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Introduction
A silver backed mirror leans between the bed and the wall. Between all of this was a boy, fragile like a china plate held within a grand wooden cabinet, only to be used for special occasions. Only, he felt more like some overgrown baby’s teddy bear, gripped on the wrist and dragged behind him as he ran. Thrown at the wall in frustration or joy or anything. Seams split down the middle and stuffing spilling out and-
That’s more than enough.
Hair
A mess of pale blond hair flopped atop his head, slightly curled at the ends to prevent it from draping over his eyes. There was volume to it, in a way where it looked like he’d spent hours on styling and products without any actual effort necessary. Alois combed his fingers through his hair, starting at the roots and dragging upwards until it haphazardly fell down. It was styled in a rebelliously androgynous manner, cut at a comfortable cheekbone length. He hadn’t put much thought into his hair other than “it had to look cool”. Still, it always had to be able to convince whoever needed convincing of their fantasy, one where whatever woman they were pretending Alois was actually laid beneath them, loud and willing. This wasn’t a conscious choice on his part, of course. He didn’t think to style his hair like this. He especially hadn’t noticed the haircut’s suspicious resemblance to the previous earl’s wife. Those oil paintings were tossed up into the attic as soon as Alois was put in charge, only to be hung up again when Uncle Arnold came by to interrogate him then beg for his money.
He continued to run his fingers through, gathering strands between the gaps and combing, now one hand after the other throughout his entire head. Small things like this, minor instances of sensory stimulation seemed to comfort him, allowing him to exit the constant overbearing static of his own head and close the door behind him. A soft tingling overcame him, sending the boy deeper into a state of relaxation. Aimlessly grasping at his hair, his fingers eventually snagged a small knot, tugging at his scalp. Alois went stiff, staring blankly at the wall beside the mirror. He disliked the feeling of having his hair tugged. Actually, he didn’t. He’d gotten used to it after having it happen so much, and if he was that used to it, it shouldn’t bother him anymore. Even if it did, it wasn’t supposed to, so in his head, it didn’t. Still, it wasn’t that pleasant either way. Nobody liked having their hair yanked. It was just something like that. Yeah.
Eyes
His eyes are pale blue, glassy siren’s song, pulling wayward sailors in to crash and drown, washing up on his littered shores. Those eyes, faulty, filthy eyes that saw so much, sat beside a brain that remembered so little. How did it all get lost on that short of a journey? Either he could wear his life as a scar of honor across his chest, or throw his pain into a raging fire. Not this sick chimera of memories, where that old man’s sweaty panting face remains and Luka’s melts away into a disfigured amalgam of features and wax. He couldn’t even call himself a survivor if he didn’t remember what exactly he had survived. Fragments of memories, as if someone else had told him a story about himself. Even still, he was often overcome with a sickening sensation of panic. A collection of little things would send him into it. There had to have been a reason, a nightmarish event related to them that caused something deep within him to spark and shake on instinct, but it was lost. An endless sea of symptoms. No sign of the cause.
Those sickening, spiraling blue eyes pull away from his rosy full cheeks and upturned nose, both of which are often dusted with a layer of rouge. A distinct red, often faded to pink, to contrast the piercing, evil blue that keeps dragging him (and everyone around him) under. There was never an inherent urge for violence within him. He never wished harm on others until it became his sole means of escape, an insignificant insect forced to fight so hard that he began to resemble a predator, all while tangled within a never-ending trap. The thing is, there was no longer a distinction between near-death and simply living for him. Every minor occurrence, each bullet point of his day, could end him. A gentle hand caressing his cheek could slide down and grip his neck in a matter of seconds, so why not get the upper hand before such an opportunity presented itself?
Body
His girlish figure, covered by a silk embroidered robe, was cold. An unnatural, empty kind of cold. Maybe if he ditched his juvenile attention seeking habit of wearing as little clothes as he could get away with, he’d be a bit warmer. That wasn’t an option.
“I’ll stay with you for as long as you interest me.”
Claude’s words rang through his head. He’d been thinking about them since they were said, and even more so each time they were repeated. What even made him interesting? What made him… him ? Provocative sexuality, a hair trigger temper, unyielding devotion to something as stupid as a pathetic demon who lingered in a basement, essentially panhandling for some stupid kid’s soul? The line between the actual Alois Trancy and the obnoxiously long list of things wrong with Alois Trancy was essentially nonexistent to him. Everything he did was jarringly disordered to the point where not even his gaggle of supernatural beings could hide their shock at first. Of course, they’d grown used to it in their own ways. Claude seemed to smile whenever Alois threw some kind of fit. Although it was the kind of smile you’d crack out of sheer schadenfreude, Alois would always find a way to convince himself it was love or admiration.
