O Felice, Tu Anima Mia Canta Addio*

An open letter and a pair of fine Italian leather gloves rested on Thomas' bed as he paced the room, fingers punching a familiar number into the phone with way more force than necessary. He growled audibly as the phone rang, every muscle tensed as if ready to spring. It took until the fourth ring for someone to pick up, speaking with a voice rich, seductive, and utterly poisonous. Like Merlot and cyanide.

( Hello, brother-mine... )

Portions of the conversation had been loud, and the crew was alternately cringing or looking at him pityingly. "Get out," he growled, bristling at the mixture of sympathy, fear, and even excitement wafting off of them. Thomas waited until they were gone, slamming the door behind them, before he sank to the floor at the foot of his bed. The anger was ebbing, leeching out of him along with his strength, leaving behind fear, helplessness, and an aching emptiness.



*O happiness, my beloved one, sing farewell