Punishment Halls

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.

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.

Phillip’s reaction was palpable —a mixture of disbelief and shock that seemed to ripple through him. For a moment, time itself appeared to halt within those balcony confines as the old man processed the gravity of what had just been said. The jovial twinkle that once danced in his eyes gave way to a more deep-etched concern as he struggled to answer.

“It can’t be just that.” The old man’s lips trembled slightly as he muttered, refusing to stop believing in the inherent goodness of the rough-around-the-edges kid he had grown to care for like his own offspring. “You’re not a cold-blooded killer. I know you too well to believe that.”

>> “Tell me the whole story, Narguile. What happened?”

Phillip’s voice carried a firm resolve, steadying against the tremors that such alarming news had undoubtedly set off within him. His words were not merely a call for clarity; they bore the silent but heavy promise of support. Realizing this helped Narguile to finally start untangling everything outspokenly.

“Lieta wasn’t home when I got back from work last night.” He began, his voice tinged with remembrance of the chaos that still clung to his mind like cobwebs, muddled further back when urgency and adrenaline took full control. “It was just Aria and Toast, waiting here alone.”

>> “She wasn’t picking up her phone either.”

At this detail, Phillip’s brow furrowed. Given how both their families were so closely woven together, he could immediately sense the irregularity in Lieta’s absence, especially considering that Narguile usually returned well after nightfall.

“And why was she out so late?” The old man couldn’t help but ask, curiosity sharpened by concern.

“Funny thing… She doesn’t really know.” Narguile added with an unfocused gaze and a halfhearted smile. “I asked her today, and she couldn’t answer.”

>> “Something about a strange compulsion, an overpowering thought she couldn’t shake off…”

>> “...As if fate itself was manipulating her like a puppet on strings.”

Phillip leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he absorbed Narguile's account. His eyes narrowed slightly, a reflection of the gears turning behind his weathered facade. It was a troubling picture being painted, and not once had Lieta given him any reason to question her character, but...

“You don’t think she might be keeping something from you, son?”

The question emerged tinged with reluctance, betraying Phillip's internal tug-of-war between doubt and trust. Yet the idea that something so out of character could occur without explanation gnawed at him uncomfortably. If it were anyone else, skepticism might have easily led to conclusions of deceit or some substance-induced haze leading to irresponsible behavior.

But this was Lieta they were talking about —the same young girl who held such a special place in his heart that she had asked him and Virginia to stand as godparents to her and Narguile’s daughter in their wedding. It didn’t sit well with him, she wasn’t one to weave tales or succumb to vices carelessly, as outlandish as everything was shaping out to be.

“No, I believe her.” Narguile eventually answered, closing his eyes with a long sigh. “Because I felt the exact same thing too.”

>> “I don’t know where it came from, but it was there. This… Pull.” As he talked, he felt the already deep tone of his voice straining at times under the burden of recollection. It was clear that this wasn’t simply a passing sensation, but something more profound, and disturbingly real. “It wasn’t like being possessed” The young adult clarified, his eyes showing a grieving uncertainty, of not knowing exactly which words to employ. “I didn’t lose control, or stray from my own consciousness.”

>> “But something urged me to run in search of Lieta.”

Narguile paused for a brief moment, reflecting on the peculiarity of his motivation.

“One might think it normal for someone to act on instinct, given the circumstances.” He commented thoughtfully. “But this… Impulse, was anything but that. It wasn’t normal. I knew exactly where I had to go. No questions asked, no room for self-doubt or second-guessing.”

The air between them grew heavy with tension as Narguile recounted a scenario too bizarre for fiction. It strayed too heavily from everything Phillip had ever experienced in his life, but he knew of the boy’s honesty, and instead leaned forward with deepening concern.

“And where did this… Compulsion lead you?” The old man asked. “What was it that you found at this place you were driven to?”

Phillip’s question lingered in the air for what felt like an extended period of time as Narguile struggled to put every memory in place. It was around this point that his primitive drive took control, turning everything into a rage-induced haze.

“It was an alley, conveniently close.” Narguile clarified, although the location wasn’t really of consequence. If anything, it was a small oddity when compared to the greater mysteries. “Just a couple of streets away from here at most.”

>> “As of what I found there… It was just as that damned feeling was telling me.”

>> “Lieta was thrown on the pavement, screaming for help.” As the otherwise loving husband and father continued, the shift in his voice wasn’t a subtle one. His countenance became raw, as he was brought to grit his teeth by recollection alone. “I lost it, when I saw this… Motherfucker hovering over her.” His fist tightened, straining the bandages placed over his knuckles, faintly stained by dried blood, and still searing with a distant ache. Even after many hours of consequences, it was hard to picture himself acting any different from how he did back then. “It’d be easy to blame it on those weird compulsions, don’t you think?” Narguile asked with a mocking smile, one directed at himself. “But no…”

>> “It was all me, I was unable to stop. Even when Lieta begged me to, I couldn’t. Not until his skull had caved in.”

