People!

People.

People!

There are people everywhere. They go about their days with faces that always say one thing when their minds say another. The discrepancy is so vast that it is unsettling. “Nice hair!” They can be chirping with a wide bright smile the voltage of a tanning light, but their mind might be going “I hate this guy so much I hope he disappears”. When people look at him, their eyes make his skin crawl and his hands clammy. It is the most uncomfortable feeling in the world, second being sitting in a pool of cold oil. (Yes, he has done that once.)

He lives on the outskirts of the city. There are no people there, except the boy who delivers milk to his doorstep every day. The young boy never looks at him, never talks, and never rings his doorbell. He was perfect… for a creature called ‘people’.

He does not go to the city. Who is he kidding? The city is like a hell of rowdiness, infested with people, where he can barely breathe and swallow the lump in his throat. He tried adventuring in hell once as some sort of stupid self-enhancement practice. He didn’t vomit on the street only because it would draw people’s gazes. Several people’s eyes on him all at once would probably make him pass out and die.

But this morning, he finds himself peeking out the window curtain to watch the milk boy putting down milk on his doorsteps. The boy is the only ‘people’ he can tolerate or watch one-sidedly. He has been peeping from the window at the boy for days now. One curtain, one glass, three window bars, and one wall are between them. He can observe him like animals in the zoo this way. This morning is no different, except that the boy does not go away right after putting down the crate of milk. Wait. The boy is now raising his hand, his index finger poking out— the boy rings the doorbell that has never been rung.

Why does he have a doorbell in the first place?

A while later, the door creaks opened. His horns stick high like the devil himself as he stares down at the boy through the thin slit of the door. A knife is in his right hand, concealed by the door. He stares at anything but the eyes. He stares at the muddy shoes on the boy’s feet and waits.

“Sir…?” The boy shifts, likely to get a better look at him, who’s half hidden behind the door like it's a shield.

“Hm.”

“I was told to give you this.” The boy’s hand reaches into his cross-body satchel and pulls out a plastic-wrapped handkerchief. “It’s uh, our company’s souvenir. Thank you for choosing our milk.”

He swallows hard. Any part of his body leaving the house feels like an immediate offer to be eaten, scalded, electrocuted… or looked at.

Shakily, he slowly extends some clammy fingers out the door. Just his fingers, he thinks, will be fine. The boy does not question it and holds the plastic-wrapped handkerchief to where his fingers can reach; that pale, slender hand practically invading the threshold of the house. He snatches the dumb souvenir at lightning speed.

“Have a nice day.” The boy says.

“Do you mean that?” He finds himself asking before he can stop his hoarse voice from slipping out of his throat.

The boy turns back around. “Mean what? Have a nice day? Kind of. Actually no, not really. It’s just a saying.”

He opens the door wider just like how his mind is blown wide. His gaze roams upwards, from the muddy shoes to the white uniform pants, to his belt, to his white uniform shirt, then finally, hesitantly, meeting the boy’s eyes. They are green and big. Stunning.

A surge of unfamiliar cocktail of feelings rises— relief, thrill, curiosity, fear, desire— exploding in his head like fireworks. His grip on the doorknob tightens. He stares into those green eyes. He can’t believe it. It’s like staring at the sun, it hurts, but it’s beautiful, and he’s liking it. He reaches out and blindly grabs any part of the boy’s without moving his gaze for one second. His clammy hand finds the strap of that ugly satchel and yanks it, making the boy stumble inside his house upon a gasp. The door slams shut. He pushes the boy to the door roughly. He’s touching this creature. This ‘people’. He is not one of them, though. This one is different. He faces his big massive fear and now he is literally coming nose to nose to it, and when his horned mask is off, lips to lips.

The knife in his hand is not forgotten. People. They are frightening yet fascinating. This one is different. He is all over this one and he feels like the rest of him will be as tasty as the lips. He wonders what is inside this boy's mind. He always wonders what’s inside people’s minds and now he has got a chance to see. He wants to cut his head open and examine. The boy’s hands are one his chest, then his shoulders, then down his arms…

The knife in his hand is not forgotten. People. They are frightening yet fascinating. This one is different. He is all over this one. He feels like the rest of him will be as tasty as the lips. He wonders what is inside this boy's mind. He always wonders what’s inside people’s minds, and now he has a chance to see. He wants to cut his head open and examine it. The boy’s hands are on his chest, then his shoulders, then down his arms…

Pain.

Pain spreads through his chest.

He looks down. The boy has taken hold of the knife and it is now embedded in his chest. Blood is blooming like a red dahlia on his plain t-shirt. He stumbles back. Those intoxicating green eyes are on him. But they are not uncomfortable anymore. They are comfort.

“Fuck,” the boy pants. Then, the pale, slender, slippery, bloodied hand finds the doorknob and swings the door open. The boy leaves.

People.