'i clawed my way into the light but the light is just as scary.'
This is bonding, Fox thinks idly. He’s never really been comfortable with the art of it (been on many buses with other people to know that he’s poor at the subject) and this time is no different. He merely can only watch as Sybill sorts out their new stock (hand cut crystals from a girl in B.C) with methodical practice, pausing every-so-often to admire their gleam, their possible beatific qualities. He’s just a kid, but he doesn’t remind Fox of one.
Instead, the only thing that comes to mind is a fear-driven mink, pushed into a corner with no choice but to show its teeth and then be condemned for such an act. He’s seen the kid come in with different states to his skin: discolorations that aren’t bruises alone, gum in his unruly hair, once: some oatmeal-esque goop on his head, shoulders, and dog.
What middle ground was there to find when light and dark were polar opposites with no offered inbetween?
“Fascinating,” he mumbles, e-cigarette resting on his lower lip with careful ease, and continues to pretend he has no interest in the life of this kid (who had so, so fucking easily waltzed in and demanded attention and pulled the trick of with no show of how it was even done).