No one would know.
Miguel thinks about marrow and muscle and red.
No one would know.
Lyla springs to life on his shoulders. Her legs folded like one of the many therapists he had seen once. She titters at his body sprawled on the ground, blood leaking from the hole in his head. Except it's not really him, he is still alive and well, hunched over the cooling corpse of one of his many selves.
No one would know, Miguel needs to hide the body anyway if his plans are to move smoothly. It would be more efficient this way, no evidence…no waste. Lyla hums.
No one will know, Miguel will live, albeit slightly different but still nonetheless him.
No one would care, Miguel would still be there- technically- physically he will walk home and spare those within the heartbreak of grieving after a loved one. No one would care, Miguel is replaceable, the universe confirms this.
No one would care, those that could, that would, aren't present, they do not look their corpse in the eyes with apathy as it is gunned down from behind. Miguel licks his lips, his tongue catching on fangs hidden between molars, he watches the blood ooze, thick and congealing on the grey asphalt. His mind is abuzz, the street is silent.
No one would know, there's two of him where there only needs to be one, he thinks of taut muscles relaxing, of joints locking, of viscera and veins. His mouth waters and Lyla snickers, her hands raised in faux surrender at a glare sent her way.
No one would know. His hand reaches tentatively, swabbing the scarlet pool underneath, the finger is raised to his mouth. A steady beat of silence passes, besides him Lyla watches, her yellow static illuminating the scene before them. The yellow bathes his face, the finger, the red now orange. His tongue laps the copper and his mind explodes.
It's tangy and metallic, salty, sweet, euphoric. He hums appreciatively, the finger firmly in his mouth now. His eyes lowered to the cold carcass before him. His lips are tinged blue, and Miguel imagines them between his teeth. He wonders if blood will spill if the texture is like jerky - his stomach rumbles and Miguel is on his knees, straddling the cold body of himself. Glassy eyes stare back at him, jaw slacked. Cold. Dead.
Miguel inhales deeply, ferrous burning through his lungs. He starts with the face, Lyla sends a snide comment his way, something about pretty boys and looks, he doesn't hear her though. His heart thunders in his ears as his fingers dig into his sockets, there's a sickening squelch as the eyeball pops out of place. It rolls in his palm, bits of blood and tissue trailing behind. Miguel takes a shaky breath, softy squeezing the eye, he brings it to his lips, mouth slightly agape. It gives some resistance between his molars, he grinds it, savouring the meaty taste. He bites hard, and it bursts open, the cornea crunching in his mouth. He groans at the taste that fills his mouth, the creamy ooze of liquid slithers down his throat and Miguel is alight. Lyla watches, unusually silent.
After that it becomes a blur, skin gives way to muscles and tendons, then bone and cartilage. Until Miguel is sucking at bone marrow below a disfigured husk that once wore his face, his face is bathed in red that he languidly laps at, a soft rumble of content in his chest. Lyla whistles, breaking him out of his serene state. He stares at the former him. Now reduce to it. The body will be just a passing horror talked about on the local 10 p.m. news. He's eaten himself and been renewed for it. He knows there's no reason to give it some metaphorical reasoning, no point in evading the non-existent guilt he feels. It's him, himself and Lyla in the street. All of them are aware of the monster that is Miguel O'Hara.
No one knows.
No one cares.