Not-Cameron just stares.

Heavy silence blankets the hallway.

Not-Cameron remains crouched beside the body of my now-dead ex-boyfriend. Pupils dilating and shrinking, dilating and shrinking. Hands digging streaks into the carpet.

They don't look like they're going to move any time soon, so I take the opportunity to focus on the shaking in my limbs and the pounding of my heart.

I take one deep breath, slowly in, slowly out. Followed by another. And then another.

I count to 10 in my head.

My heart starts to become less noisy. My hands slowly unclench. The shaking slows.

Waiting.

After what feels like an age, Not-Cameron suddenly shifts. A whine bubbles up from their throat.

"I just wanted...why? Was it too much to ask." Their voice suddenly drops and distorts, the sound vibrates right down my spine.

Not-Cameron twitches, one still slightly-clawed hand reaching forward as they crawl a step towards me. "Eloise." My name comes out in a distorted growl. "I thought this would work."

Another step closer.

"So many failures. So many faces. Why!? Why was his the only face you wanted."

My body reacts with natural fear to the uncanny valley effect sweeping over me from how their blank expression contradicts the distorted distress in their voice. I shuffle a little back down the hallway.

"I just wanted to love you. Now it's ruined." They appear to be spiralling, their hands have definitely sprung claws again.

It is with herculean effort that I stop my shuffle backwards and instead lean forward, speaking in an even calm tone. "Not-Cameron."

They freeze.

"That's what I've been calling you in my head." I take a shuddering breath, forcing myself to meet their predatory gaze with my own. "Since you first arrived, seven months ago. I knew you weren't Cameron."

A deep vibration begins to echo in the hallway, a growl. Not-Cameron's face begins to twist into a grimace.

"I didn't care."

The sound stops as their eyes widen, impossibly. I can visibly see all their muscles tense under their skin, the veins popping out.

I slowly raise a hand, bracing against the wall to stand. Their gaze follows me. "I..." I clear my throat, fighting the dull pain from the bruises that are forming. "I liked you more than Cameron."

I take one step forward. "I liked talking with you."

Another step. "I felt safer."

I’m stood right in front of them. "I'm not afraid of you."

"You lie!"

I fight my body's urge to flinch when they suddenly stand. Their hands come up, the tips of their claws resting just beside my face.

"You. Are. Scared. Of. Me"

I keep my feet rooted to the spot. Focusing on the tears at the corner of their eyes to distract myself from the fear bubbling behind my teeth.

A human trait, to cry when overwhelmed rather than just for pain.

If the distortion in their voice is indicator enough that their emotional state is currently too much for them to handle.

A memory rises in my mind, unbidden. A memory of Not-Cameron comforting me when I was overwhelmed.

Not long after they arrived. My mind was beginning to buckle under the stress and I would find myself crying alone in the bathroom or stifling a scream while in the middle of cooking. Eventually, I found myself crying alone in my bedroom, bundled up beneath the covers, trying to muffle my sobs with a pillow. Not-Cameron found me like that, red-eyed and snotty-nosed.

They had silently sat with me, gently rubbing my back and talking about anything and everything until I stopped crying as hard. They asked what I needed, ran a bath, made me food. Reassurances and affirmations tumbled from their lips like water. They gave me space, asked before approaching for anything, gave me anything I asked for.

Eventually, I started to feel like I wanted something certain to combat all the fear and uncertainty. So I asked for routine, for surety…and they provided. Slowly, everything started to feel better. I started to feel less scared and uncertain. Started to feel safe.

Even slower than when I stood, I bring my hands up. "If I was scared." I wrap my hands around the back of their fingers. "Would I do this?"

I turn my head, gently manoeuvring their hands so I don't catch a claw to the eye and lean towards them, placing a gentle kiss to their palm.

I taste iron, internally cringing at the knowledge that his hands are still covered in the blood of Cameron. But the disgust I feel at the warm wet sensation on my face cannot overshadow the relief I feel as their claws retract. I’m not dying today.

Tears are now freely flowing down Not-Cameron's face. "I'm sorry. I love you. I'm sorry." They choke out the words in between sobs, dropping to their knees and burying their face in my shirt. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. He hurt you. I'm sorry."

The distorted growl in their voice sends a jolt through me, but the broken choking sound that follows dispels all my fear. I bury my hands in their hair. "It's okay, sweetie. It's alright."

Not-Cameron lets out a broken whimper at the pet name, turning their watery gaze up to me. "I'm sorry. I lied to you."

They look completely normal now. If not for the blood and the mangled corpse lying not three feet away, this position would look suggestive.

Suddenly Not-Cameron pulls away.

"Oh no." Their hands hover over my shirt and sides, not quite touching. "I got blood on you. I'm sorry. I'll clean it. I'll clean it all."

Their distress tugs at my heart, and I drop to my knees. "Look, it's..." I sigh. Gently resting my hands on their shoulders, thumbs rubbing circles on their collar bone. "I won't say it's okay. But I will say we can work this out...I think."

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

My heart jolts. I physically jump at the sound of the smoke alarm.

"The cake," I whisper. A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. "I forgot the cake."

Not-Cameron's bones audibly crack as they suddenly racket up to stand again. They gently push on my shoulders, directing me to turn. "I'll fix it."

Once I start walking towards the stairs, away from Cameron's corpse, a feeling of cold brushes over my shoulder. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, their image suddenly seems to blur forward, and I glance sideways to see they’re gone.

The loud clatter of a pan on the worktop downstairs prompts me to quicken my pace. The smell of smoke and the grey haze in the air calls me to go faster.

The kitchen window is open. Not-Cameron is waving a tea towel around to dispel the smoke. The charred remains of my cake sit in the pan on the side.

Another little laugh hiccups out of my throat. The domesticity of the sight jars against the shocking turn I just experienced upstairs.

I stagger forward. The cake is scrapped out into the food bin, and the pan deposited in the sink to soak. I take the opportunity to run my hands under the hot water. Scrubbing at the red staining my skin until the water runs thick with it.

Not-Cameron joins me, slowly sidling up to my side. Soap is dispensed and red foam swirls. After a few moments of harsh scrubbing, my hands are looking cleaner than before.

The red still fills my vision.