Poison Hemlocks

Prologue - Hemlock

Hemlocks are such deceiving flowers.

Dainty pockets of posies, innocent white in color like a lullaby with lyrics overlooked. Cozy in appearance, you'd think it'd make a lovely bedroom decoration, for when you wish to return home to a welcoming sight and a welcoming scent, and perhaps a welcoming amour.

But behind those seemingly sinless bunches of peonies is the spindle of a spinning wheel, a silent knife - poison. Rich poison.

String has seen a man die for it.

He probably would've dropped dead by now too had no one told him. He never would've known that the name of his organization stemmed from these white lying flowers, despite having been second-in-command for the longest time now.

Which is why he thought it is the perfect name. For on the outside, this gang of his is a mere café branch, and no one has - or would - suspect it to be a drug cartel.

The perfect name. For a perfect scheme.

All under the rule of a perfect man.

× × × × ×

It's a common misconception, but would it truly be considered a misconception if things are better off this way?

That String is their leader. Not many are aware he is only so as a persona, as a character. He's always been, from the moment Hemlock was formed. He'd always been planned to be since he met the real man in charge.

That man rarely showed himself. He saw no need to, having someone like String for him to marionette around as easily as fiddling with a cross-shaped piece of wood. That man rarely spoke. He didn't need to when the knife he'd drag across an assailant's chest spoke louder words than anything he could ever say.

Paper was the name he had introduced himself with, whilst he had the cool steel of his scalpel pressed against String's bruised lips, and he urged String not to say his real name.

There isn't much String knew about Paper. Hell, he doubt anybody knew anything about this ghost of a man.

But there are some things String knows, things he's picked up from observing Paper in a distance he was allowed to be in.

He knows Paper likes his coffee black, but would've preferred to have carmomile tea.

He knows Paper prefers a particular cigarette brand scented wintergreen, so much so he'd refuse any other brand, meticulous of his bad habits just as much as he is with his appearance.

String knows he likes to spin a needle across his fingers instead of something more convenient like a pen. He would prick himself once or twice, but he wouldn't falter. As the bit of blood trickled down his pricked finger, he remains a robot, emotionless, unfazed.

It seems he was accustomed to bleeding. What was there to expect from a crime lord?

String knows when Paper is really smiling or when he's put on his nice guy persona again. He recognizes the light, very faint giggle under Paper's breath when he's truly smiling, when he's carving someone open and having others watch him do it as a lesson. He is familiar with the wide-eyed grin of a facade he upholds as a lure. String knows it's a lure, for Paper always rests his eyes, never wide-eyed, not even when boiling water cascades over his wrists.

And his hands. String recognizes his gestures. His tells. Those hands correlate to his smile too. He knows what it means when he rests them on his hips, and when he brings it up to his lips. He knows what it means when he leisurely holds a blade between his fingers.

String knows he plays on both teams. Or perhaps that was simply a theory. Or something Paper weaponized to get what he wants, from who he wants. String couldn't tell, though he had seen the man wrap his arms around a woman's waist, and run his fingers up a man's neck. He's seen Paper bring the tip of his shoe to the hem of a dear sir's pants, and he's seen those lips being brought to the back of a lady's hand.

Though, String knows there is something off about that, for Paper never seems to settle. The next day, either those he took an interest in would be nowhere to be found, or behind bars. A case of coincidence and bad luck? Or was the bad luck making things seem like a coincidence?

String wouldn't know.

But he would admit he'd like to. And he knows he'd most likely end up losing his head were he to ever attempt to do so.

For everything about his relationship with Paper is kept at a bruised and bloodied arm's length. No, they are not friends. Far from it, String is aware. If anything, String is a pet. Something to kick around. He is reminded time and time again of that fact when those wintergreen cigarettes were turned into black buds against his skin, when one click of Paper's tongue was enough to make String kill a man for him.

Paper is above him. String knows that. He knows his place.

A part of him would admit he likes it.

Because for letting Paper be in control - listening to his orders, letting him tug on the reigns, giving him the permission to let blood trickle down his back all for a moment of sadistic sensation - String would be rewarded. His obedience, rewarded with an amount of money he could buy anything with, alcohol that'd have his liver crying out for help, hands on wherever he'd like to be touched, drugs that'd appease his twisted mind.

All he needed to do is let Paper satisfy his own twisted mind too.

But that's the thing about twisted minds, about being in this position - a poster boy drug lord whose men would get on their knees for, unbeknownst to them that the man they bowed their heads for also bowed his head for another man, one who seemed like a myth.

That's the thing about being taught to live with the pain. You'll endure and endure, until you don't have to anymore, for the pain suddenly becomes insatiable - suddenly he's asking for more cigarettes to be put off against his skin - and the one who hurts you the most is your ultimate infatuation.

That's the thing about desire. The chase is fun. It keeps you going when it's kept unfulfilled. And when it is fulfilled, you'll want more of it. You'll become addicted.

Your pride. Your ego. Your twisted mind.

When you feel as though you deserve something, and just don't get it.

That's the very thing.

String is sure Paper would feel the same way.

Sometimes, you get greedy.