"Innocence won't always make you less cruel." + "Do you see her in the shadow of the night?"
"Innocence won't always make you less cruel."
The petite girl was definitely underneath the influence of a strong drug.
The statement that left her lips made Junho scoff, a sardonic grin decorating his lips, and his gaze flickered upon the other. Irene’s words sounded like a cheap saying one would discover among a pile of beaten fortune cookie sayings, the lines of a hipster whom would say such desperate things in order to seem painfully ironic.
“And tell me,” He began, “what you’re trying to tell me through this obnoxious and nonsensical quote? Are you telling me that something like a mere infant can be as cruel as a man? The innocent will always be less cruel in comparison their counterparts. For, the moment a thought of violence or illegal action crosses the mind, that individual is hardly of any innocence at all. ” Not wanting to stick around with Irene to hear her bullshit philosophy, the brunet stood from his seat.
“That is, unless, you are talking in terms of love. Then, perhaps an illogical quote would make sense to such a trivial trait of life. ” He busted out laughing. How cheesy! How pointless! A waste of his precious time! “Now, if you excuse me. I have more important matters to intend rather than carrying a stupid philosophy session with the likes of you.”
"Do you see her in the shadow of the night?"
“For someone who claims to be so disinterested with my past, you are taking a rather peculiar liking when it comes to my biological mother.” He supposed it was with Irene trying to make a witty jab at him, her attempt of trying to break down that steel exterior he had built around himself.
Out of sheer boredom, the brunet decided to humor the girl.
“But of course I do, as any child would with a cavity in their heart.” His voice reeked of sarcasm, a dangerously amused expression etching the brunet’s features, “I’ve dreamt of her a countless of times. I’ve seen her, as I grew older and older, calling out my name with that sweet voice I scarcely remember. And, as any lost child, I would find myself reaching out...”
He leaned in, his voice degrading into a mere whisper as if he were to share a sweet secret. Lips against Irene’s ear, he chuckled silently to himself.
“... and whipping out the beloved switchblade of mine!” His voice escalated to a shriek and, to emphasize his words, he took his blade at the flip of the wrist and pressed the sheathed weapon against Irene’s flank, “Then, before she can register anything, my hand would wrap around that petty throat of hers and she would be suffocating-- that wrenched mother of mine. As she turned purple, I would ridicule and mock her, pouring the years of derogatory comments spilled upon my sacred frame onto her meager one. With tears in her eyes I would release her, shove her onto the ground, and kick her until she bled! And as she lies down crumpled and defeated like the bitch she was, I would kneel and press the blade of mine against her neck...”
He trailed his weapon until it pressed against Irene’s milky jugular.
“And ask if she missed me, her precious son.”
He locked eyes with Irene, the wicked smile on his lips growing wider, devouring the small face of his.
“She wouldn’t be able to reply, of course. A gash will decorate the thick neck of hers and she would be quivering as I, that son she filled with nothing but lies and slander, laughed. As she lied in the breast of death, I would walk away to leave her alone, degraded, and ultimately humiliated. As the life slips through her doe eyes, I would soon properly be what she had attempted to set me out to be years ago: An orphan.”
His words were followed by a trace of silence. He withdrew the switchblade and clasped it within the contents of his pockets. He would let Irene further lurk among the dreaded words spilled out of his lips.
