Knocking on deaths Door

[MARLOWE SALTFISHER]

Scrrrrrrr-click-click-scrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-click-scrrrrrrrrrr

Those walls. Those cold-mongering walls.

-click-scrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

As he meandered down the sloping lengths of corridors, Marlowe ran a nail across them. It was a sorry looking example of it's kind, gnawed roughly down to the bare wick, criss-crossed with white, suspiciously incisor shaped marks, enough to host a world O's and X's championship and connected to pale, spidery hands that were spattered with ink and stained with spots of blood. From his gums. If things got too boring Marlowe was of the thought that small doses of pain would brighten things up.

But that's a story for another night;

He ran a finger parallel to his path, nail occasionally catching in groves with a click or skewing momentarily off but always returning to his side like a faithful old dog. It was a game that played much better with wallpaper, where you could catch stray tails of material and soon enough strip the wall in long floral printed tendons, but the staff at Candel Heart had clearly played this one before and knew better than to cash out on a hundred new reams of wallpaper each week and instead, broke the rules, and opted for paint.

Spoil sports.

Cheaters.

Liars.

Prostitutes.

There was a circle in hell dedicated just to those sticks in the mud that wouldn't play along and ruined it for everyone else involved! Paint wasn't a pleasant substitute, no matter how peely, even if it did come off in satisfying flakes, like household sunburn, there was always that one bit that went straight for the sensitive flesh just beneath your nail and jammed fierce enough to draw blood!

Scrrrrrrrrrrrr-click—

“Ah! Crap!” The lanky figure flinched away from the wall as though it were made of electric, not brick, pocketing his injured digit between his lips and sucking on it sulkily, dark brow kissing in the middle of his face. For a few moments he could do little more than glare the wall down. 'A Mexican stand off. Marlowe vs Mortar. Fourty paces at sunrise and all that jazz. Ding ding!' a cheeky voice quipped from somewhere in the back of his head.
It should have been amusing, hell, in this place a broken arm could be considered 'amusing', but behind the mindless jokes he could feel a dam of anxiety creaking and straining, just waiting to blow and send them all to hell. 'All' meaning himself and his voices.
A irksome sensation of impending doom, that something really bad was about to happen, was creeping under his skin. The Fear Lurgy. He'd caught it!

Marlowe shifted his weight from foot to foot, unsure whether this sensation required dissecting and figuring out or was all bark and no bite, something best left alone.
Emotions made him restless. Frequently he paced the corridors weighed down by unwarranted sensations of unease and disturbance. It wasn't uncommon to see him padding barefooted along the linoleum tracing his fingers across the walls, eyes glazed over, lost in their own mental labyrinth.

What if it really WAS something?

He inhaled sharply, breath catching in his throat, suddenly overwhelmed by the need to check back in on his room, maybe hide under the bed a little and take stock of his few possessions. Devils take the bastard who touches his lime green lip balm!!

That was when 'HE' appeared.

The 'he' in question started off as little more than an excuse to abandon that train of thought to it's inevitable fiery crash. 'He' was a slight, soft kind of boy. All milky skin wrapped around a pair of doe-like, rabbit-in-the-headlight eyes and a whole lot of cute. Marlowe paused, hearing 'him' before seeing 'him'. It was in the corridor ahead, where his trail intersected another line up of doors and metal beds in a T shaped joint, someone else was wandering like a lost soul...

There was the uneasy stammer of footsteps at first, the murmured rustle of clothes.

Marlowe flinched. Too late to move now! If it was a nurse he'd be herded back or worse...

Relief flooded him as the off blue of a patients gown rounded the corner and into view.

The figure was gentle, but obviously masculine in a charming boyish way. Something was wrong with this kid (wasn't it always?) his long slender legs, moved with panicked speed, like bambi's first steps. Marlowe cocked his head, observing curiosily, fixing 'him' with his full attention now, fingers finding a few loose strands of hair to twirl. The cogs in his head whirr and click away.

Was that... no, it couldn't be... was that a faint whiff of 'horror' he'd picked up in the boys wide eyed expression? Oh now this was delicious!
What had caused this level of upset?
Perhaps his first session of electro-therapy had been announced? Maybe night terrors had broken into his waking hours? Or had the staff starte--

OH.

