--- *** ---
--- 2 Weeks Later or So ---
--- 28th of February, 1965 ---

Within the elapsing double episodes of the week at a snail's pace and recovering from the sinister searing and glass bruises, mapping her delicate, marbled flesh, she received daily visits by Kit and Grace in the hospital. Judy wasn't alone at all and it was granting her a modicum of sheer hope and high spirits, cusping optimism and realism in a stark feud.

The middle-aged lady still believed her philosophy and the regular visits she earns from her friends would rapidly meliorate her critical condition she has slight progress with each advancing day. Her philosophy obligated her to not lose faith even if it takes slightly longer than usual to recover from the medley of sore pain, unamusing despondence and loneliness.

Factly, Judy has been through an abundance of tough tribulations, blocking her way to ultimate felicity and stark success.

With almost every visit to the hospital, the young couple in love was bringing huge bouquets of breathtaking, vibrant flowers with an exquisitely enveloped variety of colorful bows, besides chocolate boxes and some homemade food.

Notwithstanding the circumstances, the young couple spent a few hours daily to accompany and vibrantly fortify her self-esteem and high spirits' stability as well such as discussing galore topics that aroused their interest or at least were part of their care.

Furthermore, it has been two weeks since the blonde has last seen her lover which was exactly situated with his asylum's escape and venturing into the small household. Little did she know about his current condition and what on earth was going on with him except lingering the somber, yet freshly painful memory of the trauma he viciously scrapped and scarred her hurricane of thoughts.

Even though what Timothy left severely inexorable, irreparable tracks of his damage, she was yet leaning toward forgiving him and granting him a second chance, although the lower chances of its honesty. At least, with the motion of lifted ounce from her shoulders granting a prominent second chance to the former ambitious Monsignor and hurricane of relief cleansing the held grudges if he wasn't ever forgiven.

Moreover, the former devotional woman of the cloth kept telling herself everything would be alright and acknowledging the vile essence possessing his frail skeleton was a brilliantly good excuse to concede the atonement which was far from candidly deserved in his case.

Sooner or later, the vile essence would dwell out of his frail skeleton and no longer command infernally unyielding every muscle of his to venture an unspeakably blowminding deed against his morality and anybody's expectancies, in her humble opinion.

Furthermore, the authorities and the nefarious asylum were investigating every outskirt of the small city of Massachusetts, to find the renamed former Monsignor and Owen Manson the name, known as the possessed escaped patient of Briarcliff. He was frequently announced on every source of news such as newspapers, television and radio for his exceeding investigation in Boston.

Even though Timothy earned an ocean of dingy, vexed twains of eyes fixated on him as a celestially center of attention object whether on the streets, inside any facility or even a compact room, the most potent devil yet commanded him to play out the peculiarly cunning plans which he's plotted for the recent prey of spirit possession.

Demogorgon was lingering his artfully genius ideas and mind controlling Timothy to register every unimaginably malicious deed with the graphic vista from the point of view of the general population's crowd.

Witnessing every moment of the daredevil game's notion, illustrated in uncanny deeply daredevil voices recited in Satan's prayers, gory scenarios and either physically weakened, succumbing in their bleeding wounds and scars victims of confronting the former pious holy man. Or on the contrary motionless, baptized in blood pool corpses.

While the British compatriot was on the compact balcony of the grand building, neatly, smartly donned up in a doctor's work outfit, seating on a comfy outdoor chair in the middle of the night, no doctor in charge of the night shift was recently accompanying him for a few minutes to share a cluster of shenanigans from their daily lives.

Smoking tobacco, and relishing each second of their pearly brief break from pacing in the profoundly long hallways of the facility, supervising physically impotent patients and venture necropsy of the newest deceased patients.

They succumbed to their illnesses or sore pain, antagonizing their nonchalant peace with themselves and their sole wish, which they covet accomplishing was their demise, to halt the pain and genuine torture.

The nocturnal winter frosty climate scarcely affected the former aspiring Monsignor's body temperature even smacking a frosty slap of trepidation, contaminating his fleshy muscles to be under the weather.

An ordinary starless night with rich snowfall pelting down in the small city of Massachusetts and feathery-soft winter zephyr dancing and whirling vigorously in the thin air, wafting its luxurious fragrance of snow past the British compatriot's nostrils after manipulating the cigar length to gap his naturally baby-pinkish, cherub lips.

Subsequently lighting it up with an old lighter that he had found lost in his office that was left by a former doctor who passed away less than a week ago due to a natural cause.

Although the possessed young man relished the solicitude and spent a modicum of his leisure time smoking tobacco and mediating mind and consciously, his heartache, scarring his very soul due to Judy's betrayal and her despaired, yet recovering condition.

The solicitude was as meditative as bedeviling for him and suffocating him in a miniature bubble of melancholy. Or rather, the small world of his vortex of thoughts and doubts, constructing each negative sentiment, particularly with ease and difficulty ditching.

Shortly after firing up the cigar length with ease and his virginally strong fingers danced around the nicotine line, consequently, he took a long drag at the cigarette and his pale-pinkish, cherub lips parted in a soft O, excreting a cloudy hoary dim, mussing with poor opacity towards the lavish dance of the tiny, alabaster snowflakes.