As Narguile laid bare the darkest moment of his life, Phillip felt his chest sinking. There was no trace of boastfulness in the young man; it was clear that he recognized his actions tread perilously close to an abyss separating man from monster. Yet alongside this acknowledgment lay a haunting absence of repentance. The visceral understanding that if presented with the same scene once more, his response would remain unchanged.

Trying to dispel the oppressive atmosphere that had enveloped them, Phillip cleared his throat while his hand instinctively moved towards the resting glass of bourbon for another sip before ultimately deciding not to. It was more important to try and clear some of the dread that had fallen on Narguile’s shoulders, and so he swallowed the discomfort to steer their conversation into another concern he had.

“And who was this man that assaulted Lieta?” It was certainly an important question. While the neighborhood around their run-down apartment building housed its fair share of petty thieves and beggars, the old man had a hard time imagining any of the already-known faces committing such a heinous thing. “Was it someone you had seen before around here?”

Narguile lifted his gaze from his own hands with an unfocused resignation and a partly broken spirit. His memories regarding the guy himself remained an indistinct blur inside his head —unreliable at best.

“Not anyone I recognized.” The dark-haired young man replied, crossing his arms with a bitter expression. Narguile had a knack for navigating the streets, so both men didn’t need to vociferate their conclusion that this one particular thug wasn’t a local one. “Looked like a low-life. Dirty clothes, awful smell. He didn’t seem all that old, but I’m not too sure. His face didn’t last all that long with everything in place for me to say that with certainty.”

>> “Didn’t strike me as the homeless type though.” He added narrowing his eyes, focusing as to recall every detail, however vague. “Dunno. A gut feeling.”

It was liberating to be able to let everything out without minding his words for a change, but nonetheless, Narguile paused for a moment as he took the opportunity to quench his dry throat. Grasping the neglected glass of bourbon, he braced for another sip —a decision immediately followed by regret. He hadn’t gotten used to the flavor of the amber spirit just yet, prompting a subtle grimace he attempted to conceal despite how foul and rancid it felt on his taste buds.

“Tragically enough, it was Lieta who got a clearer sight of the creep.” He continued after placing what little remained of the whiskey back onto the table. Compared to when Phillip had first arrived, his demeanor now seemed considerably lighter. Sharing his burden had granted Narguile a measure of relief. “We talked about it a while ago, she had some odd things to say too.”

>> “Something about his… Eyes. She told me they were… Vacant, empty. As if he wasn’t really seeing anything in front of him. Like he was unable to hear her screams or even my approach until it was too late.”

“Vacant eyes, you say?” As he echoed Narguile’s words, Phillip leaned further in the chair as he rubbed his chin in contemplation. They were reaching another esoteric dead-end, and even when he had heard many tales tinged with eeriness in his many years, perhaps it’d be better to ground their conversation back into the tangible. “And did any of you two see anyone around the alley?”

>> “A witness, as a detective would say?”

The old man’s voice was calm, but there was a hint of worry in there too. This was certainly another piece of information that could turn critical when dealing with the aftermath of this outburst of violence.

“On the place itself? No, there wasn’t.” Narguile swiftly answered, certain amidst the chaos of his recollection —it was a conviction born from an unsettling assurance, for he knew that if anyone else had been present, they too might have fallen victim to his unrestrained fury. “But just before I arrived home… There was someone strange.”

>> “A man tucked away in a passage across our street. Never seen him before either.” Narguile’s voice took on an edge as he described this figure. Something about it all just kept bothering him. “Slicked-back greasy hair. Dark sunglasses despite the late hour. A worn down suit that must have been as old as he was, and a fucking ugly tie to boot.”

>> “He had a knife gripped tightly in one hand; precariously balancing a baby with the other, unbothered by the pouring rain.”

Narguile left unsaid how the guy lowered his glasses just enough for their eyes to briefly meet; an encounter that unsettled him back then, but one he didn’t make much of.

“And why do you think he’s important?” Phillip asked back, struggling to make a connection between this stranger and the tumultuous events that unfolded next.

“Well, that’s one more thing Lieta and I have in common.” It suggested perhaps more than mere coincidence. Another piece that didn’t fit anywhere in the puzzle. “She saw him earlier that day too.”

After that final piece hung in the air beyond what was comfortable, Phillip let out a resigned sigh. The whole array of today's revelations were already starting weighing on him, and while the old man couldn't sweep everything under the rug with superficial words of comfort, he still managed to offer Narguile a weak half-smile.