'He' had already worked his way down the corridor and out of view.
No fair! It wasn't like the world stopped for him, but Marl found himself surprised to lose him so quickly and only because of a momentary bout of daydreaming. He felt almost cheated, without this new kid here he'd have nothing to entertain him, but himself. Now, that wouldn't do!
That wouldn't do one bit!

Marlowe grinned like a cat, gave his surroundings a quick glance and followed eagerly and silently. No need to startle the fair maiden further!

Although the fair maidens destination startled Marlowe.
In fact, it downright chilled him to the bones.
Bambi legs squeezed through the heavy metal doors at the end of the corridor. They were ominous monsters of construction, even worse was what they had come to meant to all patients at Candel Heart Assylum. Weren't they supposed to be locked?

For a moment his mind reeled, the world spun, his stomach seized up with the promise of a dry retch.

Surely someone had thought to have locked them on the way out?!

No... no one was stupid enough or ballsy enough to wander into THAT room, there was no need to lock it, anyone dumb enough to slink that-a-way deserved the tender loving care of the furnace.

Still out in the cold corridor, very much alone now, Marlowes inky eyes widened, his knees knocked together as he checked over his shoulder almost expecting someone to be there, the oncoming sensation of dread kicking off a wave of paranoia. Who was he looking for exactly? Doctors? The devil? Billy May with another DAZZLING, innovative sales opportunity?

Screw that!

What was he scared of!?

He closed his eyes for a moment, swallowed, rolled his shoulders in their joints and started towards the door with a brass plaque. On it, in big gothic lettering, read the word 'MORGUE'.

[LANCE LOVE LIONE]

Thirty Minutes Earlier

Lance had a huge smile on his face as he headed down the corridor, back to his dorm room. Maybe it was strange to see him smiling given the circumstances. However, if you knew Mr. Lione you would realize that it wasn't really that odd. You see, Lance had the tendency to see the best in everything. He figured that he deserved his fate in the asylum. Candace had been right. He wasn't a man. He was a child, an immature and soft child. Candace deserved a real man; muscular, ambitious, mentally and physically strong. Lance just couldn't be that for her and if he couldn't please a girl like Candace he deserved to be thrown away in a place like Candel Heart. That was why it was so easy for him to accept where he was. Plus, he had Mimi. He couldn't complain if he had her.

Lance had left her on his bed while he went to the bathroom. She was sleeping and he had felt it would be selfish to wake her up just because he had to pee. Besides it was only for a moment. His head bounced happily from side to side as he came up to the door of his dorm. As he pushed the door open he called out," Mimi are you...." He stopped mid-sentence, standing in the middle of the open doorway. His brilliantly bright blue eyes grew wider every second, fear creeping into them. She was gone! He'd left her snuggled on his pillow, tucked under the blanket lovingly. However, the blanket was thrown aside messily. There was nothing on the pillow except the small dip where Mimi's head had been...and a note.

Dear Mr. Lione,
I've taken your stupid stuffed animal. Whatever shall you do? I suppose you'll have to go find her.
With much love,
Doctor Ricky

Lance had moved over to the bed and picked up the note, moving like a robotic man, like he was just going through the motions. As the note fell from his hand, fluttering back down to the bed. Time stopped. Motion stopped. Living...stopped. Everything stopped. It was like Mimi was the center of the universe and someone had just plucked it away. Now everything was on the verge of collapse. Everything lost it's color, it's meaning. It seemed like he stood there and starred at nothing for an eternity. His chest tightened, he couldn't breathe. What if that insane doctor hurt her? Worse. What if he killed her? Yes, to a sane person Mimi was a doll. To Lance she was a living being. His mother had bought her for him for his birthday when he was fifteen. She meant the world to him now that he had nothing.

He could hear her crying, calling for him. He had to find her. Suddenly time caught up with him, like someone hitting the play button on a remote. Lance spun around, eyes wide with fear, his heart hammering, chest tightening. He ran out the door, not bothering to close it behind him. Then he was a flurry of motion and activity, his mind racing. He was rushing down the corridor opening doors to dorms, looking everywhere he could think of. He searched corridors for twenty minutes. Every door he opened was a symbol of false hope and broken dreams. Every door he opened fed his panic like a swine being fed for market. The slaughter was sure to come.