"Holy!" Timid vowels and syllables formulated the cussing, ruthlessness touched his English lilt with a profound, breathy gasp after taking his very first drag at the cancer stick, thus darting his smoky quartz to the nocturnal wintery prospect.

Suddenly, the balcony's en-suite door swung timidly opened at the unknowledgeable presence of another doctor, who was approximately in his late thirties standing 6'1 with leanly muscly body structure, ideally and gracefully bulging his masculinity with his paired dark auburn neatly trimmed haircut, capping his head.

In addition to his still youthfully appealing physique, his lips were oddly authentically thin, matching his jet-black minerals and expressive dark thick eyebrows. Last but not least, he was working as a doctor in the local hospital for half a decade, and he was rather a peculiarly prominent doctor with an angel shape-shifting form.

Even battling with the vile essences that were populating the inmates' frail skeletons for years. His name was Josiah Chance Crawford.

"Hey, Josiah!" In the meanwhile, the former clergyman glanced back at the approaching tall figure that was seating alongside him, lingering his vaguely prim smile, tugged at the corners of his mouth, barely averting his magnified gaze from the other doctor. Pinkness itched his well-sculptured, chubby cheeks immediately with sweltering heat creeping underneath his creamy facial skin. "You are stopping on the right track for a cigarette."

A playful wink was shot at the angelic humanoid, while stabbing the cancer stick between his lips and snatching the cigarette pack, lazily opening the ingress with the remaining quantity of cigarettes under the glowing angelic gawk.

His jet-black minerals emphatically snapped in a frequent choir of blinks shortly after kindly accepting his colleague's cigar length which was lighted up with the lighter within a couple of seconds only until he starkly careless tossed back the lighter and cigarette pack on the round table.

"Needless to thank me for the cigarette anyway! You are always welcome." Even though Josiah noticed pure cues in his colleague's unorthodoxly offbeat demeanor lately and Timothy's stubborn attempts to obscure any cues of his possession such as his supernaturally diabolically profound timbre. Accenting his utterances and eerily brass pigment scintillatingly sheening his naturally huge, round pools of deep, consoling chocolate brown.

"You have always been kind to every co-worker, Timothy!" The hoarseness in Michiganian's chuckle, clicking the roof of his mouth didn't fade away, thus choired a symphony of halfhearted jubilance when the former inmate participated eagerly. "No wonder why you are sincerely trusted!" After taking his initial puff at his cigar length, subsequently, the Michiganian curved his thinly strawberry-coloured lips in a surreptitiously soft O, ejecting a weak grizzly cloudy dim.

The pungent reek of tobacco inescapably invaded the hospital's balcony on the fourth floor.

"A delightful pleasure as always, Josiah!" At the moment, the former pious clergyman ushered his dancing fingers around the cancer stick to draw starkly from his plumpish lips, and, thus expel another inexorably heavier hoary fog. Delightfully glimmering incessantly his brass irises, glimpsing at the late February prospect, admiring in awe the natural esthetics of winter's ethereally endless grace.

Eventually, through Demogorgon's villainous plans to depict his recent prey of spiritual possession, he managed the British compatriot to be austerely instructed inwardly by his own master on what would be the impending steps of their apocalyptic plotted concepts. Poured into their creations' hard work such as manipulating and propagandizing the doctors shortly after surreptitiously thieving a work uniform to conceal any hints of his notorious protagonist.

A notorious protagonist he was playing the essential role. Owen Manson. The other name or the other side of Timothy's true face.

"I was thinking it was a great part of the day to relax under the starless moonlight and smoke tobacco while working a night shift in the hospital."

"Sounds pretty exhausting, huh, buddy?"

"Only if I were a whiny baby."

All of a sudden, both gentlemen broke their facial expressions with uncontrollably healthy, breathy guffaws, scratching their throats, consequently wrenching shut their incessantly blinking eyelids for a split second, relishing the comical moment warming the pit of their stomachs.

As soon as the guffaws vanished in the thin air of the midnight's episode ambiance, both gentlemen resumed smoking, painfully suffocated by the nocturnal's hush until the angel averted his pools of midnight onyx from the vista. He eyed jadedly, blankly the monumentally somber silhouette of his colleague, mirroring the pale green wall with the unseen before devilish horns seeded on his chestnut hair.

Sluggishly maneuvering his throat muscles to stretch in swig the salty lump, bubbling up in his Adam's apple, a grotesquely hostile frown was fixed on his thin strawberry-coloured lips. Meanwhile, the disturbing elasticity of the stretching tissues of the doldrum drew Timothy's attention, venturing to lock up his cocoa-brown jewels. They flamed glacial brass pigments with brilliant saturation and sharpness, offering him an idiotically wry smirk, foxily decorating his facial attributes.

"For heaven's sake," A sarcastically, mincingly heavy sigh divulged at the top of Timothy's brittle lungs, whereas Josiah flared ferociously inward his tiny flexible nostrils, taking another puff of his cigarette, piercing the sharpness of his skeptical glare, grimacing his facial expression dramatically in no time. "What is that facial expression on your face, Josiah?"

