Perhaps it was by pure instinct that Floyd found Luanne. Or maybe it was the gathering of two halves of a broken soul as the philosophers say.

Romantic, but wrong. The truth was Floyd always knew where Luanne was, it was the little house they had bought in the city to consummate their forbidden love.

Though even that was an exaggeration. There was no nobility in fucking your sister, even if you were both of noble origins.

Floyd approached the little summer home. It was a single-floor enigmatic house with slanted, wavy orange tiles and a little pale beige color about it. It seemed to be made of an era long dead, something you would find across the border in small Mexican villages. They liked the look though. The poor man’s villa, Luanne called it. Cute and passé, and Floyd just agreed because he didn’t care what or where it was, so long as he had four walls to hide the sex. Now, it was different. The house was less of a homestead. Less of anything hospitable and kind and warm.

Now, as he looked at the gated windows and their curtain drops and as he slammed down his fist the front door, screaming, seething, “Open the fucking door, Luanne.” He realized how truly cruel the building was.

He could have blown it open, but that would be like killing a memory and with what little left he had to him, a memory was like a gem in a vault to him. He had to have that, at least that. The memory of the nights spent here, he had to preserve that if anything else. Him, Luanne, their son. He had to.

He put his forehead against the mesh-door. His hand dragged from the top of the door to the bottom until it limped by his side. An arm, now elongated and deformed, he nearly touched his ankles with its extension alone.

“Please,” He pleaded. “Open the door,”

“Are you calm now?” She asked.

“Yeah,” Floyd said. The residual green on his arms fading into soft gray. His hair fell, teeth receded, and the growing fingernails stopped for a moment. He tapped the door gently.

“You’re talking to Floyd, Luanne. You’re talking to the man you love. Remember? Give me a chance,”

His voice broke.

“Won’t you?” He asked.

The door opened, seemingly by itself. Floyd looked inside, and she appeared, behind the door. The baby was in her arms.

“What did you do?” She cradled the infant. Floyd shut the door behind him.

“I did what I was supposed to do, I stopped things from getting worse.” He went into the fridge and grabbed some water, a jug that he poured into his mouth.

“What does that mean? Stopping things from getting worse?” She asked.

“I met one of the Vicars. The one with the guns, the Asian boy. I beat him.”

“You killed him?”

He set the glass down. It slumped over and spilled. The water went along the lines of the table until it fell on the floor and drip-dropped to the creaking wood flooring below.

“No,” He turned to her. “I didn’t kill him. But I’m going to tonight,”

“How’d you find him? Did he find you?”

“That doesn’t matter,” He clenched her by the arms and hugged her. “What matters is that you’re safe and that you’re here with me,”

She didn’t react. Her face was full of that desperation, and womanly prudence that comes from witnessing men lie for so long. He knew that face, maybe he didn’t care though, not with her in his arms at least.

Floyd planted two weak kisses on her forehead, she was cold. They were quick, made with anxious haste, and dry like rubbed sandpaper. His lips chapped against the pressing. He had to take another water bottle. Then some milk, then some juice and finally some wine cooled in the freezer.

“What’s going on with you?” She asked. “You don’t look right, I can’t even tell it’s you, Floyd,”

“My actions are what defines me, not the way I look.”

“Your hair’s grown out. Are those fangs?” She reached her hand to touch his face. He slapped it away. “Jesus, what have you done?”

“Jesus has nothing to do with it. I’ve got someone else that’ll give Jesus a run for his money,” He laughed.

“This isn’t funny, Floyd.” She said. “You said actions define people? Well, let's look at your actions. You locked yourself in for a week, you ran away and caused a mess in the city chasing after one guy with a gun. A guy - who - by the way, makes a living killing people like you and me.”

“Him and everyone else. Who doesn’t want us dead? Who? No ones ever been on our side. You know this.” He said. “So why is it that all of a sudden you’re mad I’m fighting back?”

“Because the killing you’re doing isn’t any good?” She said.

“Was killing father no good either? It didn’t stop you from helping.”

The consternation was apparent on her face. Her brows collected, her eyes darted to some corner. When she brought them back, there was a kind of renewed anger. Her cheeks were puffed and red, and her ears lit up. She slapped Floyd, the baby nearly fell from her hand, and she recovered him.

“You’re more a monster than a man. I can see it in your veins, that green. In your eyes, in your mouth. The way you talk and the things you say.” She said. “You know I had no chance last time. But here? What you’re doing? You have a choice, Floyd.

He broadened his shoulders. She felt small like his shadow was stomping all over her. She walked back until she hit the wall.

“What I do, I do for you. You could appreciate that a little more, couldn’t you?”

“Don’t do this Floyd,” She said. “The man I loved didn’t act like this.”

“The man you loved didn’t act.” He said. “Now I do.”