Finally he opened what was probably his hundredth dorm door. Failure. Still no Mimi. He let out a feral scream; a sound the harnessed all of his frustration, his fear, his sorrow. He was like a mother whose child had just been abducted. Okay, breathe. You'll never find her like this. You've got to think. Where would this sick man take her? A voice asked in his mind. He looked around frantically, his mind racing, going over all of the angles of the question, all of the rooms in the asylum. The one room he could think of that might be a room Ricky would take her too was the morgue. It was a room that had everything that would terrify Lance. Ricky was probably hoping that Lance would be too scared to try that room.

He turned his body in the direction of the morgue. Normally, the very thought of the morgue would make Lance want to huddle in a corner of his dorm and curl into a fetal position. This, this was different though. Mimi's life was at stake here. Lance had an adrenaline rush at the very thought of poor Mimi in that cold, terrifying room. His eyes were still wide with fear, but his fear wasn't that he wouldn't be able to find her anymore. His fear now was that he'd find her too late. He moved so quickly that he was slightly clumsy. He noticed very little around him now that he had a goal in mind. In fact, he didn't even notice the handsome, blonde boy who was watching him as he rushed by him, toward the room in question.

As he walked in to the room ice cold fear rushed through his veins. "Mimi! Mimi, honey! Are you in here?" He yelled, trying not to look at the body bags waiting in their spots for their turn in the fiery furnace. Looking around Lance's nerves began to get the better of him. He needed to find Mimi and soon. He could feel a panic attack coming on. Then he heard a sound behind him and started at it. "Mimi?"

[MARLOWE SALTFISHER]

((OOC: I'm so sorry... the only problem with playing a crazy baby is that they can shoot off on tangents... and they gotta take you with them! >

Also, you may want this: www.youtube.com/watch?v=7auzYgVosJA&feature=related You'll see why ))



Weight took an ungodly toll on Marlowe who could bench press little more than a cheese triangle. Flat of his shoulder hauled against the square paneling of the door, he had to grind his heels into the linoleum to manage any budge at all.

Christ alive! That dolly boy had barreled through those double stoppers like a man on a mission, it was like witnessing one of those old ladies you always heard about, lifting cars to save their grandchildren, he hadn't so much as grunted! What kind of drugs were they feeding this one in those little plastic cups every morning? Maybe he was crunching down steroids with his cereal?
For a moment an image of the Lucky Charms leprechaun with a six pack, and the lil cocopops monkey ripped like a steam engine putting his dark haired quarry through his paces, whistles around their necks and all, rose like a bubble and surfaced in his brain with a dull pop and a giggle.

Was that out loud?

He was unsure.

That seemed to be the encouragement he needed.


The old door gave with a reluctant whine and a gasp of cool, stale air escaped through the gap. It was like the mewl of some long dead thing, sickly, sweet and strangely chemical, like the breath of an old wino, paint stripper brew left to sit ill in the fleshy pocket of his body overnight.

Fester, brother, fester. Fester with drunken incompetence!

Once upon a time, before things got all sober and crazy, Marlowe had done every other shift at a junk store West of his old town. The old fellah what done run it was a toothless dawg frawm so far down the deep fried sout' tha' he spoke wid all the twang o'a brok'n banjo strang.
This was a man with hands like a gnarled knob of tree and put them to the skilled task of many a proud hobby. Proud enough, in fact, that he'd have Marlowe (“Gerrouuttavit y'lil faggot 'n get yous back t'work!”) haul them to the front window, pride of place for the benefit of all the passersby in the street.
Sometimes they were working replicas of old cars, Jags and Bents and Cadillacs, sometimes they were watches, hand-carved wooden fronts flung open like clockwork flashers, most of the time it was taxidermy animals.
Foxes in tweed overcoats fixed into terminal snarls. Tiny dormice artfully arranged to sit around a miniature table, little fanned cards set into their dead paws, eyes gauged out and replaced with glass orbs, locked eternally in the perfect deadpan poker faces. One of these babies, two fat sidewinder snakes curled in a fierce embrace, had even been donated to Marlowe for a birthday present.

