Will it become kinder? Is there a drop of kindness in the heart of darkness?
He must not be left alone. It is a luxury he cannot afford. Not when he has a curse locked inside him that wants to kill everyone left and right. To stay within the same walls with him, to let his guard down and the words flow uncontrollably into his ears. He has one goal, to break free from his shackles, to spill scarlet blood. This great craving for cruelty manifests itself not only in words but also in actions day and night, only to break his will, to make him collapse without strength. He has no rest or sleeps with him. Each time, instead of rest, he spends time in the demon's domain, into which he is drawn from the sweet embrace of dreams. There is no life there, only dark, black blood up to his ankles. He sits there, on a makeshift throne that stands on a mountain of skulls. His violet eyes are always so bloodshot, and mad, there is nothing human in them. The King of Curses has long since ceased to be human, but Tom does not mind that: a predatory smile spreads across his face. He has the shaman like an open palm; there is no help or salvation here. His heartbeat, his reactions, there's nothing Curses doesn't know about. They have one body for two, one face that throws everyone into genuine terror. But while behind the Curses is a string of souls murdered, killed by fear, behind Harry are people full of life, drawn to him magnetically, surrounding him, smitten by his captivating smile. And that is a mistake. A big, stupid mistake that the demon is happy to exploit.
Why deny yourself when the victim goes to death himself? So sweet is their death agony.
So much lost, so much killed, and all because he loses control of it — the shaman can't forgive himself for that, he can't, it's his fault for swallowing that ill-fated finger. He wished he had the strength to save, to be hailed as a hero to the world because he promised his mother and father before they died, how foolish his dreams were. Curses laughs at him, at his grief, revel in it, he knows no compassion or pity for his vessel. He loves pain, he is turned on by tears, and there is nothing more delicious than torment. He torments him, tortures him, and breaks him like a doll in his hands. It kills him time after time that Harry always wakes up in a cold sweat. Broken, and tired, and there are choking marks on his neck with his clawed fingers. Though he cannot die within the cursed spirit's territory, that pain is real, and the rolling drops of blood are not the fiction of an inflamed mind. In such moments of weakness, Tom never misses a chance to take control of his limbs when he is still so inattentive. His mouth appears on his palm, and with his long, tattooed tongue he licks up drops of blood, bursting with laughter as the vessel slaps itself against his skin, but he manages to disappear before the blow. It irritates him so much to hear both in his thoughts and in reality this voice, this whisper which is an undisguised mockery. Not once since that fateful day has he been alone, mentally or physically. He always feels its presence and knows what is coming because of it.
And there is no escape from fate, no escape. It is like falling into an endless abyss.
Is there a way out of this situation? Where is the end of this endless theater, in which the smile and laughter — the mask, so firmly glued to his face, that it has fused with him, became one whole, and his friends — only blurred in the background silhouettes, which, no matter how hard to help, remain powerless against the universal contempt and hatred that has fallen on him? No one sees him as an ordinary man, but as a monster that sits within him, biding its time. With each fingers devoured, the shaman sinks deeper into the abyss, realizing more intuitively than seeing the wall of misunderstanding between him and his named brother and his named sister, and the most important reason is Tom, who shields him from the world. Harry does not know what drives him, does not understand, peering from time to time into the violet eyes beneath his own, but a hunch flashed somewhere on the bottom makes him stunned one day, to wonder what is the reason for such an act? A possessiveness whose roots have blossomed at the heart? Does such a monster have a heart?
Is it dangerous to make friends with an enemy? Is it dangerous to want to understand him?