A memory, of black tape ejected into the air as if into a vacuum, long inky ribbons. Useless, mundane, trivial, pointless. Armand could imagine a mind like one of those tapes, all coiled up inside of a delicate casing, and slowly dragging it all out into the open, glossy and vapid. He does not like people. He doesn't know if there was a time when he ever had the capacity.
There was a time, though, he might have accused Daniel of it. Misanthropy. He prods around for it now, a way in for dehumanisation, a process that will make the hesitations less—but there, Daniel says it. I usually like people better when they're puzzles.
And then, Armand must think of corruption. Will Daniel become someone who takes people apart for fun? Not for chronicling, not for truth, but for the way their blood tastes. Or perhaps he will go away. Start discarding boring people. He thinks of the couple he'd let go, their inane commentary.
"This way," Armand says.
He doesn't call attention to the way he gently nudges people away from the area. A couple hanging out at the railings discard their cigarettes and decide they've had enough, linking arms and leaving. Others, rerouting, or become distracted, turning around, idling. They'll find their mark sitting on the edge of sloped concrete, where boats would be let into the water. Arms tight around his knees, emanating a despair he has never truly felt before, but has always lived within him, he thinks. Rot, plastered over.
Armand stops. They're at a distance to go unnoticed, for now. He doesn't have to explain that if he were to kill this man, he would feel relief. Daniel has already felt it, ill-gotten though it was.
no subject
There was a time, though, he might have accused Daniel of it. Misanthropy. He prods around for it now, a way in for dehumanisation, a process that will make the hesitations less—but there, Daniel says it. I usually like people better when they're puzzles.
And then, Armand must think of corruption. Will Daniel become someone who takes people apart for fun? Not for chronicling, not for truth, but for the way their blood tastes. Or perhaps he will go away. Start discarding boring people. He thinks of the couple he'd let go, their inane commentary.
"This way," Armand says.
He doesn't call attention to the way he gently nudges people away from the area. A couple hanging out at the railings discard their cigarettes and decide they've had enough, linking arms and leaving. Others, rerouting, or become distracted, turning around, idling. They'll find their mark sitting on the edge of sloped concrete, where boats would be let into the water. Arms tight around his knees, emanating a despair he has never truly felt before, but has always lived within him, he thinks. Rot, plastered over.
Armand stops. They're at a distance to go unnoticed, for now. He doesn't have to explain that if he were to kill this man, he would feel relief. Daniel has already felt it, ill-gotten though it was.
"We shouldn't waste him on me."