My hand finds her computer history on its own with no pushing from me, and she isn't reading anything about my many crimes.
She's scrolling through who I used to be.
Researching Balor. Reading old articles. The ones that speak highly of me.
And the pictures.
She's spent all her free time since I left her house scrolling through pictures of me.
I mean, yes, there's a Google search about a security system.
But only one.
And she didn't even get to the point where she thought about ordering one. She googled and quickly abandoned that mission to search for me again.
What is she looking for?
Anything she needs to know, I would be happy to tell her.
Well, anything I remember.
A twisted, delirious pleasure fills my stomach, washing away any shame or guilt I might feel about invading her privacy.
She's doing the same thing, at the level she's capable of, anyway. She's searching for me, craving this same knowing that I have of her.
But she's an upstanding member of society, so she'll keep to searching on her side of the law.
Regardless of the way we met, there was something between us, and she's looking for more of it just as desperately as I am.
She just doesn't have the resources to find what she's craving. But I do.
As she scrolls through her previous searches, I find myself lost in the way she scours the internet for glimpses of me.
Cormac Fomori.
Cormac Fomori pictures.
Cormac Fomori images.
Bás Dorcha images.
Bás Dorcha.
Bás Dorcha tattoos.
That last one leaves me curious as well.
There are at least a dozen articles about the supposed origins of my tattoos that the public has seen.
The medusa on my hand, some see as a manifestation of my monstrous side, others believe has a deeper meaning, one that they use as justification for mycrimes.
The tattoo on my neck brings more criticism than even my worst murders.
The media's vapid obsession with my namesake tattoo plagues me, yet asks many of the same questions I've wondered about myself.
What came first? The murders or the tattoo?
Touching the art on my skin in question, the first time I've dared to really do so without flinching away from the evidence of my past, the skin feels smooth, a well-done, perfectly healed piece.