“You know” He began with a lighthearted huff. “There’s only so much peculiar business an old man can take in one evening before his head starts spinning.”

>> “I believe you, son. Every word. But what to make of it all…” His voice trailed off, lost momentarily in thought. “I’m afraid to say that’s beyond me.”

Gathering his strength, he pushed himself up from the chair, feeling the far too familiar protest of the age in his bones as he rose to his feet with a raspy grunt. He looked down at Narguile and placed a reassuring hand on the younger man’s shoulders, freely offering his camaraderie in a gesture that conveyed more than phrases ever could.

“Listen here.” There was an optimistic lilt to his voice that seemed almost incongruous given their grim discussion. “Things may not be as dire as they seem.” Or at least, that’s what Phillip preferred to think. “Maybe that fella walked away with nothing worse than a bloodied nose and wounded pride.”

One of Narguile’s eyebrows arched in disbelief. No, that couldn’t be it. He could still hear it… The sounds his head made whenever he made it brutally clash against the concrete. Phillip however, had something to back his claims.

“Virginia… You know how she is, sharper than a bloodhound. Trust me, she’d have known if there was talk of any… Unfortunate discoveries nearby.”

>> “Never underestimate an old lady's talent for sniffing out neighborhood gossip.” Despite not sharing his deductions completely, Narguile didn’t have any rebuttal for Phillip’s argument, and so, he simply limited himself to get up and walk beside the joyful old man while trying to mirror his smile. “And my wife? Her nosiness is something else I tell you.”

The door to Narguile’s apartment was held open once more as his neighbor and confidant prepared to bid farewell, not without offering first a final attempt at soothing his worries.

“Son, no matter how dire life can seem at times…” He mused, calling upon the wisdom Narguile had relied on many times before. “As long as your heart’s in the place it belongs to —next to Lieta and little Aria, you’ll find what it takes to pull through."

>> “And never forget.” He added with a warm glance over his shoulder, “Virginia and I are just next door for whenever you need a reminder of your own strength.”

It was a reassurance that didn’t quite manage to warm the chill that had settled deep within his chest. Even with how lengthy and painstaking their conversation had been, he still held back the most disturbing and inexplicable apparition from last night.

But how could he burden the old man with the nightmarish creature that haunted him before he lost consciousness?

He simply watched as the elder man departed, weakly waving goodbye, at least until he paused mid-step as if recalling an afterthought.

“Oh, and that bourbon? I reckon that you should get rid of it.” The remark caught Narguile by surprise, especially considering how often he had to hear Phillip waxing lyrical about his choice in spirits. Now he realized how the old man had left his glass practically untouched. “It didn’t taste quite right.”

>> “Must have been a bad batch. I’ll bring you another soon.”

Left alone once more with only silence for company, Narguile mulled over Phillip’s departing words regarding the whiskey. An innocuous comment that somehow echoed within him. Watching through the doorway as the old man disappeared into the neighboring apartment, he was left with an odd sense of non-closure, just like with Aria’s question in the morning —a story left frustratingly half-told.

But there was no reason to mull over those thoughts under the door frame. He exhaled deeply and shut out the world with a tempered click of the doorknob, to then start making his way towards that godforsaken bottle that now held more significance than mere distaste. To have an excuse to throw it in the sink wasn’t an unwelcome development, but Narguile would’ve preferred it was a decision taken by his own accord rather than because of those off-putting insinuations that only further spurred his disquiet.

His path led him through the limited confines of the kitchen, a place where an unexpected softness underfoot halted his progress abruptly. A disconcerting squelching sound crept to his ears as he hesitantly looked down to confront whatever had made it, his breath caught at the sight of Toast lying sprawled in disturbing stillness across the floor tiles.

Much as he hoped for the silly old coot to be sleeping in an ill-suited spot, there was really no mistaking it. A sinister line of darkened blood trickled from one corner of Toast’s agape mouth, drawing a morbid trail that now loomed ominously close to his shoes.

Narguile had seen his reflection in the cat’s coppery orbs just hours ago, and now... They were clouded, aiming at different directions, as if each were lost in its own abyss, with outlines of pupils once expressive barely discernible under fur that already had lost some of its luster.

He couldn’t help but crouch down, and didn’t hesitate to nudge him gently with his hands. His heart was clinging to the slimmest chance that this was nothing more than a tasteless prank on the animal’s part —no, it was begging for it.

But as he failed to pick up any sign of breathing, hands receiving none of the signature warmth that the feline’s patchwork pelt once offered in abundance; reality settled with freezingly cruel finality, weighing harshly on Narguile's shoulders.