(“Happy sixtaynth, son. Mayd thes fer yous, goddayum shirt lifter like y'sel oughta 'preciate...”)

Hell... lonely, preachy old Mister Mooney was the closest to a father figure any human being had ever come to being in Marlowe's life and, Marlowe imagined, that he himself was the closest to a son Mister Mooney had ever had.

Old dog Mooney had always had a funny smell to him, something Marl often made quick cracks at, but it wasn't until he was called into the back office and shown the ropes that he truly figured out what dat unholy stank was.
Formaldehyde.
And on his open casket sending it was worse than it had ever been.

This room, this MORGUE, breathed that shit. It sweated it. It was a regular preservative sauna.

No sooner had that cool breeze hit him through the gap in the doorway and Marlowe was back in that rickety church on the sweltering summer hillside, all lanky six foot four of him casting a lean mean shadow on the coffin, dark cutting across a face he could scarcely recognize as his taxidermy mentor.
Yes.
The features were all there, sure, but nothing of the man he once knew, just a logical re-rendering by a half-arsed craftsman.
(“Quit gripang, boy! S'all jes meat 'n thread. See? Ain't sa bad. Would be better if ya jes held'a scalpel righ!”)
He found himself looking for seams, for tiny man-made changes beneath the skin.... Rows of empty little fold out seats his witness, hands stuffed into the pockets of his rental suit, he began seeking out the coroners handiwork!

Old dog Mooney didn't deserve this! Shit. Shitshitshitshit. THE SWINE! Not a derelict, John Doe goodbye on Formaldehyde Hill!

(“Ahaw! Y'ain't goin Hell cause ya'll can't sew skin. Naw...” he'd pause to take a drag from his cigarette, eyes like black beads glistening fondly in the evening light, “you'll be there cause ya suck coc--”)

“What did you baste him with!?” Marlowe had demanded.

Only the priest was there....

“Cooking oil!? It fucking reaks!?”

...and he couldn't do much to calm the young blonde,

“AND what the hell are these hymns? He never wanted ANYTHING happy! Be joyful in Gods presence? No, the God he loved was a vengeful old bastard! He'd want a song that says 'I got mine, you're next buddy!'” he'd howled, showing no signs of slowing,
“Is that a CD player?! Are you kidding me!? You're gonna have a disc sing a good soul it's sweet farewells? Oh, we can just tell you've never tasted the warmth of lips and the company of a real fucking song!”
Over went a pew, blessed water spraying out across the wooden flooring, disappearing into the gaps, almost hissing for the dry, tired heat, Marlowe sensed no one wanted to be there.
Especially not him.
He'd broken into a preachers claps and rounds of Johnny Cash until his voice went hoarse, “YOU CAN RUN ON FOR A LONG TIME, BUT SOONER OR LATER GOD'LL CUT YOU DOWN,”


****** ************ ********


“Mimi?”

The solidarity of the sound came as a shock and the shock ripped him clean from the sepia banks of Formaldehyde Hill altogether. Marlowe blinked feeling more than a little dazed. He spent the next few heartbeats trying to piece together the scene forming before his eyes. Tada! Magic!

The Morgue was a small, coolly lit room, tools of the trade (most of which Marlowe could name) sat scattered across stainless steel benches, left where they'd fallen. But, jesus christ, the back of the room... it was a metal, human fucking shoe rack and a bakers oven!!

Marlowes last meal turned uneasily in his stomach.

It was at this moment that his gaze first locked on Lances. For a heartbeat their eyes exchanged stories of fear and anxiety like businessmen exchanging cards or bikers swapping tall tales over the bar, two of a kind, birds of feather experiencing the first grind of friction trademark between any two personalities. Lances peepers were shockingly blue and electric with life, prickling with questions, like vortexes straight through to the earths crust via the oceans.

Those two syllables had been so sharp, so real they had an almost physical impact and it had downright winded him, how long he'd been just stood there... he just didn't know! What had he said?
Mimi?
That was a name wasn't it?

Relief flooded his system as he felt the asserting hand of SENSE returning.

The lanky boy started to snicker uneasily, like an old engine starting up. He wiped his palms down on the hem of his clothes, “No...” he slunk in, a swing in his hips like an ol' cowboy and shot the kid a wink. HE'D followed young blue eyes in, HE was in control. You can't be scared when you're the boss. Amen, “But for you I could be!”

