âOh yes, totally. Voldemort.â Omar replied, face mock-agitated. âYou know, Iâve only ever seen the first two movies and never read the books. That being said, I donât like reading in English.â
Following Soren, Omar lightly let himself into a dreary state, dreaming of the soft waters near Toledo where he would spend his nights howling. Yes, he would howl for days it seemed, mourning the loss of his mother, his family, his life. A small strain of relief always gleamed in the back of his head: his stepfather was dead. But without an other picture, Omar was certain it had been him who had murdered both mother and stepfather, injuring his two elder sisters, and Lord only knew what else.
The nightâs moon wasnât particularly full or vibrant, but nevertheless, the Moon was always Omarâs main attention. Yes, even if Aaron was half-naked in Omarâs bed, moaning with anticipation (which wouldnât necessarily thrill or discourage Omar either way), Omarâs eyes would be cast against âLa Lunaâ. To him, She was the celestial manifestation of the Virgin Mary, the Feminine principle of divinity and his one protectress. No, flesh, EVEN fae-flesh could never tempt him away from his devotion to the Moon. The only boy who could ever do that would have to be the one boy who could personify the moon. Was the Aaron? Maybe, but Omar didnât rest that idea too long. Aaron had many more suitors, and Omar was just a fool in the dark.
Omarâs education had taught him very simple but essential precepts: 1) Never believe in anything unless you absolutely want to believe in it; 2) Never judge someone based on their beliefs; 3) See the beauty in othersâ beliefs, AND if they have proven their passion to be truly genuine, then view it equal to your own. Omar refused to see ghosts, or spirits, or anything. He didnât necessarily NOT believe in them, he just wasnât focused enough TO believe in them. Omar had realized that he was only one of a few people Soren trusted to see her art and not judge it. And indeed, Omar never judged. He gazed on in fascination and wonder, but he never judged.
When Soren had passed him the rum, he made sure the opening was clear and clean, sniffed it, and swallowed back a few gulpsâ worth. Omar wasnât a rum-fellow. Nor beer, nor vodka nor anything of that sort. He liked wine and brandy, especially cognac, and he wasnât usually one to indulge in alcohol just for sport. He was a quiet drunk. The type of drunk that sit in the corner and seemed to listen to some eternal playlist of the worldâs most anguishing music. But this time, Omar realized the rum was a sort of âpeace pipeâ from Soren, and to refuse it would probably be to refuse her.
âWould it disrupt your art if I prayed? It has put me in a strangely spiritual mood. I am surrounded by dead, it seems, and as we say: espera respirar por acĂĄ de los muertos.â Omarâs eyes flashed in the moonlight beneath the tree. His breath had settled low and light, attempting not to disturb the dead; this was a very old superstition he had learned and lived by. And as someone who had murdered, he was not one to disturb the dead further.