Loneliness had long since settled into the boy's mind, entangling roots convincing him that the isolation was necessary. Perhaps it was for the best, considering how volatile he truly was. He only ended up hurting the poor people that braved the wrathful whirlwind of flaws and attached themselves to a ghostly husk anyways. Not that he was upset over being left alone. He liked lonely. People were too loud and hateful and ugly and bothersome. Too overwhelming for Beck, hypocritical as he loathed the ignorant living in silence. But he couldn't stand other spirits or entities either -- he didn't want any to leech off him, sucking away at his energy like he was nothing more than a supernatural battery pack. The poltergeist heartily shivered at the experience, phantom hands gripping at his knotted pelt as he steadily faded.

    Yet he still tolerated society, even if an eternal bitterness resided in his pulseless chest after society abandoned him for the bandwagon of progress so long ago. He supposed he abandoned society in return, withdrawing only for his hatred to fester like an open gash he refused to treat with any and all ointment. But tolerating was different. As long as he kept biting down on his tongue and forcing himself to speak every once in a while, he wouldn't be crippled by his self-induced loneliness. He tolerated mostly for Goldie, aching to prove to her that he could be good. After a long morning to noon of being as out and about as he could allow without vomiting nothing from anxiety, his pathetic motivation to pretend like he cared had burnt out into a smoldering crisp of a corpse. His idea of recovery included sprawling on the floor of Goldie's hut with his wounded back pressed against the chilled surface, cocooned in his tattered old blanket pile and rattling out the memorized script of a horror movie as he stitched together the pelt of a rabbit on his stomach. "'I met him fi-ifteen years ago. I was told ther-there was nothin' left' --" his rasping voice was low and mumbled, yet his tone carried the solemn performance of the monologue even as his paw guided the needle along the pelt's underbelly, the thread darting in and out of the fur. "'No consc-science, no reason, no understandin', in even the most rudi... rudimentary sen-nse, of life or death or right or wrong.'" The needle galloped along the sliced edges to the lull and lilt of his parroted speech, drawing the pelt back together at the belly where its skin was tenderly ripped from its body. "I met thi-is six-year-old boy with a blank, cold emotio-onless face 'nd the blackest of eyes... the devil's eyes. His work froze as his ears perked to their full height, triangular satelites listening for the rustling sounding outside. It was brief, but he still threw a paranoid glance over his shoulder to glare at the wall, expecting danger to seep through the hut's thin walls. Foolishly deciding it was probably just Goldie returning home soon, he hastily wrapped up both his sewing and his reciting, much more hushed than before. "'I spent eight years -- years tryin' to reach him, 'nd another seven tryin' to keep him locked aw-way when I realized what was livin' behind that boy's eyes was purely, simply evil.'" Punctuating the quote with a nip of the leftover thread when he was finished, he propped himself up slightly to admire his macabre creation of a headless rabbit's skin soon to be stuffed and added to his taxidermy collection, pallid tongue poking out between sharkish teeth as he checked for any flaws needing to be fixed.

[member=218]ARGUS[/member] go crazy with attacking him ;0