Marlowe didn't wait for an answer.

He strode in, washing the walls down with a surveying glance, mentally retrieving his taxidermy tools, reveling in the stench of chemicals (and folk) long gone and much remembered.

You can run on for a long time. Run on for a long time. Run on for a long time. But sooner or later God'll cut you down,

Holy cow, he was channeling that gay-bashing old dog!!

These cold aisles were aching for the echoing click of boot heel, he concluded as he wandered over to the tables, the bodies, the dead folk. Did dead things scare him?
He stopped at the foot of a body bag, tracing the shapes of toes under the canvas with his head cocked.
No. It was the live one's you wanted to watch yo shit around...

A song rose in the back his throat.

“Go tell that long tongue liar, go 'n tell that midnight rider. Tell the rambler, the gambler, the back biter. Tell 'em that God's gonna cut chyoo down.”

[LANCE LOVE LIONE]

[atrb=style, width: 490px; height:367px; background-image:URL(http://i45.tinypic.com/w8xcg5.jpg);][atrb=border,0,true][scrolly:h(300),w(210),sy,] Lance stood blinking as a young blonde-haired man walked into the room. He had been hoping it was Ricky, despite the fact that he never wanted to see that man again. He just wanted Mimi back. He'd do anything to see that beautiful little kitten one more time. To know that she was okay. Nothing else mattered. Still, this man made him nervous. His right hand nervously traveled to his left arm, rubbing the skin there as his blue eyes traveled to the ground. It didn't take very long for Lance to realize that this male wasn't entirely there with him. He was quickly becoming used to that in this place. He felt so alone sometimes. Then all he had to do was look at Mimi and he knew he wasn't. He wasn't alone at all. Now she was gone though. And she was so scared. He could feel it, could hear her beautiful voice calling for him. She needed him, like no one had ever needed him. Before he had realized that she was there the whole time Lance had no purpose in his life. No purpose other than the plants and his photography. That hadn't really been a purpose though. There was nothing like being depended on by another living thing. Lance had to find her. She needed him. She needed him! No one else in the world needed him. He couldn't let him down. Lance looked at the boy as he spoke, blinking stupidly. He was something like a deer caught in headlights. What was that supposed to mean? This man was nothing like Mimi. He could never be Mimi. Not in a million years. Not even if his life, his very soul depended on becoming her. She was a goddess. The most perfect woman he had ever come across. No, the most perfect person he had ever met. No one could compare to her. I'm looking for a friend of mine. It's terribly important I find her... Lance replied. Normally, he would have recognized that the boy was possibly hitting on him and he would be blushing like a school girl at this point. However, with Mimi missing nothing made sense to him. Especially this strange blonde boy. Lance's eyes were still wide with fear. He looked around as if he thought she would turn up anywhere he looked. Suddenly, he dropped to the floor, on his hands and knees. This caused a slight pain in his hands and knees, causing the raven haired boy to wince. Quickly he was looking under the tables, crawling about only when absolutely necessary to achieve a better view of the room. He had to find her. He could feel his heart racing. Panic had it's evil hand on his throat once more. He could hear Candice's voice echoing in his mind. You're worthless, Lance. Real men don't play with stuffed toys. I need a real man. A real man. Those last three words bounced around in his mind. Suddenly, Lance stopped, sitting back on his heels. The linoleum was harshly cold against his bare legs. He found himself tugging on the hem of his hospital gown as the tears began rolling down his face. He couldn't help it. Lance had never been emotionally strong. It just wasn't in his nature. I have to find her... He spoke softly, as if whispering to a lover. That was something that many people noted about Lance; everything he did he did lovingly. It was like the whole world was his lover and he was devoted to it entirely. Still, the boy was a mess without his Mimi. He couldn't breath with out her. He felt himself gasping for air in between sobs, felt his hand grasp his neck gently. [/scrolly]

[MARLOWE SALTFISHER]

“I'm looking for a friend of mine. It's terribly important I find her...”

