Cyrus had a lot of spare time on his hands lately. What he normally would have filled with meditation and self-reflection had withered away into something darker; after all, he wasn't alone in his head any longer.
Whatever lived inside him now, it wasn't sentient, he was sure. It never interacted with Cyrus directly beyond expanding his bloodlust. He knew from his teachings souls were reused, but each one left remnants of what they were behind--shedding whatever darkness, or the opposite, that had tainted them back into the world. Each new birth was a new opportunity, the slate for that soul wiped clean...but all that leftover energy had to go somewhere. It had created Acheron, and now that the demon was dead, it was inside Cyrus.
Sometimes memories that were not his own, but still frighteningly familiar, invaded his head and clouded all other thought. Cyrus had no choice but to let them come, had no choice but to relive them as his own.
Had it been just like this for Acheron? As much as he hated to emphasize with him, Cyrus had to admit it was hard to tamp it down; after a while, their urges mixed with his until it was hard to remember what he himself truly wanted.
Cyrus awoke, curled up on a pile of newspapers somewhere down in the Brooklyn subway system. The remnants of the latest soul-induced memory still had his mind in a haze. As he became more alert, it became harder to recall, but the basic events he'd been dreaming of were still there. Instead of the strange prophetic scenes he'd been getting used to, he'd had a killing dream.
It left the taste of blood on his tongue. For several minutes Cyrus stayed on the ground, his entire body shaking. The winter chill had invaded the subway and seeped easily past his thin jacket, only making the tremors even more violent.
Then came a sound that made him freeze: heavy flesh being dragged across the cement followed by a hoarse snuffling.
It was enough to get Cyrus to his feet, bloodlust temporarily replaced by a surge of adrenaline. It was early morning; there were several people already down here with him, waiting a good distance away by the tracks for the next train. From behind him, in the total blackness, the sound was only growing louder.
This wasn't the first time the rogues had found him since he'd gone off on his own. If they had truly been a rare sight in the city before, Cyrus's new disposition must have drawn them in from whatever holes they'd lived in, hundreds or thousands of miles away.
Sometimes they were a welcome sight. It took nearly no effort on his part, no conscious thought, to totally incinerate one or two of the creatures at a time. Cyrus normally ended up passing out after these feats, but he was also normally alone.
Glancing back at the blissfully unaware people near the tracks, Cyrus took off in the other direction. He heard the hobbling, scraping footsteps follow, but he was faster, and he came upon a deserted bathroom before the creatures could catch up.
Maybe luck was on his side for once; there weren't many accessible restrooms left down in the subways. He slammed the door behind him and leaned against it, panting, knowing he had only bought himself a small amount of time to decide on his next course of action. It might have been in Cyrus's head--his vision was kinda wavering and his thoughts were an incoherent mess--but it seemed like the pale overhead lights flickered. The already grimy mirrors, coated in a generous layer of dust, seemed to fog up even further until Cyrus couldn't make out his own reflection in them.
Behind him came a tiny squeak. He turned just in time to see the door handle jiggle once, twice, before slowly pointing downward to the floor. With a click, the lock retracted and the door slid open a crack.
That was new.
Cyrus threw all of his weight into the door and it shut again, but another body began ramming into it on the other side. He only had a few seconds to marvel, and shudder, at the creatures' newfound intelligence. All the rogue reapers he'd seen up to this point were animalistic, slaves to their urges and about as smart as the rats that called this place their home. Since when did they have the mental capacity or forethought to open doors?
The only time he'd seen these things do something uncharacteristic was when they were under someone else's control. Cyrus himself had been inside their heads now, had commanded them to go against their own gut instincts and do his bidding; this was not a foreign concept.
So who was commanding these ones?
The door shuddered beneath him again, and Cyrus had to quit with that train of thought. Eventually someone would wander past, and there was only one way that would end: bloody.
