Narcissistic Cannibal

It had taken Sophia nearly two hours to reach her house on foot, her legs aching too much to continue to run. She knew the house wasn't far, but it felt like she had been walking forever when she had reached her home. Sophia collapsed onto her front lawn when she arrived, just wishing her parents would find her and keep her safe. She rolled onto her back, faced with the familiar scene of the night sky, the tree in her front yard looming over half of her vision and the streetlights illuminating her face.

Finally she felt safe. Sophia closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath and smelling the fresh cut grass that had been planted recently in preparation for winter, as well as the Autumn flowers her mom kept along the path to the front door.

Feeling her feet still ache horribly, she realized that she'd rather be inside and let her parents know she was okay. She had to think of how she could tell them she had been kidnapped that day, and wondered if they already knew she was partying the night previous.

When she finally mustered up the strength to stand back up, she was paralyzed by what she saw in front of her house. That teenager from the house, with shaggy blonde hair, black eyes and slightly hunched stature, was standing in front of her door. Sophia nearly felt her heart stop in her chest at the sight of him.

“Hey,” he said, looking slightly sad, or possibly sorry for her. “Don't... Don't show yourself to them,” he spoke, moving off from leaning on her front door and advancing toward her, stopping suddenly when she stumbled backwards. “Your name's Sophia right?” he asked after a moment, feeling awkward with Sophia staring at him.

“What?” she spoke, the word barely leaving her lips.

“Your name, is it Sophia?” he spoke a bit louder, as if she were deaf.

“Who are you? Why did you follow me?” Sophia asked in return, trying to muster any courage she had.

The teenager sighed, standing a bit straighter at her sudden questioning. “Tate. I followed you from our house,” he spoke plainly.

“Our house?” Sophia asked, suddenly confused

“The Montgomery Mansion... you know,” Tate answered as if he were stating common knowledge.

“Th-that's not my house,” Sophia responded, looking past Tate to her front door. There was no way she could get around him.

“It is now,” Tate spoke, looking behind himself at the front door of the house that Sophia led him to. “Who lives here?” He turned back to her, receiving no answer. He truthfully hadn't expected one. “Parents? Don't show yourself to them. Nobody else will tell you so I will. I know you want to. You want to pretend that everything is fine and normal but it's not.” He watched tears begin to well in Sophia's eyes and he felt slightly bad for her. “I'm not saying don't go in there,” he clarified, hoping that she wouldn't break down and cry on him. “Go see your parents, talk to them whatever. Just don't reveal yourself, I won't let you. I promise it's more trouble than it's worth.”

“Why?” Sophia asked, thinking on Tate's words.

“It's too complicated. If it's not done right, they'll think you're still alive or they'll think they're going crazy. It will only hurt them.”

“How do I hide from them?” Sophia asked, tears rolling fast down her pale cheeks.

“You just don't. It's hard to explain. I'll help you though,” Tate offered before immediately being shot down.

“No, go back where you came from. I'm staying here,” she spoke, braving taking a step towards him.

Tate shook his head, his dark blonde hair shifting with the movement. “That's exactly why I don't trust you.” Tate turned around and walked back to Sophia's front door, turning the handle to open it. Sophia was surprised when he wasn't locked out. She rushed inside the house after him, afraid for her parents if they saw this whack job just walk into their house without her. The house, only having been gone for a day, felt utterly different. The air inside was depressing. Sophia looked over to Tate, who was casually looking around the dark living room, as if he were simply visiting a friend's home.

How leisurely he looked unsettled Sophia even more. She looked around as well, before walking on into the kitchen, seeing a light on in the dark house. She was shocked to see her father passed out, sitting at the kitchen island with a bottle of Jack Daniels turned onto its side, a small pool of the whiskey pooled around the bottle as if it had fallen when it were less empty. The most shocking fact was that her father had even been drinking. He had gone though a horrible alcoholic faze when she was just a kid, and had spent the last eight years sober as a judge. There was no way that this huge bottle of Jack was more than a day old and it was already nearly gone.

Sophia went to reach out to her father but Tate quickly grabbed her hand to stop her, shaking his head before letting go. She was dismayed that Tate wouldn't even allow her to touch her drunk and passed out father. She watched him walk around the island before picking up the bottle of whiskey, sniffing it before taking a quick swig. “You can speak you know,” he spoke to Sophia, noticing her wide, pleading eyes. “They can't hear us unless they see us. They won't see us as long as we don't want them to and we don't touch them,” he explained, before taking a longer drink.

Tate's face scrunched slightly after the second, bigger drink before he watched Sophia walk around the other side of the island to him. He silently handed the bottle to her. She was disappointed when there wasn't much of a debate in her mind about whether to take it or not, especially after last night. Instead she took it without question, before putting the neck to her mouth and practically began to chug the amber liquid. Her eyes shut tightly as her toes curled, trying to ignore the burn in her throat.

“Slow down,” Tate warned her, his eyebrows bushing together beneath his hair. “It'll help with the nerves but alcohol's still a depressant. And you can't get much more depressed,” he pointed out as Sophia finally removed the bottle form her mouth, choking violently, nearly feeling her stomach fall out of her mouth from the fire set to it. Tate quickly took the bottle back from her, unable to not help himself to one more swig before placing the bottle back on the counter as it had been before only now considerably less full.

“You okay?” he asked the still hunched over Sophia, slightly afraid that she would puke. The ectoplasm from a ghost being sick really wasn't very pleasant, and it wasn't something he wanted to deal with.

“I'm fine,” she gasped, the burn slowly dying within her. “I want to find my mom,” she spoke, standing straight again.

Tate nodded, “Alright.” He followed her, like a loyal dog, up stairs to where they found the master bedroom door cracked open. Sophia walked up to the door, hearing her mother sobbing inside and felt her heart shatter.

“I can't go in,” she admitted, looking back to Tate.

“Why?” he asked, wondering what emotion had overtaken the girl now.

“The door squeaks, she'll hear,” Sophia's eyes watered, nearly shocking Tate with her answer.

“Oh,” he replied simply, before moving in front of the squeaky door, something he was used to dealing with. He moved the door sightly, hearing a groan come from the hinges. He stopped his movement, looking back to Sophia for a moment before quickly swinging the door open the whole way. Barely any sound came from the door that he stopped just an inch from slamming into the wall.
Sophia didn't say anything as she passed him, entering her parent's room to find her mom laying on top of the bed covers, a nearly gone tissue box in front of her, as well as a few used tissues. Some more were littering the floor around a full trash bin by her side of the bed. Sophia was hesitant before she slowly crawled onto the queen sized mattress behind her mother. Tate was not fast enough to stop her, he watched on as she moved behind her mother and began to cry with her. He moved to enter the room as well, noticing a few photo albums on the floor, ready to trip him and scare the fuck out of Sophia's mother. Instead, he picked one up, flipping through the pages of baby photos, that gradually moved on to toddler photos.

The little girl in the picture was barely recognizable as the Sophia he could see today. In these photos, the one major difference was that she looked happy. It wasn't odd though, since she was dead now, mourning for herself. In the pictures the little girl also had a hair color very close to his own. He looked up from the photo album and to Sophia on the bed, crying with her mom.

“I'm so sorry,” he heard her squeak through the tears, though he knew that she wasn't trying to let her mother actually hear the words, which he was grateful for. He didn't want to drag her out of her own home. It was apparent, however, that this was going to be a very long visit.