Well spoken.
Well spoken snapped straight to mind.... and something about pronunciation, but Long, Lank and Lippy was still a million miles away, lost in the land of the dead. Baby blue was on the back burner, something for the reachier recesses of his mind to chew on until he'd run the current process to it's conclusion.
It's terminal stop.
The end of the line.

That was the thing with bodies, wasn't it?

Marlowe mused pacing the racks at the rear of the room, still singing a lick of Johnny Cash to himself to himself. It was a bizarre, exotic cocktail of emotions. Nostalgia. Grief. Fear. Curiosity. Power. Self exploration. Cherry flavour. He'd be a fool not to drink it!

You were supposed to feel sympathy for them... or at least something.
Bodies.
Corpses.
Carcii.
Some internal, inborn, on board system that logged the visual of glazed eyes and cold, gammy flesh was supposed to aligned them with negative sensations. Grief seemed to be a common one or disappointment, perhaps resentment at some other working of nature for snuffing whichever poor lil fellah happening to be under scrutiny right out like a candle. Seeing the dead plunged some into the abysmal depths of madness, they'd paint the floor with the contents of their stomach, wobble a bit, roll their eyes like an amateur dramatic at a séance then drop to the floor, waking up to... well... what was now home sweet home for him these days, a comfy padded cell and a nurse to each ankle. He knew this. He'd seen it on TV.

But... ah...

Looking down at the off purple complexion of the soles of soulless feet, colours almost (but not quite) matched by the tags hung around their collective big toes, a cold plunge of reality hit him in a very unrealistic way, it made his head spin and his skin crawl, but beneath that Marlowe felt an odd kind of relief.
It wasn't so much a 'glad it's you and not me, buddy' as it was a grim and cool, '... and I'll bet you fucking deserved it too...'

Innocence wasn't a sound that rang clear and true in the boys head, his mental jury were a panel of cynically hardwired, toothless old bastards and itchy trigger fingers, naturally quick to condemn. And anyone truly good didn't deserve to be forced through the assault course of horrors we called 'society', they were better off going back to The Big Sleep, like before they were born or, if you were a Buddhist, coming back as a mushroom and the like. Cometh the good angel Euthanasia. Every body in that room felt like a bit of justice served well...

His pupils darted to the corner of his eyes under the rustle of moth-wing pale lashes, lips pulling tight.

Mostly.

… Well at least the ones that looked like they'd gone a little more.... naturally.

Marlowe didn't know whether this thinking unnerved him or whether he was that damn jaded that he just couldn't muster a rats ass of care any more. Was he a bad person? Probably, but understand there's nothing more that he could do, what would guilt achieve?

More complexes to add to his ever growing list.

He didn't like where this was going. The song snagged dryly in his throat getting caught and tangled, probably on that lump he suddenly couldn't seem to swallow. A Downswing loomed on the horizon of his consciousness like threatening rainclouds.

ABORT.

ABORT!!

A ruffled thud made him turn with a start only to see the kid on his hands and knees.

“Oh,” That!

Marlowe back stepped, watching with half-arsed amusement, arms folding across his chest, leaning his weight casually back against the--

HEUGH!

Body rack!

He flinched forwards again, only a mite disturbed, shot the rack an expression that couldn't decide if it wanted to be accusatory or apologetic, brushed the back of his gown down like a frigid virgin, shuddered a bit more and turned his attention back to the kid.
Who was now scrabbling under tables, you could see his shoulders tremble, hear his hands fumbling and smell nothing but fucking formaldehyde.

The distress was contagious.

Jesus! Maybe if that wasn't so distracting he could find... what was it...?

A friend?

Could he have possibly heard that right? In... this place?

Marlowe looked from the crumpled figure of dolly boy, a picture of utter life and helplessness to... well, the steel bench, the black bags, the white peeling paint on the ceiling, enough lines of toes to count to at least two-hundred...

Female forms suddenly seemed to leap at his eye from under their sheets... any one of them could have been her...

Sinister tension settled along the line of his shoulders like crows. C'mon buddy, this isn't a good place to be. Just flesh and Bone, Marlowe. That's all. Flesh bone and tools. Somewhere above them a ventilation fan rattled and hissed.

“I have to find her...” Dolly was curled in on himself now, those blue eyes bejeweled under tears, all full of air hiccups like a child told to stop crying.

