“Why the Satanic stuff? Were you born into the religion? Or did you take it up on your own?”
These are all questions Sinn'ous is not going to answer. Not truthfully anyway.
Hovering between the bunks, bowl of rice mixed with vegetable chunks, in hand. And three more pills to be given. He mulls over his options, and what information he can and can’t share. Too much truth will drive Izz away, not enough truth will make tracking the lies harder on his end to do. A shallow skimming of facts should tide over Izz’s curiosity.
He can’t exactly explain how his father took him and raised him in a home brimmed by Satan. How he grew up to the prayers of the Satanic culture. Or the things his father had shown him, the places they had gone, sacrifices Sinn'ous had witnessed before he even learnt his times tables.
All that he had seen had opened his eyes to who runs the world. Nothing and no one—sentient being or deity—out shines the one and only. Satan is and always will be the ruler of all. And Sinn'ous will always be his devoted follower.
Forgive me Satan, but I need to lie to pull this boy into my possession and keep him there. If I tell this naive creature that I worship you he will run, and I can’t have him running.
“Something I picked up as a teen. It was easy for me to relate to,” Sinn'ous half explains, taking a seat on the edge of the bunk by Izz’s horizontal body. Passing over the food and pills.
Those blood results better come back soon. He needs answers on Izz’s health.
“Do you sacrifice virgins?” Izz picks through the rice with the slim spoon, running an inspection on each vegetable he digs out.
“You watch too many movies, Beautiful,” He can’t fight the desire, so he doesn’t, slipping his fingers into the boy’s hair, stroking the soft tangles. And allows a soft chuckle from his chest, to soothe Izz. “A misconception. Satanism isn’t based on sacrifices and deaths. It’s being true to yourself and not apologising for it. You can be a nature lover and a Satanist. I, on the other hand, use it for the former. I’m true to myself and who I am. I will never apologise for what I’ve done. Or will do.”
One day, once the boy is tightly fixed in Sinn'ous’s web, he will divulge who and what he is. And who and what Satan is. A worthy deity to follow and worship.
Sinn'ous clicks his tongue lightly in thought, he can divulge some of what it is to be a Satanist. The watered down version. “You could be a carer for your family and a Satanist. If it’s true to who you want to be. You don’t have to get on your knees and pray to Satan.”
But you will. I will make sure of it.
“So you don’t believe in Satan?”
Even after he apologised to Satan and explained his intentions, he still can not bring himself to utter the lie the boy needs to hear. Instead, he changes the topic.
He tilts his head, scanning over Izz’s features, “Jasper Marcelo. Yet you go by Izz, why is that.”
It’s not a question, it’s a distraction, and one that Izz will answer. Everyone always does, they always give Sinn'ous what he wants so why would he phrase things as a question when they are a command to respond, one which will be obeyed.
He sits by and listens to Izz’s story of a sick sister who lost her ability to speak when cancer attacked her brain and affected her speech. The nickname creation, and all the little details in between. All the while his mind locks away each emotion Izz expresses and any weaknesses he shows. Placing them into a filing system to be brought out later when he needs fuel to manipulate the reactions he wants from the boy.
He studies the wall across the cell, trying to will his memories to play there for him to see. Nothing comes of it, he still cannot remember what it had been like to live with his biological parents. And he straight up refuses to think back to the beginning days of his impromptu adoption. His later teen years are as far back as he allows memories to circle.
Half his focus is on keeping his mind blank of anything he locked away.
Izz’s story is a heartfelt one. For anyone else it would bring tears to the eyes. For him it’s more an information gathering. Nothing emotional about it.
It’s why it takes him several extended seconds to click to Izz having paused in his retelling. His mind trickling back in, carrying with it his own take on family bonding experiences.
“I never had any siblings so I can’t relate. Nor do I feel anything for others.” Not feeling empathy for others may have been who he was born to be, or a product of his upbringing. He will never definitively know for sure.
He withheld the topic of Zayne from the boy, it’s not something that can be discussed without going into detail as to how Zayne came to be in their lives, and why his father kept Zayne around once he dropped into their laps.
And it’s not as if he can share their family bonding, when it was done over knives, blood, tortured sacrifices, and death.
He trains his attention back onto Izz, connecting their eyes. “I can understand how you mean. What would be there. The love you share with her.”
Not truly, but Izz needn’t know. And in a way he might be able to say he has loved. He knows he holds Zayne in a way that differs from how he sees others. And he definitely holds Izz in a different light. Something even stronger than how he views Zayne.
“You really don’t feel love for anyone?”
“No. Not in the way I’ve seen others.” He twists to whole bodily face Izz, giving the green-eyed boy his open chest, showing in his actions how he is honest and trustworthy. No closed off arms crossed, his demeanour is a hundred percent open. Even when his mouth controls speech aimed to lull Izz into a sense of security. And to do this he will need to offer a few shallow explanations. Just enough information to offer a nibble to satisfy any curiosity. “I . . . enjoy things, maybe you could call it love but not in the way most people do.”
“So what do you feel for me?”
