Father's Day

[Heathcliff Staley]

Part I: Blood

An oversized, purple plushie falls into a puddle.

"Sir, you can't go in there."

Its face covered in mud, the dragon's smile remains.

"SIR! YOU CAN'T GO IN THERE!"

It mocks him. It mocks all life. That disgusting smile.

"SIR!!! YOU CAN'T- SOMEBODY STOP HIM!"

Yellow ribbons creak and snap. It cannot stop him.

An arm holds his. The Beast is angry, confused, but it is small tonight, right now. So small beside The Man it is afraid to rattle its cage. Afraid of The Man.

"Sir, this is an active-"

The arm cannot stop him. It is shrugged aside. Words cannot move him. They are ignored. An open door welcomes him, invites him inside.

The smell...The Beast knows that smell. The Beast is that smell. It looks up at The Man, and it is still very, very afraid.

"Jesus, Charles, somebody get him out-"

This place is familiar. Very familiar. Home, once. There was a hope, once, that it could be again.

Never again. It will never be his Home again.

The Man uses The Beast's nose. It leads him to the living room. What a terrible name. What a disgusting name for this room. What an awful, mocking name.

A pretty woman. A pretty girl. They sit on the couch, facing the hall from which he enters. Waiting for him. Looking at him. Judging him. Their necks are bruised. A gold chain hangs from the woman's. A card in the daughter's hands. He reaches for it, takes it.

"SIR! YOU CAN'T TOUCH THAT! Sweet Jesus, it's like talking to a-"

To a Dead Man. Yes, it is. But this is no Man. This is The Fool. A late Fool. A terrible Fool. A mocked, disgusting Fool. A fallen Fool, slumped against the wall.

"Come on, sir. Give it-"

A drawing in pastel crayons. A smiling, simple man with wings, carrying a girl on his shoulders. You're My Angel, Daddy. He lets it go with a whimper.

"There you go. Now, tell us your name. Who are you?"

Name?

A finger points. "My wife." It moves. "My daughter." The words are agony, piercing his throat like glass on their way out. "My name is Heathcliff."

No tears. Blood will fall later.

[Heathcliff Staley]

Part II: The Mirror

There are questions. So many questions. Heathcliff answers them for the detectives. In short order, his alibi is established. Dozens could vouch for him this evening as, fortunately, he had been at a fund-raiser earlier. He is left alone. Alone in the room with the one way mirror. Alone with his own questions. They are not really questions. They are just names.

Arnoud? Dwight?

That mirror. Heathcliff hurts looking at it. Hurts in a way beyond aching.

Arnold? O-Yama?

He watches himself in the mirror, willing himself to be seen.

Dirge? Michael?

And in so willing, he sees himself. And he hates what he sees.

Asa?

It hurts. His Blood is on fire, screaming at him for what it needs.

Ciara? Victoria? Did they find out?

It hurts, like an addict hurts. It is a hurt born of need.

His Sire? Mac?

Oh, God. He sees himself in the mirror. He knows, Lord, he knows. He knows who is responsible for the death of his wife and child. He sees, he knows, he hates. He needs. He walks to the mirror, looks into it. He cannot help himself. He touches the mirror, studying their murderer. He was too late. Too soft. Too trusting. Too stupid. This was the only way it could have ended. He did not do the deed, but he was responsible, nonetheless. Their lives were on his head. Oh, God, how he needs. He cannot help himself.

Glass shatters behind his fist. Ooooh, the pain. Its not enough. Not nearly enough. He takes a shard and slashes it across his wrist. It will not kill him. He just needs the release. His Blood needs it, to run free from his dead veins.

[Heathcliff Staley]

Part III: Fractured

Amber Hills. That's where they take their suicide risks. If only. If only Heathcliff could die this easily. If only he could die, and go to them. If he could be with them. Why was he here, alone?

His stunt in Interrogation. It wasn't for fun. The Haunt's blessed blood demanded it. He could no more refuse it then you could an elephant in your kitchen. It took what it wanted, and left a mess.

He was in a cell. At least there were no windows. People were talking about him; recognized him. He didn't care. The only people he cared about were not here. Would never be here. He had failed them.

A friendly face appears outside his door, through the window. Heathcliff knows that face. That face shouldn't be here. How was that face here? It walks through the door. He cannot tell what the face is feeling, what it is thinking, but somehow, he knows it is laughing at him.

"Mister Staley," it says, bowing its head.

"Seneschal Staley," he corrects.

"Of course, forgive me, Seneschal. You summoned me?" it rasps.

"I did?" He clears his throat. "Oh. Of course. Of course I did."

"Of course you did. I knew you would."

"You are loyal, are you not? Have we not helped each other? Are we not friends, Doctor?"

"I am, we have, we are. I am at your service."

"I...we...my..." it starts, but cannot finish any of these statements. Heathcliff sighs. "Why the mask?" he asks, exasperated.

"What mask?" He laughs. Heathcliff laughs. They laugh together.

[Heathcliff Staley]

Part IV: All Things Made New

You won't hurt yourself, will you, Mister Staley? No. You will take the medication, won't you, Mister Staley? Yes. You'll call someone if you need, won't you? Yes. They released him.

He calls a cab. It will be dawn soon. Time enough to get home. Time enough to feed. Heathcliff is hungry. Hungry like he hasn't been since he was Embraced. The blood nourishes him, but it cannot heal this wound. He barely manages to pull himself off the driver before the man dies. He gives the man everything in his wallet and sends him on his way.

He walks slowly up the drive, into his house, his home, his Haven. At the doorstep is a package. There are no delivery services operating at this time of night. This is a special package. He is numb. He does not care what it is. Perhaps it is a bomb. Perhaps his Requiem will end tonight, oh, Lord, let it end tonight.

No name, no address. Just brown paper, which he tears away. A white box, held together by string. He opens the box. Yes. He runs his fingers over its surface, all white, which gold trim along the edges, a gold fissure running vertically from the forehead, through the left eye, to the chin. So calm, it betrays no emotion. Only calm. Yes. Of course. He puts it on. It fits perfectly. It is his. It is he. He is it.

He laughs. What mask?