What the Michiganian detected in his co-worker was not only his peculiarly prissy demeanor but spotlighting his mannerisms and body language. Furthermore, the inevitable acknowledgment of the devil's wight spawn, balefully increasing his heart rate and the rabid pulsations of the thuds clinging to his rib cage. He was far from goofily absent-minded to be not dedicated to the bizarre petty details, painting in darker brush the absolute reality and every being's identity.

His indisputable crystal intelligence and rich knowledge, geminated with opulent experience with fighting the demons of every person could easily detect in a swift motion and a single second. That was the imminent victim of Lucifer and most of all, contaminating with its contagious diabolic epidemy every cell and weight of the fragile skeleton's owner.

"What has gotten into you, T-Timothy?" A series of insecure stammers slammed the redhead's tongue tip while struggling to elaborate the vowels and syllables in spelling the British compatriot's name silver-tongued, a thick layer of ebony darkness cloaking his charming facial features, scarcely softening them abruptly.

"N-Nothing, Josiah! It is just my normal self." Suddenly, the Michiganian managed to muffle a dryly cold-blooded cough with his solely free mammoth, weathered hand, maintaining adequate proximity with his mouth, measured in the length of a handful of inches.

The possessed doctor subtly manipulated the angel's grasped cigar length to toss imprudently impulsive, consequently, the butt of the cancer stick scorching malignantly his panted thigh and patching with a small gap the conveniently thick fabric, vaguely bruising his sensitive marbled skin and electrifying goosebumps granulating his overall epidermic costume.

"Cheer up, angel! It was just a petty accident."

The other times when both doctors had their interactions that weren't that awkwardly close and playing out the battlefield of detections and hunting for wee details which were unspeakably noticed by the fewest cleverest witnesses. Stoicism roughly grained the hallowed angel's porcelain, still undeniably youthful complexion with the meager signs of a honed contour of age.

In spite of Timothy's scheming mannerism in his fomentation to regulate his spirits and even escalate them perpetually with his goofy punch lines of the jokes, anyway Josiah wasn't gullibly dumb to give up his hopes. He hardly let his colleague get away with anything exquisitely schemed and plotted out to play with Demogorgon and Lucifer playing their cards right.

"An accident?" All of a sudden, the young gentleman manipulated his strong, meaty fingers to lift the unfinished cancer stick, demonstrating emphatically the hint of the vile essence's possession of daredevil game. "What an accident, Timothy?" Wry, woeful sarcasm waltzed in a tandem of vowels and syllables, combating to construct the perplexingly apparent posed question.

Whilst the wight of Lucifer and Demogorgon attempted to stifle another mischievously fiendish giggle, itching his tongue shortly after collaring forcefully his lower cherub lip between his front ivory teeth, nibbling recurringly the delicate skin of the raw spot.

"I just saw your silhouette and those devil horns."

"Have you completely lost your mind?"

"Not actually! I didn't know a doctor with the devil into his body could be capable of such manipulations and sugarcoated exaggerations in every word and syllable which jingles into my ears."

"The devil isn't a liar!" Within another took a pull at the nicotine line and expelled a crudely harsh pasty smoke, the former devotional holy man lifted his rear from the outdoor chair and menacingly approached with short steps the other doctor. He bent down to spear his glimmering medley of topaz and coffee brown embers, blazing sheer inflammatory and fierce vexation. "He tells the pretty fugly truths right into the face, dear! If you now excuse me, I have other work to do."

Instead of persistently escalating the heated debates and registering further rejoinders, the former ambitious member of the clergy stubbed the cigarette's butt on the compact balcony's ledge and throughout retreated back indoors at last, dumping all alone the redhead burking in the nocturnal doldrums.

Within a few minutes after fleeing one of the hospital rooms and pacing up leisurely, monotonously in the abysmal corridor of the facility, one of the passing nurses informed Timothy to pay a visit to Jude's hospital room, in fact, she received a visitor.

When the British compatriot's cocksurely pristine, colossal hand lowered to grasp the doorknob, leading to his rare bird's sufficiently expansive hospital room and pressing the doorknob. Meantime, the haphazardness of the swung-opened door at the sight of the former pious sister of the church being warmly, delicately comforted by nobody than her former protégé startled the recently united trio.

The surreptitiousness of Timothy stepping inside the room even shutting behind him the door caught off guard both women as they shifted directly their attention to the tall masculine figure.

🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏

🃏 What are your thoughts on Timothy as the antagonist, himself? 🃏

🃏 Is Josiah Crawford midst your favorite personas? If yes or no, why, tho? 🃏

🃏 If you have sincerely enjoyed and liked the chapter, don't forget to vote and leave an outspoken feedback! Thank you for your immense support! 🃏

Author's Note: What are your thoughts on Timothy as a main antagonist by being possessed and most of all, being involved in obscene acts? Do you like him as a devil's wight? 

Furthermore, I hope you liked and enjoyed the new chapter! :))