He remembers that screaming inside his head. Torturous voices that had bounced off the bones of his skull and filled his body with a tremulous desire for more. It was too late to run, but he shouldn't have let that stop him, he should have ran. But now he was cursed, doomed, half dead and only supported by the vicious atrocities he had to perform.

The red eyed vampire is unsavory, beautiful, deceptive in the smooth perfection of his every muscle and their every movements. He hates himself, godlike in the softest of sneers that hangs at the tail end of every sentence, godlike in his incorruptible beauty (incorruptible in that he cannot be changed by time, for he was one corrupted little Risque minion.) He is no longer one of God's creatures, but a mockery of one. He likes it. That alone could make Cobain smile. A patient, violet demon. He did not care who lived and who died. He simply killed those he was instructed to and those who crossed too close in front of his path. And, if not, he will struggle ever toward some empty horizon in a wasteland of lust and murder.

Would she keep standing here thinking they could be friends if she knew?

Knew the bodies crammed so tightly together in the walls, under the floorboards, beneath the stairs that the house creaks with a hundred collective ghosts sighing in the night? Such a cluttered little house to be housing a psycho, but then aren't they always? There are butterflies tacked haphazardly to the walls, the corpse of a little girl's kitten, accented by the crusty river of dried blood that once dripped from its soft white toes. Sometimes, if Cobain looked at it hard enough the wounds, the innocence, its pretty blue eyes shut against the horror of its new world, he can almost feel his humanity coming back. Sometimes he hates what he is, hates what he has done, the thing that drives him.

But then, there is something that calls him, the blood the maker's connection, something, that calls him back to the hell he is in that tells him everything will be okay as long as he listens and obeys. So he does. And he kills. Almost religiously, shuffling out of his broken down house and that stupid rotting, damn adorable kitten corpse waves him goodbye as he stumbles down the front steps and makes his way hunched over into the streets, an outcast. Maybe, there isn't really anything wrong with him, maybe what is wrong is in him, so does that count?

Cobain has been sitting, running meaningless tasks to Risque's every whim. He has sat festering like one of those birthday cakes that the kids never quite finished, left to rot in the dumpster until some tree or some flies made a new living out of its decaying body. But he has found Iliana now, and the monster in him growls.

It is some sort of wicked killer instinct within him that perhaps has brought him to her side, he thinks, he wonders if he knows like he does. How strange, that Iliana and Cobain, two opposite sides of a warped spectrum, would find each other now. He wants to kill her, he needs it, but he cant.

Watch out, the need reminds him, you don't want Risque to be thinkin' you being soft, now.

That voice in his head, its bad grammar makes him internally cringe. But those eyes, oh those red monster eyes, look directly to her as she backs up. Maybe, inside, she was scared of him. Good. It is how she should be, she should fear him for the simple fact that he could kill her and not feel anything. Little boy, little boy, you dirty liar. The pale boy watches as she smiles and he stares haphazardly at her like she's some sort of monster and maybe she really is, some sort of creature to be able to stare Risque's hellhound in the face and remain standing there.

He can feel the warmth of her body even through that jacket of hers. She may be fae, but there was something decidedly alive about the species that Cobain so envied. She tells him to smile and he pulls that hand away as if she threatened to bite him. "No," he says, resolute in his stoic nature. What a strange creature...both of them.

Her laugh, it is like the screeching of tires, like nails on chalkboard. He wants her to stop, to snuff the sound out of her, to break her for simply making such a noise. Red eyes stare at those lips paring in such a morbid sound, his own form remaining quiet. Inside, maybe he is jealous, that she is so free, while he is controlled by a puppet master and harbors a beast inside him.

A yelp. Fear. Struggle. It feels good as she wriggles in his grasp upon her arms as he buries his face so close to her neck, inching to simply bite into her, feel the piercing, the breaking of that soft, pale, supple skin. Her fear wafts off of her and he can practically taste it. The voodoo child feels intoxicated by such a smell, it is empowering. His head still buried beneath those beautiful blonde locks, he practically growls his response to her request. "No," once more that answer a single, one syllable word. But this tension, this moment, it ends nearly as abruptly as it had started, a few seconds at best, even when the time between those seconds had lasted for years. He is pushing her away from an instant as if she were contaminated by some untreatable disease and she sickened him. She should run now.

And yet, she does not.

"Maybe," he says in response to her question. And in truth, he was angry with himself, with the world, with his maker, with the hell he was put through every day. And he hates that she speaks such true words. But he grabs her again, as if killing her would make those words some sort of lie, There are tears in her eyes, and he wants them to fall, to roll down that pale cheek of hers. Maybe then, when she shows such weakness, maybe then he can finish her, suck her dry. Rabies? "Rabies?" He questions. So it had come to this, he knew Risque viewed him as some sort of animal, demon, child, sometimes all three at once, but it would seem others are doing just the same now. She leans closer to him then, and before he knows what is about to occur, she plants those soft lips upon his brow. It had been so long since he had felt such a feminine touch, any touch of kindness at all. It is foreign, differentâ€"he doesn't like it. He turns around then, back facing her, practically growling. "Why...did you...do that?" He can hardly get the words out, his anger, hatred, all of it bubbling within his chest as if her were some underground spring no one has yet seen explode. Cobain, for his hatred and anger, has never before lost his sense of control, if the voodoo child knew one thing, it was to remain in control of his expression emotions, and to remain very nearly deadpan and stoic.

And it is then that he whirls himself around, once more to grab the girl, though even then he does not grab her so hard, as if he knows she will no longer struggle from his grasp. His lips reach to meet hers, and though it is aggressive, it lasts such a short time, one may confuse it for a twitch rather than a kiss. For never before, had his lips met anyone else. He pulls away, his grip tightening then once more as ruby eyes stare into her, he wanted to kill her now more than he has ever wanted to kill anyone. Never before has he been starving so greatly for a chance to break someone's neck. "I hate you."