This writing contains potential triggers. If sensitive, approach with caution.
There were plenty of ways out in this room – knives, hot stoves, a spilt concoction of oil and water which could easily cause a small fire. But he chose none of these exits. Why, when there was so little left and it could be so easy?
He was thinking of men like Ix. Oh, and when there were men like Ix around to dispose of, one could survive through anything.
As he drizzled salt into the saucepan he remembered the wounds the first time he saw Ix’s handiwork. He was rough in all senses: around the edges, in the cognitive departments and in intimacy. The only thing he was smooth in were his disguises; smooth and sharp he had left at least a handful more like her in shreds. Tell a lie – he was also attentive and persistent. It’s often questionable how people so debauched end up in the position to manipulate to begin with, and the latter were the only reasons that could be imagined. Ix had no natural intelligence or intuition; he simply studied people hard, and weaved his story through despicable determination.
Of course Ix is a front, a face from which to orchestrate his little show. All faces, under them, have a pair of heels, which keep them up but also threaten to knock them clean over.
One is his actual name and form, Icarus. In reality, Icarus was actually a possessed duck of sorts, named endearingly by a cruel owner who failed to foresee that the consequences of being condescending to their pet wouldn’t be their descent in flames. Or at least, Icarus certainly didn’t burn out from those flames. The once-enslaved avian made a deal to split its heart in half so the other part could be the size of a humans’, initially to seek revenge against his owner by messing up dealings with their partner. That initial revenge, however, began to become something of an addiction, and with parts of Icarus’ mind also growing disproportionately in influence, so the reptilian brain took over a heart that beat unevenly. Naturally Ix can’t keep up his constant lusting pursuits all the time, even if a considerable part of that is sitting naked on the sofa demanding other people to do things while jerking off, so occasionally you’ll see Ix regress back into Icarus, duck without a cause. Or, the regression becomes a progression, so it’s told, and the Icarus that comes beyond Ix’s capabilities is a damn sight more frightening.
Ix’s other heel is a character this person imagining him had met before in different circumstances, and now, as he finished his meal and slid the plate back toward the cooker, was presenting him with a little grief himself. That grief, mind, was different, but will be explored sometime soon. For Ix, this person presented an obstacle in his drive for committing random sexual vengeance against whoever – or in his duck form, whatever – he felt he could get a good handle over. He would take them under his wing, then smother them, he often joked. Well, as Ix’s name suggests, he had succeeded nine times so far. Starting with his owner’s partner, and the horrid abuse committed there, he had started as I, Icarus, an uncomfortable and awkward name by any measure. Two women, a man and a swan later, Icarus tried calling himself V, then VI, then VII, referring to them back then as actual roman numerals, as this was considerably less awkward and more mysterious than his given name. By the time he was succeeded on his ninth – from whom he now owned a mansion in the Cotswolds, the same way a cuckoo pushes eggs out of a nest – he referred to Ix phonetically. Icks. It made sense as a shortening of Icarus, and he could keep his motives a little further disguised from his next victim. Only that backfired majorly. His next victim, to make him the impressive sounding X, was one he had encountered when she was still too long to be got on her own, but he was willing to wait the seven-odd years until she matured enough to be independent, and far too comfortable in his existence in the outskirts of her life.
That seven years became three hundred and counting.
To Ix’s dismay, not only had he chosen someone who was fickle, naturally paranoid and deceptively smart, but also a girl that had a horrible habit of jumping timezones. For the first hundred and fifty years, Ix couldn’t time jump himself, so met his target in staggered periods of time, where he wondered if she had already met him in the future because she became increasingly wary of him, previously just the old family friend. However, he soon learned that these jumps were utterly involuntary and frequently unpleasant; furthermore he learned how to do it himself and nearly ruptured his malformed heart in two.
Between them – the Girl who couldn’t help but jump, the Duck who chased her and this person who chased them – so remained a seemingly infinite checkmate, considered the person as they chowed on their last bite of the evening meal; each waiting for the other to appear with no distinct clues as to what would happen therein.