2 AM

"You smell like 2 a.m," You had told him as you took him back to your room. Where all the saints adorned the walls. He knew he should have left, that this could only turn cold. You were a bad person. So he told you so. He said, "No touching tonight"

The walls were thin. Mythological characters and art took the space and morphed it into a place of constant judgement and slinking around. Lingering thoughts of clarity that you can't put to words. Passion dances it's usual dance but in D minor.

He closed his eye in your trust and said, "Tuck me in" He knew his judgment was sound. Still you pulled back the sheets and said, "You better lie down, 'cause the angels are watching" **He peered open his eye and said, "Quit the talking. You can hurt me, do whatever you like."

The language of pain is no stranger to Matthias, like a barmaid's alcohol or a composer's music, it's a fix for the puppeteer. To remind him that he is in fact human, he can die whenever he like. He can get sick. Even hurt. The thoughts of judgment and criticism from your private affairs added to satiate his fix.

He said, "Tell me what to do." You knew right then he was done. Feeling lonely and confused. So you said, "Shut your mouth, boy, the angels are listening. You crossed yourself, now, the moments are missing."

Matthias loathed being reminded of the beings he would never walk among, his own selfishness blinded him. Now he was doomed to this eternal purgatory. Was he already dead?

Glancing through the curtains. Questions on his tongue. He spoke in third person. Awkward and embittered. He said, "I'll Shut the door when I go." Perhaps you should have stepped in.

Matthias didn't move, he was still waiting heedless for the rough treatment you seemed to refuse to give him in any way. The humiliation of the puppets his brain gave life only went so far. He needed the scars. He needed to be reminded he was alive, that he was a monster. "You can hurt me, do whatever you like." He reminded you.