"... Good ...evening." Ivan had somehow missed the nun a few feet away from him. He turned a slight bit to face her; a nun dressed in all white, the silver cross glinting even in the dim lighting. Someone from the church; the habit she had. or the cross. Either way, it said "nun". And he relaxed a bit, in her presence; it felt like he was safe. He always did in presence of the people of God.
Now thinking about it, Ivan had not seen someone from the church in what felt like eons to him. He hadn't been to the church in even longer a time. He craved the presence of someone who believed. He needed it; his paranoia would send him in fits of insanity against the poultry that was meant for other purposes. Ivan had not seen her before at Mass for the few times he could go- the lady in front of him would surely have stuck out in the drab that was the local church.
Hearing her ask about the scene at the park sent him with another wave of nausea and disgust. Out of sight, out of mind; and now it was back, the aroma of delicious temptation. His instinct to tear into flesh began to overpower him; the smell of the blood. He he took a few steps back, as Ivan struggled to keep the scent's enticing promise away from his animalistic cravings. He was disgusted with himself; would even God forgive those who were cursed like him?
"It was the killer again... the stench..." He coughed a bit, hoping to get the stench out of his lungs. He felt a bit awkward; he hadn't talked to a person in almost a week. Well, if he counted the real estate lady that had passed by his home that day...
Pardon my asking, but what is your name, Sister?" It was a distraction; a simple conversation to get him to use his vocal chords. To get him to cling on to a small piece of his faith, to grasp onto his God before he lost his mind, to hold the last scrap of humanity about him before he did something he would regret.
"Mother..?" Forest green eyes flickered at the dead body of the woman in the den. The moon light crept by behind clouds, pouring in through the window at random intervals. The fire crackled in the fireplace, the scent of the roast they ate together earlier wafting in from the kitchen. The boy's hands gingerly reached out; but all he could feel was the stickiness he soon found himself bathed in.
He didn't want that again; so he began to step back again. It was the first time he began to actually pray that his reputation as the awkward and mute young man that spent his days chained to books was known to someone- a strange feeling indeed- so he could make a quick run for the nearest (if still open) diner or restaurant. But he wanted, carved the presence of someone who dedicated themselves to God; he needed that connection he was denied so long ago. To leave now would be to leave his first brush with someone of those ranks.
He didn't want to leave; but his paranoia, his thirst, his curse- they kept chipping away at him. Her voice was melodious, like the choir he so often missed hearing. His books, his studies, his experience - they fell short when he tried applying them in real life. So he felt like running from it. Like he always did. She looked sincere, it obviously wasn't her fault; Ivan was just being paranoid and stupidly scared. He rubbed the herbs between his fingers again, his anxiety now clearly getting the better of him.