—
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the charred remains of La Gueule de Saturne. Rody’s hands trembled as he stared at the smoldering ruins, the memory of Vincent’s final moments replaying in his mind like a broken record. The scent of burning wood and flesh still clung to his clothes, mingling with the metallic tang of blood that lingered on his hands-Vincent’s blood.
The broken wine bottle had been heavy in Rody’s hand, its jagged edge glittering in the dim light of the bistro’s kitchen. Vincent’s eyes had widened, a fleeting moment of shock before Rody drove the bottle into his neck, twisting it with all the strength he could muster. Blood had sprayed, warm and viscous, staining Rody’s hands and clothes as Vincent gasped, choking on the very air he struggled to breathe.
Even as the life drained from Vincent’s eyes, there had been no screams, no desperate pleas for mercy. Vincent had simply looked at Rody, his lips curling into a faint smile, as though he had been expecting this all along. And then, with a final exhale, he had collapsed to the floor, the flames beginning to lick at the edges of the room as Rody struck a match and let the fire consume everything.
That should have been the end. But as Rody turned away from the ruins, his stomach churned with a nauseating sense of unfinished business. He had killed Vincent, burned the bistro to the ground-so why did it feel like something was still haunting him?
—
Days passed in a blur. Rody returned to the monotony of everyday life, yet nothing felt the same. He should have felt relieved, even vindicated, but instead, a heavy sense of unease hung over him, refusing to dissipate.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Vincent’s face-his expression as the bottle pierced his neck, the way his eyes had locked onto Rody’s with an intensity that made his heart pound even now. Rody would jolt awake in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, his heart racing as if he were still in that kitchen, the flames at his back.
Sleep became an enemy. The nights stretched long and endless, each one more oppressive than the last. He could hear things in the darkness-soft whispers that made his skin crawl, the creak of footsteps where there should have been silence. Sometimes, when he turned off the lights, he could swear he saw a shadow in the corner of his room, a familiar silhouette that made his breath catch in his throat.
But whenever he flicked the switch back on, the room was empty.
Rody tried to dismiss it as paranoia, a lingering effect of the trauma. But the sense of being watched, of not being alone, only grew stronger with each passing day. It was as if Vincent’s presence had seeped into his very soul, refusing to let go, even in death.
—
A week later, Rody found himself standing at the bistro’s ruins again. The fire had gutted everything, leaving only charred beams and the blackened outline of what had once been La Gueule de Saturne. The air was thick with the stench of burnt wood and the faintest hint of something more acrid-something that turned Rody’s stomach.
He stepped over the crumbling threshold, his boots crunching against the debris. The inside was almost unrecognizable, the elegant dining room reduced to a husk of its former self. The kitchen, where Vincent had met his end, was little more than a scorched skeleton.
Rody’s eyes were drawn to the spot where Vincent had fallen. The floor was cracked and broken, the tiles stained with soot and something darker, something that had seeped deep into the earth beneath. He could still see it in his mind’s eye-the way Vincent had collapsed, blood pooling around him as the flames had crept closer.
“I did this,” Rody whispered to himself, his voice hollow. He should have felt triumphant. He had escaped Vincent, survived his madness. But instead, all he felt was a gnawing emptiness.
He turned to leave, but a sudden chill swept through the air, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Rody paused, glancing over his shoulder. The ruins were still, the only sound the distant hum of the city beyond. And yet, there was a feeling-a presence, heavy and suffocating, that seemed to wrap around him like a shroud.
“Rody…”
The voice was barely a whisper, so faint it could have been the wind. But Rody knew better. He had heard that voice countless times before, in his nightmares, in the silence of his apartment.
“Rody…”
He turned fully, his heart pounding in his chest. The room was empty, the shadows deep and impenetrable. But the voice-Vincent’s voice-was unmistakable.
“You can’t be here,” Rody muttered, his voice shaking. “You’re dead.”
“Am I?”
Rody stumbled back, his breath catching in his throat. He could feel it now, that cold, familiar presence closing in on him, pressing down like a weight on his chest.
“You think you can just walk away?” Vincent’s voice was calm, almost amused. “You think you can kill me and be free?”
Rody shook his head, backing away from the spot where Vincent had died. “You’re not real… This isn’t real…”
“Isn’t it?” The shadows seemed to shift around him, coalescing into a shape-a figure that stood just on the edge of his vision, blurred and indistinct. “You can’t escape me, Rody. You never could.”
“No… No!” Rody spun around and ran, stumbling over the debris as he fled the ruins, Vincent’s laughter echoing in his ears. He didn’t stop until he was outside, the cool night air filling his lungs, but even then, the sensation of being watched, of Vincent’s presence, clung to him like a second skin.
—
The days that followed were worse. Rody tried to drown himself in routine, to lose himself in the mundane, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Vincent was still there, lurking just out of sight.
He would see glimpses of him in the reflections of windows, a flash of black hair or the ghostly outline of a figure in the corner of his eye. And always, there was the voice-soft, insidious, worming its way into his thoughts, whispering things Rody didn’t want to hear.
“Rody… Why did you kill me, Rody?”
“Did you think you could escape me?”
“You can’t hide from me. I’m always with you.”