“Then stop,” She said. “Just throw everything away, the anger, the abuse of your body, throw it all away and leave it in this town so we can move on. We have time. We can do it.”

“Time? Ritcher’s going to gun us down after I’m done with the heart-eater. What time do we have? It’s better if we try hitting them all as quickly as possible.”

“No, he won’t.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

She wiggled herself out and away from him. In the living room, where the picture frames and the cheap tube-television was, a cradle sat near a sofa. The spinning cradle toys went along in a steady rhythm until she set the baby down and upset them. They rattled. The toy horse and the toy sun and the toy dog. It looked like a nest with all the brown blankets laid out, or perhaps fur. As if smothered by the wood forest creatures. The gentle child, who hadn’t cried or yelped or so much as made a sound. Who slept gently with warm, red cheeks.

“I know he won’t come after us,” She turned to face him. “I made a deal with him,”

He walked up to her.

“With who?” His face went tense though he didn’t mean to. And he didn’t mean to grab her arm. He didn’t mean yanking her and holding her close.

“With…” Her eyes shifted to the sides of the room for some imaginary (and delusional) help that did not come. “With Turnus… I made a deal with Turnus.”

“For what?” He asked. “What can you deal him that he’d even want?”

Her eyes started to swell. He knew that face well, and a bit of him wanted to dry her tears, to halt them if only for a moment.

“What did you tell him?”

He shook her.

“What did you say?” He slapped her. “Huh?”

She nodded her head no.

“What did you tell him about me?”

“Nothing,” She said. “Nothing important. I just told him you left the casino. I told him that you were looking for the Vicar…the guy! You know. I knew you were, that’s it. I swear.”

“You told him where I’m at?”

“No, I told him where you’re not at. That’s all!”

He shook her.

“You-!” His voice rose. The baby shook. “You… you sold me out?”

“I bought me and Flint two weeks. I bought us some safety. Turnus doesn’t know where you’re at either. We’re in the clear to leave. What more could you want?”

“You told them…I’m not with mom?” He asked.

“Yeah,” She stopped breathing. Her hand rubbed her cheeks, though they stopped as the realization set on them both. They both looked at each other, her eyes slowly falling and widening and falling again. They swelled. “I told him mom is alone. Yes.”

It was like he wasn’t even there anymore. It was as if he was looking at himself from a strange new vantage, hovering above his own body. He looked at himself, Floyd. And he saw this Floyd-doll move in a way that shocked even him. His whole vision went red, shaky. His heart palpitations rose until the blood turned his ears burning hot. Then he grabbed Luanne. The moment was like a shock, one that brought him back to reality. His hands rode up her arms, around her shoulder, until he had a firm grip of her throat.

The cradle shook.

Floyd worked his fingers on that neck he so loved.

Then he pressed. He went hard on her until her flesh began to turn red.

He worked at her until her eyes rolled to the back of her skull.

The baby sniffled, he shook.

He threw her down on the floor and put the weight of his body on his hands. The nails grew, the fangs grew, the hair grew. Animosity grew.

“You killed mother,” He said. “You stupid. Fucking. Bitch.”

He rattled her head. She tried to run, her feet wiggled, and he put his knees on them. She looked like a fish, desperate and fleeting.

She stuck her hand out and tried to pry his face away. Her nails bore deep into his green eyes.

“Ahh,” He screamed and bashed her head once more.

“It’s me,” Luanne said. “It’s me-!” She spat out foam. “Luanne-!”

The blood came down her forehead, to her neck where Floyd’s pale arms were.

And the baby cried, finally, shaking the cradle and knocking the toys over. He yelled, desperate and loud.

Floyd stood up, his eyes wide. He looked down at her, his grip still firm, then up to the baby.

He let go. She grasped at her throat, finally breathing. He stood up, took steps away from the scene. He had to put his guilty hands behind his back, the feeling of her flesh was still very clear in his memory. It made him embarrassed and afraid.

“You’re staying here,” He cried. Authority did not come easy with his broken, crying voice. Luanne was still clenching her throat and coughing and spitting and struggling to breathe.

“You’re going to stay here, you understand?” Floyd screamed. He looked briefly to baby Flint, he flailed his arms in the air. “Wait until I finish everything, got it? I’ve got to fix your fucking mistake,”

She wasn’t even registering his voice. He just felt the need to talk.

“Mom isn’t nice. But she’s still mom. And you backstabbed her, get it? You did this, not me.”

No response. Just coughing, crying. He was talking to himself and realizing this, he took a few nervous steps and shaking his head between the two scenes; his lover and sister on the floor struggling to breathe and the baby, his child, crying in fear to his own father. It made his heartbreak.

It made him leave the house, it felt like a punch stronger than he’d ever taken. It felt like emptiness. He couldn’t look behind himself when he approached the door frame, he just got the doorknob and slammed it behind him. He had to get away, had to get to mother.