Marlowe glanced desperately around, he didn't know if it was a trick of warped psychology, but in an instant he could've snapped his fingers in the direction of every ex-she, ex-mother, ex-missus in the room. The swell of bosom under the sheets was a dead giveaway, ahaw. It felt wrong for having even noticed. He dry swallowed.
Whatever had happened to them didn't matter anymore, he had to remind himself, there was something very real and very present happening to someone in here right now. No, a man in tears searching for a 'her' in the morgue....

This wasn't gonna end well for anyone any way you looked at it.

“Ah...” Marlowe grit his teeth, unable to settle on the spot, “shit...” he bit his lip and edged towards dolly, who was unaware of how close he sat to furnace. It was the first time Marlowe had paid the thing any real expense of attention, but it loomed, an unavoidable hulk, a terrible totem at the end of the room, impossible to ignore. The kids at his old town would have given their fingers to gather around and peer inside...

Even switched off and dormant the massive thing had a gravity, a thick, heavy weight, like the front grating of an old train, the black, sooty wheels of a massive truck...

He eyed it anxiously as he crept over, almost silently asking it's permission to move, this deathly deity locked onto the back wall. Now there was a nightmare waiting to happen...

“Hey, hullo?” he tore his gaze from the furnace (how could it be called that!? 'Furnace' was a nice little creature old people kept caged in their living rooms, a small pet that crackled softly, ate wood and shat warmth! This was its big bad brother, come to get Marlowe back for all the times he'd gleefully prodded baby brother with sharp pokers and listened to it squeak! I'll never do it again mistur! I SWEARS it! Cross my heart!)and reached for the boy, fingertips gingerly brushing the top of his hair. Open a line of communication. It had sounded SO simple in his head.

“Pssst!” Marlowe hunkered down to his level, knees aching with the sudden yowling urge to bolt, one hand planted on the stone keeping balance in check, the other going to brush the kids bare arm, “W-what's your name, son?”

[LANCE LOVE LIONE]

[atrb=style, width: 490px; height:367px; background-image:URL(http://i45.tinypic.com/w8xcg5.jpg);][atrb=border,0,true][scrolly:h(300),w(210),sy,] The tears crawled down Lance's face, like snowflakes in winter, melting against his warmth. Like caterpillars marching with determination over a leaf. He felt hopeless. You'll never find her! He could hear that awful doctor in his head, his voice bouncing around his skull painfully. Lance didn't truly see anything around him. The dead bodies might as well have been fuzzy kittens and the deadly, evil furnace could have been the kittens' cuddly mother. If he thought about that furnace he would have to come to the realization that she could easily be there, burnt to a crisp, turned to ashes. Killed. The word reverberated in his mind, like a tuning fork. Lance didn't even hear the blonde boy as he spoke to him. Normally, he would be backing away right about then. Terrified that this stranger was going to try to hurt him or simply touch him. It wasn't until he felt the boys fingers brush his raven-colored hair that Lance actually jumped. He may have even made a whimpering sound. He wasn't actually sure if that had come from him or not. The boy turned his head up so that his wide, frightened electric blue eyes were staring up at the blonde boy who was so very close to him. Lance's eyes followed the boy as he lowered himself to eye level. My name? He asked in a sheepish, small voice. For a moment he blinked at the blonde. Why did his name matter? Mimi was missing and this man cared about names? What kind of world was this when a kitten could be missing and all that mattered to people was names! My name doesn't matter, sir. It's Lance, but that doesn't matter! Don't you understand? She's missing! It's Mimi that matters, sir! Lance's lower lip quivered as he spoke those last two sentences. As the time inched on, every second passing like clouds moving in the sky, Lance's panic grew. He had to find her, had to hold her again. Had to make sure she was okay. She had to be okay. The furnace crackled behind him. It was like it was speaking to him. Calling him over to it. No, no, no, no, no! He couldn't look at it, couldn't think about it. Instead he turned his attention to the boy in front of him.Have you seen her? She's about this big. She's black and you can see her bones. She's really pretty. And super cuddly. She's stuffed just right, with big pretty eyes. Have you seen her? Lance asked frantically, eyes dancing around as if Mimi would turn up at any moment. [/scrolly]