Not seeing any other options, Cyrus withdrew his knife from the inside pocket of his jacket. He hadn't dared touch the thing since Acheron's death. It fit into his hand easily, weighing next to nothing; a contented humming started up in his head. Either his cohabitors approved of the decision or Cyrus was losing his fucking mind; on second thought, it was probably both. He gritted his teeth, not wanting to revel in the moment too long--
--then stepped away from the door. It crashed into the opposite wall, and in strode three pale, skeletal beasts. They all rested their weight on their haunches, coiled to spring, regarding Cyrus with surprisingly blank stares. There wasn't a frenzy in them; there was nothing. They were like doll's eyes, emotionless and cold.
This only strengthened Cyrus's suspicions, but no one else was waiting outside the restroom; the door swung shut again just as the rogues pounced.
Whatever happened next, Cyrus wasn't completely aware of. The following moments passed in a bloody blur. His knife had become a part of himself, like a new limb; Cyrus was barely conscious of his movements as he slashed and stabbed. The staticky hum in his ears rose to a crescendo, until it was a chorus of screams, begging for carnage.
He obeyed. He had no choice anymore.
It was over quickly. Before Cyrus could really savor the moment, he was left with an ash-strewn floor; it hadn't been much cleaner to begin with, so this didn't make much of a difference. His knife was slicked and dripping with something black; with mechanical movements, he ran it under the nearby tap, avoiding the mirror. He didn't want to know what he'd see staring back.
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When he had cleaned himself off, Cyrus noted he was still gripping the blade tightly; his hand was no longer shaking. These kills did not give off much energy, but it had calmed the bloodlust for the time being. His head was, for the most part, quiet again.
Cyrus let out a heavy sigh, slowly stowing the knife away. It felt heavier in his pocket now, like he'd stuck a brick there instead. Again he was faced with the probable reality someone was after him.
It's not as if he didn't know to expect this. Acheron was apparently infamous, and as soon as word of his death had spread, well...it couldn't have been long before others replaced him, all wanting a slice of Cyrus's power. But this attack was simple, and whoever was behind it hadn't shown their face; it was almost as if they were testing the waters, seeing just what Cyrus was capable of.
Like he hadn't had enough baggage before.
Cyrus finally gained the courage to look into his reflection, smearing the grime away from the mirror in a decent-sized strip. His skin was the color of a weathered tombstone; his hair was lank with oil. He felt like he'd just gotten back from a long excursion in hell, but if he was being honest, he didn't appear all that different from all the other homeless people in New York. Something had been on his mind for awhile, a faint idea lurking in the recesses, waiting for an appropriate time to be addressed. With his darker urges under better control, Cyrus saw this would be his best opportunity.
He didn't bother taking the train; his metrocard was almost out of swipes, and Cyrus wasn't eager to dip into his savings to replenish them. The walk to the library took several hours, but what else did he have to do? When he got out of the harsh cold and into the dimmer, quiet building, it seemed everyone looked up at his entrance. Cyrus ignored them, approaching the nearest librarian to ask in a timid whisper where he could look up newspaper archives.
The woman shuddered at his proximity and he averted his eyes; after a beat of hesitation, she led him to the right floor of the library and quickly left him alone near a bank of computers. It took another hour to sift through results, looking through coverages of suicide after suicide in the general time frame Cyrus could estimate. By the time Cyrus had loaded the article he wanted, he noted the computer mouse was shaking under his touch. Already a slight tremor had started back up in his hands; he released a shaky breath and stared harder at the screen in front of him.
The article was about twelve years old. There was an obituary included, a face at the top of it that stirred something deep in Cyrus's chest--though he couldn't understand what. And the name that prickled at him too: Nicole Miller, who according to the article had taken her own life and would be very missed.
Miller. So that was Cyrus's true last name. The news had him leaning back in his chair, eyes going unfocused.
It was so...mundane.
His eyes began to sting; before the tears could come, Cyrus forced himself to pay attention and scroll further down, searching for an address. Upon finding one, he scribbled it down on a nearby scrap piece of paper and set back out into the cold. A light snow began to fall, making everything appear even brighter than it truly was; he would have killed for a pair of sunglasses.