His knuckles were a pale, sickly white, calloused and covered in small, jagged cuts. His throat burned, but he shrugged it off. “It’s more than used to the pain,“ he thought. “It just wants to act like a little bitch when the pain becomes freeing.” Maybe that’s what made him interesting: the faint sound of vomiting through a locked bathroom door that he knew Claude was always waiting outside. A brief moment where he let himself submit to his disgust, and in turn became free and lifted himself past his physical form. He lost control, but this was him clutching the reigns and taking it back. Not only that, but maybe this ferocity is what kept Claude interested. Spontaneous chaos, all planned out yet scattered across the floor. Alois was in control. Even in moments when he’d lost control, it was planned and controlled. Alois has always been in control.
But was he?
Mirror
“Was there any “Alois Trancy” left?”
He stared into the mirror, furious over a question he would never reach enough clarity to answer. He shook like some depressing wet dog, digging his weak nails into his palms. The force would be more than enough to pierce the skin if he was any less pathetic. It was a trick question, of course. There was never any “him” to begin with, only the idea of a “him” buried beneath what he needed to be, as well as the trauma of keeping this act up for this long. He looked down at the floor, forced to gaze upon his old, used, nearly rotting body. Recoiling from the filthy his sight, his eyes darted back up to the mirror to face the unsettling reality that this body that had put him through so much suffering was actually connected to his head. It was an inseparable part of him, a functional tumor he’s cursed to drag behind him as punishment.
Punishment for what, exactly? What was his crime?
He had done everything and nothing at the same time. He hated every part of himself, but was this truly a fair punishment? He began to shake even harder, his trembling figure reflecting at him. His eyes - it’s all their fault - began to sting with tears, mixing with the makeup to turn a pleasant translucent pink as they hesitantly streamed down his cheeks. The figure, the awful creature before him, began trembling and sobbing into his filthy hands. Disgusting. It was mocking him! The awful sight, the permanent reminder, the punishing tumor. Alois could hardly stand to exist at all, much less in its presence.
His pulse quickened, and his eyesight went blurry. Overcome with a wave of electricity, a forest fire ravaging his blood, he tightened his fist and barreled it into the pane of glass before him, striking the metal as he shattered it beyond recognition. The boy wailed a piercing shriek of swears as he tumbled to the floor, gripping his fist in his other hand. He caressed his fingers across his bleeding knuckles, all while collapsed on the floor in a pile of glass. The door swung open, revealing his overly concerned maid and his overly indifferent butler. Alois jerked to face the door, meeting the woman’s gaze as his loose robe fell off of his shoulders and piled at his waist when he sat up. Her face shriveled and twisted in grief upon seeing him, an insulting look that reeked of empathy and sorrow. Alois flushed red, and the fire started up again. “Fuck off!” he shouted, his voice gravelly and breaking. “Go away! I don’t need your pity!”
He quickly stumbled to his feet and ran to slam the door, haphazardly trying to cover himself as much as he could with the robe and wincing as he stepped through microscopic shards of glass. The physical pain was a minor discomfort, but he’d convinced himself he had grown indifferent to people seeing him half dressed, despite his actions directly opposing him. Hannah opened her mouth to argue, but was interrupted by the wood slamming an inch away from her face. She looked to Claude, who maintained his blank expression, completely unfazed by the boy’s petty tantrum. All she could manage amidst her worry for Alois and disgust for Claude was a nasty stare in the latter’s direction.
Alois ran back to the glass, his heart beating out of his chest. Looking at the glass sprawled across the floor, a sickly yet seductive thought danced through the forefront of his consciousness. “If I were to press the sharp edge against my forehead and swipe down,” he pondered, “maybe I’d never have to feel that pain again”.
Alois stared at his reflection, and a much sadder, more pathetic looking boy stared back at him. He was dismal, hunched over with snot leaking out of his nose and red, puffy eyes. Disfigure his face? Who was he kidding? It was already defiled beyond comprehension. He was already defiled beyond comprehension. Even then, that filthy siren’s song face was his main weapon. Although he saw it as a sinking endless pit, everyone he needed to impress only heard its enchanting melody. Carving his independence into his skin would be sacrificing the fragile yet beautiful empire he’d spent so long crafting for himself. Who would it even stop? It’s not like anyone cared about what his face looked like when they broke him in. Most of the time, they’d just shove his face down into the mattress until he was suffocating, or maybe a pillow if he was lucky. A fit like this might intrigue Claude, stringing him further along. It was worth it, even if it meant Claude stayed with him one second longer than he would have otherwise.
But it wouldn’t do that.
Claude would only think he was a big stupid kid throwing another fit. He’d tell Alois that he’d clean up the blood and glass because he cared, and then send Hannah or the triplets to do it for him. Although Claude’s attention would be grabbed for that one additional second, the memory would just pile itself upon the already heaping mountain of outbursts and tantrums. Each of them started as a revolutionary idea, and ended in Alois sobbing and cowering like a fool.
Just as he was now, and just as he’d continue to do.