly showed absolutely no indication of it.

“What do you want, you old fur-ball?” Narguile said while gazing down at the insistent feline. Truth be told, he found little joy in interacting with pets. It was his daughter that usually took care of all the petting and playing around. “Has Aria fallen asleep already that you’ve come to pester me now?”

Despite his bitter words, there was an undercurrent of warmth in his voice, grateful for even this small semblance of normalcy amidst the maelstrom of recent events.

Toast wasn’t even their pet by formal rights. He belonged to the Harmines next door, an elderly couple without children or any other form of relatives. Not that it mattered much to the lazy and plump purr-ball, who was probably drawn to their home by Aria’s playful spirit. Over time, they had even acquired toys and a feeder for him, allowing the cat free rein between the two residences.

Narguile bent down to pick him up and immediately noticed an uncharacteristic lack of resistance from the cat. In his hands, Toast felt unusually pliable, a lethargy creeping into his limbs that Narguile hadn’t bothered to observe before. Holding the cat close to his face, he arched an eyebrow wondering if it was the inexorable march of time beginning to leave its mark on him.

“Awfully mellow today, aren’t you?” Narguile remarked to Toast, fully aware that he wouldn’t get an answer. He narrowed his eyes as they focused on the cat’s placid gaze. He gave the animal’s front paws a light jiggle anticipating one of his typical reactions —either a scratch or a disgruntled hiss, but was met with nothing but passive compliance “Everything alright, buddy?”

His one-sided conversation with the cat was cut short by the chime of his doorbell, an interruption that instantly centered his attention. A now familiar twisting sensation gripped his stomach. This moment had been expected, so he didn’t allow nerves to paralyze him. He settled poor tired Toast back on the floor and swiftly moved towards the apartment’s entrance, hoping to have whatever was coming over and done with before Lieta could notice.

Despite all the doubts plaguing his mind, Narguile held a distinct distaste for lingering trepidation; he preferred to confront matters head-on rather than wallow in unnecessary suspense. Without a hint of hesitation, he gripped the doorknob firmly, barely giving himself the time to prepare for what waited on the other side. Police, monsters or anything in between, he was ready for whatever that might come calling.

“My boy? Is everything in order? You seem rather tense.” As Narguile pulled open the door, he was met not by an intimidating squad of officers nor by otherworldly apparitions, but by the familiar visage of Phillip Harmine instead. The old man stood modest in stature when compared to him, his posture slightly curved from the weight of years but not entirely bowed, suggesting a resilience that belied his age. “It’s really strange to see you this shaken.”

Phillip’s presence carried a certain poise, an echo of wisdom and gentle concern attained over seven decades. His eyes, framed by lines etched from smiles and sorrow alike, held a softness that spoke to a life filled with both contentment and a hint of loss. There was a graceful ease about him, despite —or perhaps because of; the melancholy that sometimes touched his gaze.

Wordlessly, Narguile opened the door wider to allow Phillip entry. With familiar ease, the old man stepped into the subdued January sunlight streaming in from the balcony, the light casting reflections on his balding head which he wore with an air of acceptance.

The Harmines could never become parents themselves, their lineage halting at their own branch. It was probably this very void that drew them toward Narguile and Lieta, seeing in the young couple the children they never had, providing guidance and support as if to fill the silent spaces left in their hearts.

Despite Narguile’s reluctance to outspokenly accept his turmoil, the truth was that Phillip’s presence alone brought him solace. The old man’s eyes, though softened around the edges and carrying within them a milky haze, still glinted with an astute awareness. That gaze now met his troubled one, filled not just with concern but also an unmistakable flicker of affection too.

Lieta and Narguile were not that different from them. They saw in Phillip and his wife Virginia figures akin to mentors, or even the parental figures they never found elsewhere. People who provided counsel without judgment, and warmth without condition, ever since they arrived in that place seven years ago.

If there was anyone to confide in for advice during his time of need, it would undoubtedly be Phillip, the closest friend he had and perhaps even more than that. He was one of the halves of the cherished duo that stood beside them in both hardship and tranquility.

But where to start, exactly?

“I see you’ve opened my gift.” Sensing his reluctance, Phillip aimed to dissolve Narguile’s tension with lighthearted banter, his gaze shifting to the glass now resting abandoned on the balcony. “That’s some darn fine bourbon, I tell you.”

>> “Mind if this old timer joins you for a swig?”

The topic caught Narguile a bit unguarded. His head was pulled from the clouds almost immediately, as he blinked away his reverie and nodded. His movements were slightly awkward as he fetched an additional glass and filled it with ice cubes while Phillip made himself comfortable in one of the balcony’s chairs.

“Oh, of course not.” He stammered a response, joining him soon enough as he poured whiskey for Phillip. “Truth be told, I don’t have much taste for it.”

“I figured as much. You are the uptight type after all.” He said before letting out a hearty laugh at the honesty of his confession. “Give it enough time and nothing else will quite scratch that itch that only whiskey can soothe.”

Their conversation paused momentarily as Phillip took a generous gulp from his glass, a gesture which seemed to invite Narguile to do so as well. A more reserved sip coming from him was accompanied by the hope that the old man continued drinking, just so a second pour would hasten the bottle’s emptying.

Yet, no sound of satisfaction graced the old man’s lips even after he leaned back into the chair, gazing at the amber liquid in his hand with an arched eyebrow —as if it didn’t hold the taste he was so accustomed to; however, he soon shook his head and redirected his attention to Narguile. The jovial air around him turned grave as he seemed to weigh his next words more carefully.

“We heard a ruckus from this direction last night” Setting down his glass on the small table between them, Phillip met Narguile’s eyes directly for the incoming serious talk, the short-lived lightness of their interaction receding like the mist in the horizon under the winter sunlight. “Virginia and I couldn’t help but notice.”

>> “We may be old, but we’re not oblivious.” He added with a wry twist of humor that didn’t quite hit its mark.

Despite the troubled expression on his face, Narguile was thankful of Phillip’s efforts. It served as a bridge across the chasm between apprehension and openness. Yet even so, the confession that hung on his lips was heavy, and not quite as easily conveyed as bourbon talk.

“I… I think I killed someone last night.”

As the words tumbled out like stones, they drew down both Narguile’s eyes to the floor, just as well as the strength from his shoulders.

image [https://files.catbox.moe/v0vfzm.png]