Edgar Cheney

     why do you cling to the humans? your home is waiting, still.

the voices are always there, always calling. they whisper to him, dancing quickly around the walls holding him in. his skin burns, the blood under it boiling. staring down at his arms, edgar sees purple. he knows the humans don't feel these types of things. he knows he's different. wrong.
he is no more than a ghost, as are the things he hears.
there is no humanity in his chest, nor would there ever be. he exists in a paradox of his own design, one he willingly stepped into.

his human approaches.
his human reaches out their hand.
and edgar can do no more than scream.
and he feels himself rip and tear, his body changing.
and suddenly, his human is screaming back.
his human is running.
his human is afraid.

and edgar's black mass of a beating heart shatters inside him.