He plays into the shadows, skipping into the cell with ease when they weren’t looking, waiting like a spider in his web. Counting the seconds. Listening in on their conversations. Their little ritualistic judiciary. All broken laws and empty platitudes. It’s almost and easy question to ask when he arrives; procuring himself from the darkness. Shrouded in black and pristine compared to his raggedy white ; wearing the face he’d wished he’d been breaking the last few weeks if his Father still wasn’t trying to play Devil’s advocate. All whispers and offers and pleas to his little Angel Boy . Protective, even after all this time, of his failed experiment.
“ Don’t you get tired? “
His voice almost a whisper, just loud enough for him to hear, a tempting invitation to the other boy. A lifeline or satan’s apple. Depending on how he plays it, really. This was the game he’s been waiting since he was five to play after all. Waiting to spring his claws into Valentine’s golden boy.
@inkedsnack .