Rody’s nights were plagued by nightmares-visions of Vincent, his face twisted with that same mocking smile, his eyes burning with a fire that hadn’t died with him. And every morning, Rody would wake up, drenched in sweat, his heart pounding as if he had just run a marathon.
He tried to ignore it, to convince himself that it was all in his head, but the signs kept coming. A faint scent of lemons-Vincent’s favorite-lingered in his apartment despite no fruit being present. Items in his kitchen began to move on their own; knives and plates that he swore he had left in one spot would be found elsewhere, sometimes balanced precariously on the edge of a counter, as if ready to fall.
Once, in the dead of night, he heard a soft hum coming from the kitchen. It was a tune Vincent used to hum while preparing his dishes. When Rody gathered the courage to investigate, the room was empty, save for a single lemon rolling off the counter and hitting the floor with a soft thud.
As the days turned to weeks, Rody’s resolve began to crumble. He became reclusive, avoiding people, avoiding the places where Vincent’s presence felt strongest. The weight of guilt bore down on him like a physical burden, and he found himself questioning his sanity. Vincent’s voice was everywhere now, no longer just a whisper in the dark but a constant companion in his waking hours.
“You can’t get rid of me, Rody,” Vincent’s voice would say, sometimes teasing, sometimes darkly serious. “I’m part of you now. You made sure of that.”
One night, as Rody sat in the darkened living room, staring blankly at the wall, the presence became too much to bear. The air grew heavy, almost oppressive, and he could feel Vincent there with him, so close it was as if he could reach out and touch him.
“You wanted this,” Vincent’s voice was a low murmur, soft yet accusing. “You wanted me gone, but you couldn’t let me go. You couldn’t resist coming back to see what you had done.”
Rody clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. “I had to stop you, Vincent. I had no choice.”
“And now look at you,” Vincent’s voice was so close, so real. “You’re just as trapped as I was.”
Rody shook his head, tears welling in his eyes. “Please, Vincent… just leave me alone.”
But Vincent only laughed, a dark, haunting sound that sent chills down Rody’s spine. “You can never be alone, Rody. I’ll always be with you. In your thoughts, in your dreams… You’ll never escape me.”
Rody’s vision blurred as he pressed his hands to his ears, trying to block out the voice, but it was useless. Vincent’s presence was all-encompassing, permeating every corner of Rody’s mind, every breath he took. The room felt colder, darker, as if Vincent were standing right beside him, his icy breath on Rody’s neck.
“You never understood, did you?” Vincent’s voice softened, almost tender. “I didn’t just want control, Rody. I wanted you. All of you. And now, even in death, you’re mine.”
Rody shivered, tears slipping down his cheeks as he shook his head in denial. But deep down, he knew the truth. Vincent’s obsession had transcended the boundaries of life and death, binding them together in a twisted, unbreakable bond.
“Why?” Rody whispered, his voice broken. “Why can’t you just let me go?”
“Because I can’t,” Vincent replied, the sadness in his tone palpable. “I can’t leave you, Rody. I don’t want to. You’re the only thing that ever mattered to me. The only thing that made me feel alive, even when I couldn’t taste, couldn’t feel anything else. I needed you then, and I need you now.”
Rody’s heart twisted painfully in his chest. This was never about revenge. It was never about haunting him for the sake of torment. It was about Vincent’s obsession, his twisted need to be close to Rody, to possess him even beyond the grave.
The weight of it was suffocating, the realization crashing down on Rody like a tidal wave. He wasn’t being haunted by the man he had killed-he was being haunted by the love, the twisted, dark love that had driven Vincent to do the things he did. And in some sick, perverse way, Rody had known it all along. That’s why he kept hearing the voice, seeing the shadows, feeling Vincent’s presence everywhere. Because he couldn’t let go either.
“Rody…” Vincent’s voice was a whisper now, filled with an aching longing. “You feel it too, don’t you? That connection… That pull. You can’t deny it.”
Rody didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The truth was too painful, too terrifying to acknowledge. But it was there, buried deep in the recesses of his mind, in the corners of his heart he had tried so hard to ignore. He could never truly escape Vincent-not because of guilt or fear, but because some part of him still held on to the connection they had shared, as twisted and destructive as it had been.
Vincent’s presence seemed to shift, becoming almost gentle, as if sensing Rody’s surrender. “It’s okay, Rody. You don’t have to fight it anymore. I’m here… I’ll always be here.”
Rody let out a shaky breath, his hands falling limply to his sides. He was exhausted-tired of fighting, tired of running from the ghosts of his past. He closed his eyes, letting the darkness wash over him, letting Vincent’s voice, his presence, fill the void inside him.
Maybe this was how it was meant to be. Maybe this was his punishment, or maybe it was just fate. Whatever it was, Rody was too tired to resist it any longer.
And as he sat there, in the darkened room, with Vincent’s presence wrapped around him like a shroud, he finally let go of the last vestiges of his resistance. Because in the end, it wasn’t about escaping Vincent’s ghost-it was about accepting that he would never truly be free of him.
Vincent’s voice whispered softly in his ear, a final, tender caress. “We’re together now, Rody. Forever.”
And for the first time in weeks, Rody didn’t fight the tears that fell from his eyes. He just sat there, in the darkness, and let them come, as the shadows closed in around him and the last remnants of the man he had once been slipped away into the night.
—
End
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