That was an unfortunate thought. Cyrus grimaced, thrusting his balled-up hands in his pockets, and quickened his pace. According to the article, his old home was located right there in Brooklyn, not too far from Tuesday's townhouse. He couldn't fight the pull any longer, and opted to take a route that passed in front of it--he just wanted to be sure she seemed alright. He wouldn't stop, wouldn't visit; Cyrus just had to see.
Upon passing the townhouse, however, he was met by the FOR RENT sign. If his stomach hadn't been empty, Cyrus might've thrown up. Tamping down the nausea that was churning in him, he ducked his head and continued walking.
He arrived at the correct address fifteen minutes later; a small, overly cheerful house stared back at him. The walls were pastel; fake flowers were planted in a thick line across the yard; bright pink shutters adorned the windows. Cyrus glanced at the scrap of paper, double-checking, but he was at the right place.
There was a teal Mini Cooper parked in the driveway. The sight of it made Cyrus wince; he had been hoping to be able to slip in and out undetected. Unclenching his fists and attempting to shake the anxiety from them, Cyrus squared his shoulders and walked up the path. After ringing the bell, the door swung open after five seconds.
A woman with a bright smile stood on the other side; upon seeing Cyrus, the smile wavered, taking on a forced appearance. "Ah, hello, can I help you?"
He worked his jaw, trying to think of a response. If words had ever been hard for him, they were nearly impossible now; he hadn't found a need for his voice in a very long time. Watching Cyrus struggle, the woman's smile disappeared completely.
She began to call out a man's name, presumably her husband judging by the gaudy ring sparkling on her finger. Cyrus finally spoke. "I used to live here. Would you mind if I just take a look around?"
The ensuing grimace on the woman's face told him, yes, she surely did mind. But she looked him up and down, biting her lips, eyebrows furrowed; her fear washed over him and Cyrus shivered. "I, uh, suppose you can come in for just a minute..."
She slowly opened the door wider, regarding him with wide eyes. The man appeared then, looking between Cyrus and his wife before gaining a similar expression. His hand went to his pocket, and Cyrus held his breath. If the man tried something, Cyrus didn't think he could hold himself back.
They didn't speak, following Cyrus from a careful distance as he crept through the house. It sparked no memories for him, nothing very clear at least, but seemingly of their own accord his feet led him to the living room.
The room was just as garish as the outside of the house, too many colors and patterns incorporated into the layout. A leopard print throw rug sat beneath a leather couch draped with a platinum-colored blanket. Cyrus stared at the sofa's position against the far wall, a memory struggling to come to the forefront of his mind; he could swear his own couch had been on the other side. Nothing else came to him, but staring down at the spot where he was standing, a cold feeling washed over him. The carpet was pristine and white, but Cyrus could almost see through it, see to the blood that been bleached from the hardwood floor beneath it.
So this was it: this was where he'd killed his own mother.
"What?" the woman timidly asked behind him. Cyrus cleared his throat, ignoring her, though a blush seeped into his cheeks. He half-turned towards her, keeping his eyes trained on the ground.
Whatever he'd been expecting to find here, it was long gone. Cyrus himself had told Tuesday once ghosts weren't real--but a part of him had been hoping something more had been left behind, a bigger imprint of the past. All he felt was a faint memory, and all it brought him was pain. His mother was long gone, and he would never be able to right all his wrongs.
He kept drifting through the house, happening upon a room about as small as his own at Acheron's had been, just a few feet wide. He could nearly imagine a crib fitting there, though the current furnishings were a lone desk crammed beside a stack of boxes. This place hurt to look at too, the sight of it sinking heavy in Cyrus's gut. He knew this was where his father had died. Had Cyrus killed him, too?
It was beginning to seem easier to ask who Cyrus hadn't killed. The body count weighed on him, tallying up in his mind; voices rose up from the ruins of his thoughts, choking him with their bitterness, urging him to only add on to that list. Without a word he bolted from the room and back out of the house, not stopping until it was out of view.
Maybe there would never be a place Cyrus could call home again.